Daelan POV
I wake up to the unfamiliar scent of something… warm. Savory. Food. Real food—not the stale, metallic tang of ration bars or the oily smell of street vendors selling questionable meat. No, this is something richer—eggs, maybe, with spices I can't name but my senses latch onto like a lifeline.
My eyes snap open.
For a split second, my mind screams danger. I sit up abruptly, heart racing, instinctively reaching for a dagger that isn't strapped to my side. The softness beneath me feels foreign—sheets as smooth as silk, a mattress that cradles my weight instead of bruising it.
I glance around, disoriented.
No cracked ceilings. No moldy walls. No distant echoes of sirens or the hum of collapsing infrastructure. The room is large, bathed in soft morning light filtering through sheer, white curtains that sway lazily with the breeze from a hidden vent. Everything smells clean—too clean. The faint scent of lavender lingers beneath the aroma of food, like luxury itself decided to leave its mark.
Sector A.
I'm still in Sector A.
The realization crashes over me like cold water, and I force myself to breathe. No one's going to slit my throat here—probably.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. The door creaks open, and a uniformed servant pushes in a gilded cart, wheels rolling silently over the plush carpet. The cart is stacked with plates—silver domes covering what smells like heaven. The servant, dressed in crisp black and white, barely glances at me, their face neutral, professional, as if seeing half-broken men in unfamiliar beds is just another Tuesday.
I narrow my eyes. Why the hell am I being treated like royalty?
The servant stops a polite distance away, bows slightly, and speaks in a voice smooth as glass.
"Good morning, Sir. Lady Emmaline has instructed that breakfast be served to you here. She will join you shortly."
Lady Emmaline.
The memory slams into me—her voice, like silk and steel woven together. Her eyes, colder than ice but burning brighter than any flame.
Snap out of it. I watch as the servant lifts the silver domes one by one—golden scrambled eggs sprinkled with herbs, slices of buttered bread still steaming, ripe fruits glistening under the morning light, and a cut of meat seared to perfection. I don't even recognize half of it. It's the kind of food people in Sector Z would kill for—literally.
I want to ignore it. To pretend I'm above it. But the second the smell fully hits me, my stomach betrays me with a loud growl. The servant politely ignores it. I scowl.
I wait until they leave before I move. My legs swing off the bed, feet pressing against the soft carpet. The contrast between this room and everything I've ever known makes my skin itch. I don't belong here.
But that doesn't stop me from reaching for the food.
I tear into it like a starved man, which I am honestly.
I eat—no, I devour—everything. The plates are spotless by the time I'm done, the polished silverware discarded like relics of a war well-fought. I lean back into the plush chair, hand resting on my stomach, a strange warmth spreading through me. Not from the food, but from the realization that I'm full.
I don't think I've ever felt this way before.
The weightlessness isn't just physical; it's like I've shed layers of something invisible—hunger, fear, exhaustion. Survival. For the first time in years, I'm not surviving. I'm just… existing.
I push myself up, wobbling slightly as the heaviness in my limbs settles into something unfamiliar. Comfort. My instincts scream at me—too vulnerable, too relaxed—but I ignore them. Instead, I head to the bathroom, curious about what luxury feels like beyond a plate of food.
The bathroom is another universe entirely.
Marble floors, pristine white towels stacked like clouds, and a massive mirror framed in gold. The shower is larger than the room I grew up in. I twist the faucet, and hot water—hot—pours down like liquid sunlight. I step under it, expecting it to burn, but it melts the tension from my body, seeping into bones that haven't known warmth in years.
For a moment, I stand there, letting the water drown out the noise in my head. No dungeon. No blood. No constant ache. Just… silence.
After drying off, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I freeze.
Who is that?
For so long, I've avoided reflections, too afraid to see the hollowed eyes, the sharp bones, the constant reminder of what I am. But this… this person staring back at me? He looks different. Still tired, still scarred, but there's a glint in his violet eyes—something raw and fragile.
Hope.
I scoff, running my fingers through my damp, scarlet-red hair. It falls messily around my face, streaks clinging to my skin. I try tying it back into a loose ponytail, but a few stubborn strands escape, framing my face. I attempt to smooth them down. They refuse to cooperate.
I give up.
Returning to the bedroom, I'm ready to collapse again when I freeze mid-step.
She's here.
Sitting casually on the plush leather seat near the large window, bathed in morning light like she belongs to it. Emmaline.
My heart skips. Maybe stops. Maybe explodes. I can't tell.
She's dressed in an outfit that's… impossible to ignore—a tiny top and an even tinier skirt, soft blue fabric hugging her like a secret. She looks like she owns the world—and maybe she does. Her raven-black hair spills over her shoulders, sleek and wild all at once, like she couldn't decide between chaos and control.
Her legs are crossed elegantly, one resting over the other like she's crafted from something sharper than bone—grace etched into every line of her posture. She doesn't look at me right away. No. Her gaze is fixed lazily out the window, watching the world below like it's some kind of art she's already seen too many times. Like I'm just… background noise.
But I notice her.
I notice everything.
The curve of her neck, delicate yet holding a tension beneath the skin like a bowstring drawn tight. The faint shimmer of gold from her earrings catching slivers of morning light, casting flickering reflections against her jawline. The barest hint of a smile—dangerously soft—tugging at the corner of her lips, like she's amused by some thought I'll never be privy to.
And just like that, the room feels too small.
Too quiet.
Then she moves.
A shift in gravity.
She finally turns to look at me, her gaze landing with the weight of something I can't quite define. It feels like the air gets sucked out of the room—like the silence between us is alive, coiling around my throat.
"You're done. We're due a conversation, don't you think?"
Her voice slides into the space between us, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. It's low, sultry even, but not in the way that's meant to be sweet. No, there's an edge to it—a blade wrapped in velvet.
She tucks a few strands of raven hair behind her ear, the motion casual but deliberate, as if she knows how easy it is to draw attention without even trying. And then—just to drive the knife a little deeper—she crosses her legs again, slower this time. A subtle shift, but one that pulls my gaze before I can stop it.
My jaw clenches.
Fuck.
She notices.
Of course, she does.
Her lips curl into that same almost-smile, like she's found exactly what she was looking for.
A reaction.