Aire had stopped trying to count the days.
The darkness stole the numbers, her certainty, and time itself.
Somewhere between the endless silence, the mud, and the aching hunger that never truly left her stomach, the days had blended together until they no longer felt separate.
She thought perhaps a week had passed since Lysander returned her to the cell.
Perhaps less, or more, she no longer knew.
Aire sat against the wall with her knees drawn toward her chest.
The gown Lysander had given her was no longer perfectly clean. The mud had found it eventually.
The mud found everything.
Her silver hair spilled over one of her shoulder, and the vines around her wrists rested quietly against her skin.
For once, they weren't piercing her. However, she could tell that they were watching her, and waiting.
Aire stared into the darkness.
Her chest hurt. Not physically, thought, but the hurt had become familiar enough to ignore.
Her thoughts drifted toward Nate.
