Devouring Hollow Hearts || ONC'24

》Chapter Three《

Chyrie had never seen such an enchanting man.

The shadows of night enveloped broad shoulders and a lean, tapered waist. Like a captain's strong arms - toned from throwing rope and arguing with the waves - coupled with the slim form of a rider.

Her eyes strained, preternatural sight aching against the damper on her magic. Focusing.

The wyrm behind the man chuffed, frost brushing through the air on its breath and sending chills over Chyrie's bare frame. Her shivering returned in force, the cold ripping away her blankets of smoke.

Her throat tightened, teeth grinding together so they might not chatter.

"M-Monster?"

Chyrie's hand slipped down to the curved dagger she kept beneath her pillow, heart pounding. A winding kris she had flashed her first night within the Mines, reliably sharp and long enough to impale both creatures and individuals alike.

Her only comfort when night came and rest consumed her panic.

The man shifted from beneath the wyrm, stepping up to the iron gate. His intriguing blue eyes, both deep-set and marbled, scanned her against the cave wall. Analyzing. The closer he stood, the less she could distinguish the storm of blues and greens bleeding together in those irises. Only how she'd never seen another pair like them.

Her gaze dipped down, inspecting the brown jacket masking studded black straps of leather. A weapons vest, no doubt.

Only when he stood directly in the light did the breath leave her lungs.

Where freckles dusted across her cheeks, shimmering scales of gold subtly framed his. They disappeared in his hairline, but coasted down his neck, building up near the jugular before thinning again.

Chyrie rocked backward, putting more distance between her and the mystery of him.

"You are Fae," he whispered, his accent thick.

Accent. A tenor with softly lilting vowels. A voice so similar to the one she'd heard after Anryth left her.

Chyrie swallowed tightly. "You are not."

He hesitated before nodding.

"If you are not a monster," he began, searching for words. "Why are you in a cage?"

She couldn't help the huffed laugh escaping her, not as she glanced toward the dying forge and the gooseflesh on her arms.

"Because I will become as monstrous as I must to protect my people," Chyrie replied, stark honesty bleeding into her voice. "But I'm no villain."

The cold gripped her with unrelenting pain. Many words bunched in her throat, burning with the need to explain.

For one soul to hear her story.

"Are you a traveler?" she asked in return. "From Rymedör?"

The man shook his head, his hand testing the iron for weakness. "Not Rymedör."

He didn't elaborate.

Chyrie pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped them in her arms. She couldn't read his calm, inquisitive expression or place the heritage from clothing alone. Her trust in him was solely a gut feeling - one she couldn't shake but yet wouldn't settle.

Her throat dry, she made a decision.

"This is-was Emberlin. I am the heir, as my parents, the King and Queen, were slaughtered two moons ago," she rasped, bile shooting up at the mention of their lifelessness. Their heads rolling on the floor before her, the blood spatter on her dress. Chyrie cleared her throat, gripping the hilt of her blade. "An Elven Lord stole into our city claiming vengeance, his name Anryth Ceirvani. The last remaining troops of Rymedör's elite forces stormed our grounds on account of a war he maintains we decided, offering weapons from Niukka's Hearth..."