Chapter Two-Hundred-and-Ninety
3rd Person POV
Harlin breathed shallowly as he made his way down the poorly lit hallway, the moist air hanging on his skin like a second layer of sweat. The memory of the dream he had been having for a while—the fire, the padlock, the voice begging him to escape instead of saving them, the owner of the voice—pressed against his consciousness like a whisper he could not get away from.
He could no longer even call it a dream. It was something more, something that had seeped into his very bones, marking itself onto his skin in the same way that the fire had scarred his hands whenever he woke up.
The pain was still present, raw and real, a dull ache under the bandages that had been quickly wrapped around his fingers. But he hardly noticed it now. Not when he was this close. Not when he could see the large iron doors at the end of the hallway.
The walls were wet with dampness, black mould streaks running down the stone like a living, waiting thing. The air was thick with mildew, rust, and something that was severely rotting. His steps were muted by the thick layer of grime on the floor, his boots sticking slightly as if the place itself did not wish to let him go on.
And then he spotted it.
The cell.
It was exactly as it had been in his dreams. The iron bars went from floor to ceiling, solid and blackened with age. There was a single padlock, rusted, hanging from the middle part, its face pitted and scarred, as though there had been quite a number of attempts to pry it open.
His stomach twisted as he stared into the cell. Despite the darkness, he could see that behind bars, sat a woman on the floor.
Her head was bowed almost like her neck did not have the energy to hold up her head any longer. Her sunken head had matted black hair smeared across her skull. Her form was gaunt, and weak, as though a single icy gust of wind would be enough to reduce her to nothing more than ashes. The dress she had on—if it was still possible to call it that—was torn, the material hanging from her bones in her body in a manner that made it difficult to discern where cloth ended and flesh began.
Harlin stopped breathing.
He had seen photographs. Torn, ageing photographs banished to the bottom of a drawer, yellowed photographs in which she smiled formally for the camera, suspended in time. The curve of her cheekbones, the angular sweep of her brow, the gentleness in her eyes—he recalled them. He had committed them to memory.
And yet, the woman before him…
She was a shrivelled version of those pictures. Something too sad and depressing to look at without wanting to cry.
His throat tightened.
"Mother?"
The words were hardly out of his mouth when her head snapped up.
The shadows fell away from her face, showing hollow cheeks and eyes too big for their sockets. Dry cracked lips, a thin chapped bloody line where they had split.
There was a moment of silence between them.
Then she gasped like a person who had forgotten how to breathe.
Harlin moved forward, his hands automatically reaching for the lock, fingers shaking as they encircled the metal.
He had done this already.
In his dreams.
He had stood here, fists clenched on this very padlock, trying, trying, trying to rip it apart as fire lapped at his flesh.
And in the dreams, the woman had screamed for him to run.
"Harlin."
His name slipped from her lips, rough and fractured-sounding as if it had been pent up inside her for years. His heart missed a beat.
She recognized him.
This was not a fevered dream brought on by desperation.
This was real.
His fingers clasped tightly over the lock.
"I'm getting you out," he whispered, his voice steady even as all the insides of him were shaking with fear and nervousness.
She exhaled irregularly, her eyes darting down to his bandaged hands. Her expression clouded over, as though she knew precisely what was going to happen next.
"You shouldn't have come here," she whispered in a very shaky voice.
Harlin disregarded her, tugging at the lock, annoyance building as it would not budge. The damp air clung to his skin, heavy and suffocating. His heart thudded in his temples.
"I'm not going anywhere without you," he growled, searching the cell door for a weakness, any indication that it could be pushed open.
His mother's hand clenched against the filthy floor. "You don't understand.".
He stopped, his eyes jerking back to hers.
And that was when he spotted them—the chains.
Thick iron cuffs encircled her wrists and bolted to the stone behind her. The metal had dug into her skin, producing deep, red welts. His stomach knotted.
No.
He had not dreamed of that.
"Who did this to you?" His voice was gruff than he meant it to be, but he didn't care.
She remained silent.
Instead, her eyes flew over him, into the gloom of the hallway.
Harlin stilled.
A chill slithered down his spine.
He wasn't alone.
The air changed—just a little, barely noticeable. It was like something was there, just out of sight, staying right beyond the dim light from the flickering torches on the walls. Harlin gripped the padlock tighter.
Then suddenly he heard a slow footstep.
It wasn’t his own. Someone else was there.
His mother’s breathing became shallow. For the first time since he entered the cell, real fear showed on her face.
"You have to go."
Harlin’s jaw tightened. "I’m not leaving you—"
"You don’t have time." Her voice shook, but the urgency cut through. "They are coming."
Another footstep sounded and it was closer.
Harlin turned quickly, his heart pounding. His hands throbbed, as if fire had burned them. The dream had warned him. The woman told him to run.
And now he knew why.
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