~Julian~
Loss has a strange way of filling a room.
It settles into the walls,
into the silence between breaths,
into the space where voices once lived.
It strips away patience and burns through reason until only the raw edge of what remains is left behind.
And in that place, truth and blame
often begin to look the same.
~~~
"This is all your fault!"
The words tore through the house, like a wound opened wide, raw and unrestrained.
I moved without thinking.
Her voice carried through the walls, jagged and unsteady, and I followed it down the corridor. My steps echoed off the stone, too loud in the quiet, though I barely felt the ground beneath me.
When I stepped into the room, my stomach tightened before I could make sense of what I was seeing.
They were laid out on the stone floor in a precise line.
The ones who hadn't survived.
Too many...
Their bodies were aligned with ritual care, half-wrapped in white sheets that did nothing to soften what lay beneath.
Pale skin caught the light, unmoving.
Some faces were serene, others held in the shape of a terror that had never found a voice.
My gaze lingered on the youngest, and something in my chest dropped hard, leaving a hollow that did not ease.
No one that young should have ended here.
Ignes stood at the center of it all, her shoulders shaking. Tears streaked down her face, but there was nothing soft about her grief.
It burned.
Her hands were clenched tight enough to tremble, and the air around her seemed to quiver in response, restless and uneasy.
"This is all your fault..." she whispered again, the words losing their edge as they left her mouth.
This time, it sounded less like an accusation and more like something she needed to believe.
Lucien didn't move at first. He stood apart from the bodies, immaculate and composed, as if decay had rules that did not apply to him.
Neither of them acknowledged me.
The space between them held something tight, a pressure that sat low in the room, subtle but heavy enough that even the walls seemed to settle under it.
Ignes paced between the bodies, her steps careful, stirring dust and the faint scent of herbs.
She stopped abruptly and turned to him, something shifting in her expression, the realization hitting too fast to hold together.
"This is what happened to the others..."
She shook her head, breath uneven, her chest rising too fast.
"They were your experiments. We all were. You didn't even know if we would find her. If it would work. You... you took so many lives..."
Her eyes stayed wide, and when she tried to speak again, the words broke apart on her breath.
"Entire covens… gone."
"They understood the cost," he said, his voice level, almost indifferent.
"They were simply… insufficient."
His gaze moved over them without pause, as if there was nothing left to consider.
Her expression shifted, whatever held it in place snapping, and she lunged.
I barely registered the movement before Lucien's hand closed around her throat with ruthless precision.
He drove her into the wall, the impact hard and clean against the stone.
Ignes gasped, her feet barely brushing the floor.
"Or maybe you were too weak," he added, his voice low, controlled.
"Perhaps this is all your fault. You knew what was at stake, and you still weren't ready."
She clawed at his wrist, nails dragging against his skin. Her face darkened, her breath breaking into shallow pulls, but her eyes stayed fixed on his.
Even as her lungs struggled, the fire in her gaze flared brighter, wild and defiant.
"Leave her!" I stepped forward without thinking, my body moving on its own.
He didn't react.
Not a blink. Not a shift.
The words left my mouth and changed nothing.
"Tell me, torch-head, why are you two the only ones who survived?"
My heartbeat climbed too high, tight in my throat, but I forced my voice through it.
"Let her go," I said again, the words coming harder this time.
He still didn't look at me. His grip tightened, subtle but deliberate, as if testing how far she would hold.
Ignes let out a strangled sound, her body trembling, yet her eyes remained locked on his, burning with a fury that refused to dim.
A low sound threaded through the room, subtle at first, like fabric drawn too tightly.
Then the smell reached me.
Flesh scorched too close to the bone.
Lucien's fingers twitched.
The skin of his palm darkened, fine cracks spreading outward from where he held her.
A dull glow flickered beneath it.
He released her at once and stepped back.
Ignes crumpled to the floor, coughing violently, dragging in air with harsh, rasping breaths. Her body shook, yet she did not curl into herself. Even on her knees, she remained straight, her chin lifted.
His gaze dropped to his hands, then returned to her and stayed there a moment too long.
"Do not touch her." The words came out harder than I expected as I stepped in front of her.
"This doesn't concern you, little knight." His voice barely shifted.
He took a step closer.
A voice cut through the room. It needed no volume.
"That is enough."
Every head turned, and even the room seemd to adjust around her.
Orin stood at the chamber's entrance, her posture composed down to the smallest detail.
The softness she usually carried was gone, replaced by something colder, more precise. Her green eyes moved over the bodies, and for a moment, something sharp crossed her face, grief held too tightly to show.
She drew in a slow breath.
"Look who finally joined the party. Perfect timing, Orin. I was just asking our little wild spark what happened."
His eyes narrowed on her.
"Why don't you explain how you two survived?"
She stepped fully into the room, meeting his stare without hesitation.
"This ends now," she said quietly. "We will bury our dead. All of them."
Lucien straightened, flexing his burned hand slowly, his gaze settling on her.
"This is not over," he said.
She didn't blink.
"No, but this is not your moment."
Silence settled over the chamber.
Lucien turned without another word.
His footsteps echoed, then faded.
The air itself seemed to exhale, tension unraveling, as if a blade had been lifted from the room.
Orin knelt beside the first body and gestured for me to help. I hesitated only a moment before lowering myself to the floor, the wood cold against my knees.
They worked with practiced care.
Small bowls were set out, filled with thick ointments that smelled of crushed herbs and flowers. Oils followed, warm between the fingers, their scents unfamiliar but gentle.
Orin guided my hands when I faltered, showing me how to smooth the salve along pale skin, how to press lightly at the wrists, the temples, the hollow beneath the jaw.
"It helps them rest," she murmured. "And it helps us let go."
Ignes joined us, quieter now, her movements slow and gentle.
She began to chant under her breath, the words soft and rhythmic. I did not understand the language, but the cadence settled in my chest.
Orin's voice followed, steady and low, folding into the rhythm.
I found myself listening.
Their hands moved with reverence, never rushed. They massaged stiff fingers until they loosened, brushed stray hair from lifeless faces, closed eyes that would never open again.
With each body, the scent in the room changed, perfume and oil settling into the air, softening the cold sterility into something warmer.
They spoke while their hands kept moving.
Not of the ritual or the cost, but of who these women had been.
"She laughed too loudly," Ignes said, her voice trembling as she smiled through her tears. "She never knew when to stop."
Orin nodded faintly. "And she cried just as easily."
They moved to the next.
"She sang when she thought no one was listening."
"She hated the cold. Complained every winter."
With each story, the bodies seemed to breathe softly, not with air, but with memory.
They were no longer sacrifices laid out in white.
They became hands that had held others, voices that had filled rooms, lives that had brushed against one another in ordinary, human ways.
Laughter slipped into the room, broken and brief, tangled with quiet sobs.
Grief did not ask permission. It came in waves, uneven and honest.
For the first time since I had woken in this place, the anger inside me loosened its grip.
It didn't disappear, but it softened, reshaped by something heavier.
Regret. Loss. A sorrow that felt shared.
I did not see monsters kneeling beside the dead.
I saw women mourning their own.
When Orin spoke again, her voice brushed the room like a gentle wind, barely above a whisper.
"They deserve to be remembered as they were. Not as they ended."
I nodded, my throat too tight for words.
As my hands moved over the last body, careful and slow, something settled into place.
I understood them better now.
Kneeling among oils, whispered prayers, and fading warmth, I felt the distance between us narrow, just a little.
For the first time, I was afraid of what understanding might ask of me.
~~~
Grief has a strange way of changing the shape of things.
What once looked like monsters begin to resemble people.
And the lines between guilt, sacrifice, and necessity
become harder to see.
That night, kneeling beside the dead,
I began to understand something
I had not wanted to face.
Sometimes survival
carries a weight
the dead never have to bear.