Rhys stumbled back, breath snagged in her throat. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp that threatened to tear free. “Leaving so soon, little chirurgeon? Come closer.” A sliver of shadow bled from beneath the workshop door. Caspian’s feet. She saw them, stark against the dust-motes. He tracked her, a predator sensing movement, even through solid wood. Her heart hammered. What was that soft scrape she’d heard? Not the wind. “Step closer to the wood. I can’t quite catch your scent.” “W-what?” The word clawed its way out. “Did you not know? You always carry the faint scent of ash and a fresh cut. Like the very air after a pyre has cooled.” **Thump!** The door shivered in its frame. Rhys lurched back, nearly tripping over a forgotten stool. The single, sputtering oil lamp above flickered, threatening to plunge the room into true darkness. Her palms slicked with cold sweat. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” Caspian whispered, his voice oddly soft, yet it scraped against her nerves. His forehead pressed against the scarred wood, muffling his words. “These hands, these legs… I move them, but the pulse, the fire, it’s not truly mine. Not without you to see it.” A low, grating sound followed. Not wood on wood, but something harder, sharper. His fingernails. They dragged across the door, a slow, deliberate carving. This workshop, her sanctuary, felt like a cage. He toyed with her, a starving beast with its captured prey. Fear coiled tight in her belly. “Tell me I’m not lost inside a nightmare—” **Thump!** His head hit the door again, a dull thud. Rhys flinched. “Tell me I haven’t truly gone mad.” “Tell me about my past. Any scrap. Just convince me I existed before you. That I’m more than this hollow shell.” **Thump!** His breathing grew ragged, desperate. A primal sound. The old door groaned under the impact. Rhys pictured it splintering, imagined his hand bursting through. She was frozen, a statue carved of terror. Yet, he held back. He merely scraped, and hit, and scraped again. A cold trickle traced its way down her spine. Resourceful, brave, determined… She had spun those lies about him, woven a fragile web of deceit to save herself and Elara. The proof of their fragility pressed against the door. He was none of those things. Rhys was only grateful her charade had, so far, held. “Caspian,” she said, her voice thin but steady. Her word seemed to rattle the metal doorknob. She clasped her hands, forcing a breath deep into her lungs. “I… I was preparing a salve. My hands are coated. And I’m not decent. Can we talk later?” She prayed he would believe her. Prayed he wouldn't detect the lie in her scent. A beat of absolute silence stretched. It was a stark contrast to the sudden, violent thumping. His aggression vanished, replaced by an unnerving stillness. He changed, swift as a shadow shifting with the sun. “Alright.” The word was a lifeline, yet it offered no true comfort. Rhys rubbed her cold hands together, skin clammy, nerves still frayed. “Keep the latch secured, little chirurgeon.” His warning was chilling, the very opposite of his prior actions. Rhys’s nails dug into her forearm, a nervous habit. A faint creak. Finally, he was leaving. She watched his shadow recede from the crack beneath the door. Her shoulders, stiff with tension, began to loosen, infinitesimally. “Just a thought,” his voice drifted back, a low murmur. “But don’t try to find me on the upper levels.” “What? Why?” she whispered. “I’m considering a more thorough cleansing. Perhaps a renewal.” Rhys blinked, confusion warring with dread. She didn’t see him, but she could almost feel his smile, a cold, hungry twist of lips. “Until then, little chirurgeon. See you soon.” He spoke with a certainty that unnerved her, as if he knew their next encounter was both inevitable and distant. Rhys didn't sleep that night. Her mind raced with dark imaginings. For Caspian, the next week passed in a death-like slumber. --- Rhys woke with a choked cry, tangled in sweat-drenched furs. A horrible dream clung to her, a sticky web of fear and fractured images. Her eyes were unfocused, heavy from sleep deprivation, gritty with exhaustion. Only when the morning light, pale and weak through the high window, fully registered did the significance of the day crash over her. *Ah, it’s ‘that’ day…* Energy drained from her, leaving her hollow before her feet even touched the cold stone floor. A tremor ran through her limbs. “Rhys? You up?” Elara’s voice, concerned, preceded her entry. Rhys glanced at the crude sundial. She was late, long past her usual vigil. When she pushed herself upright, a wave of dizziness blurred her vision. Elara reached her side in an instant, a sturdy hand pressing against Rhys’s forehead. Worry etched lines around her eyes, deeper than usual. “Are you burning up? You look like you’ve been battling ashfiends all night.” “Why do you push yourself like this, every single cycle?” Elara sighed, pulling her hand away. “Rest, Rhys. There’s little enough work to mend today. The market’s quiet.” Rhys frowned, batting Elara’s hands away. She forced herself to stand, clenching her fists until her knuckles ached. “No. That’s precisely when the work finds me.” A perverse logic, but true. Idleness was a weakness she couldn’t afford. “I told you, no!” Elara’s voice hardened, her hands settling on her hips. “You’re stubborn as a mountain goat, Rhys. Take the full cycle off. Go, look at your healing herbs. Sit on the workshop roof if you must, but rest!” Rhys veered towards the basin, splashing cool water onto her face. She paused, catching her reflection in the polished surface. Gaunt cheeks, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. The girl she’d been, before the Wastes, before the blood on her hands, before the compromises, was long gone. Her spirit, her essence, had been stripped away, atom by atom. *I was born wrong.* The words echoed from a forgotten past. The child in the dream, small hands trembling, scratching them onto pages, onto walls. *I was born wrong. I was born wrong.* A never-ending litany, a penance. A mountain of self-condemnation, etched into her soul until she fled the Enclave at seventeen. Elara’s voice pulled her back. “Oh, before I forget, Rhys. Something I’ve been wondering.” She tilted her head, a familiar, practical curiosity in her gaze. “Our… sleeping patient. The ‘Ash Prince,’ as some are calling him now. He’s been out for a full cycle, you said. How exactly does he… relieve himself?” Rhys gripped the edge of the basin, the chill of the metal biting into her skin. The question, mundane and grotesque, served as a stark reminder. Caspian still lay there, a ticking puzzle, waiting for his next awakening.

A Hunger for Echoes