A breath snagged in Elara’s throat. Her spine pressed hard against the cold, scarred oak of the door. Kaelen’s voice, a low rumble from beyond the splintered wood, echoed the question that still haunted her: “Hiding, Elara?” Silence stretched, taut and brittle. Her own heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She could almost feel Kaelen’s gaze, heavy and knowing, burning through the thin barrier. “Come closer,” he murmured, the words seeming to ripple through the very grain of the timber. “Your fear is a scent. It clings to you, a bitter perfume.” Elara clutched her forearms, digging her nails into the linen sleeves of her nightgown. His shadow, long and distorted, bled beneath the door’s ill-fitting frame. It wavered, growing thicker as he shifted, drawing nearer. *He knows,* she thought, a cold dread seeping into her bones. *He always knows.* Her carefully constructed calm threatened to shatter. “That tremor in your breath,” Kaelen continued, his voice softer, yet infinitely more dangerous. “It’s like the rustle of dry leaves in a storm. I can taste it.” A low creak, the sound of ancient wood groaning, raised gooseflesh on her arms. Was it the door shifting, or Kaelen pressing against it with impossible force? The air in her chamber grew thick, suffocating. “Without you,” he confessed, a raw edge to his tone, “I barely know what I am. A phantom echo in these halls. A name without a face.” His forehead thumped against the door. A dull, heavy impact that vibrated through Elara’s chest. The single tallow candle on her writing desk flickered wildly, casting dancing shadows that mimicked her racing pulse. “My limbs are here, yes. My breath stirs. But without your eyes, without your careful hand guiding me back to myself…” Another thud. Stronger this time. “Am I truly alive, Elara? Or merely a waking dream?” A rasping sound began, a thin, unnerving scrape against the wood. It was his fingernails, long and unkempt, gouging shallow furrows into the oak. A shiver coursed down Elara’s spine. This chamber, usually her sanctuary, felt like a cage. He was a predator, toying with his prey. “Tell me I am not lost to the Sunderlands’ shadows,” Kaelen pleaded, the words imbued with a desperate, chilling hunger. “Tell me I am not merely a ghost with too much power.” Bam! The door rattled violently in its frame. Elara gasped, stumbling back, her hands flying to her mouth. The sound was deafening in the sudden stillness of the chamber. He could splinter it, she realized. He could break through these ancient timbers as easily as kindling. But he did not. He only scraped, then thumped again, a relentless, terrifying rhythm. Elara’s mind raced, sifting through ancient texts, forgotten rituals, any vulnerability she could exploit. Kindness, she had tried before. False gentleness. It had worked then, but now… now he was sharper, more potent. Her lie had to be absolute, undeniable. “Kaelen!” she called out, forcing a steady tone into her voice, despite the tremor in her hands. She gripped her wrists, trying to still the shaking. “I cannot open the door.” His scratching ceased. A sudden, complete silence fell, more unnerving than the violence that preceded it. “I was… preparing for a ritual cleansing,” Elara said, her voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. The lie tasted like ash on her tongue, but she pushed through. “My robes are shed, Kaelen. I am… unclothed. And the herbs I used for the wash sting my eyes.” She waited, heart hammering. Every fibre of her being screamed at her to flee, but there was nowhere to go. This was her last gamble. Would the nascent part of him, the echo of the man she remembered, still hold to the ancient courtesies, even in his current state? Moments stretched into an eternity. The silence was absolute. Kaelen, the rampaging beast, the desperate specter, had vanished in an instant, replaced by… what? “A ritual cleansing,” he repeated, his voice now flat, devoid of its previous intensity. It was an observation, not a question. “I understand.” Elara blinked, rubbing her cold hands together. His sudden acquiescence was more unsettling than his rage. It was a serpent shedding its skin, revealing something new, something unknown. “Then keep your door barred, Elara,” Kaelen advised, his tone almost gentle. “It would not do to be… disturbed, in such a state.” A reflex, a nervous twitch, made her scratch her forearm. He was leaving. She watched his shadow recede from beneath the door, a slow, deliberate retreat. Her stiff shoulders began to relax, inch by painful inch. “One last thing, Elara,” Kaelen called back, his voice now distant, echoing down the empty hall. “Do not venture beyond your chambers for a time.” “Why?” she asked, a fresh wave of unease washing over her. A low chuckle, rich and dark, drifted back. “I find myself needing to… prune some unsightly growths from the estate’s outer walls. It is a messy affair.” He spoke of it as one might speak of weeding a garden, yet Elara could tell he was smiling. She could feel the chilling weight of that unseen smile. He was planning something. Something brutal. “Until the bloom is perfected, Elara.” He spoke like one who knew he would not see her for a long, long time. The night bled into dawn, and Elara did not sleep. Kaelen, for his part, did not stir for a full fortnight after that night. A deep, unnatural slumber claimed him. --- Nightmares clung to Elara like grave soil. She woke with a strangled gasp, drenched in a cold sweat, her eyes burning and unfocused. The chill of the ancient keep seemed to penetrate her very bones, leaving her shivering violently. Days blurred into a week, then another. Only when the first sickly sliver of dawn pierced the narrow slit of her chamber window did she truly remember what day it was. *Ah, it is the day of the Lamentation Scrolls.* All strength seemed to drain from her body, even before the sun had properly risen. The weight of her duty pressed down, an invisible, crushing burden. “Lady Elara! You are still abed!” A voice, sharp yet laced with concern, cut through the hazy morning. Morwen, her elderly housekeeper and nursemaid since Elara was a child, bustled into the room, her grey hair escaping its braid. Morwen helped Elara sit up, her gnarled fingers pressing gently against Elara’s feverish forehead. A frown, etched deep with years of worry for her charge, marred Morwen’s brow. “Each day brings you more trials, child,” Morwen lamented, her voice softer now. “Rest, just for today. There are no visitors, no urgent matters requiring your wit.” Elara pushed Morwen’s hand away, a flicker of irritation crossing her drawn features. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her muscles aching. She clenched her hands, willing away the pins and needles that prickled her fingertips. “That is precisely when the work is most critical, Morwen. The scrolls do not transcribe themselves.” “Stubborn child!” Morwen retorted, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Let them sit for one day! Go tend to your cursed archives, if you must, but not today. You look ready to collapse.” Ignoring Morwen, Elara veered towards the washbasin. A glance at her reflection in the polished silver mirror showed a gaunt woman, eyes dark-rimmed, a stranger to herself. The girl with bright, inquisitive eyes, who devoured ancient texts for the joy of knowledge, was long gone. Buried beneath layers of secrets and responsibilities. *I was forged wrong.* The thought was a familiar echo, a lament she had felt countless times. Not born wrong, but shaped, twisted into something other by the weight of her family’s legacy. She saw the stacks of parchment from her youth, each sheet filled with the painstaking transcription of curses, prophecies, and forgotten atrocities. Her penance, her constant reminder: the price of knowledge, the burden of truth. “Lady Elara,” Morwen ventured, her voice a hesitant whisper, “there is a matter I must ask.” Elara splashed cold water on her face, the chill sharp and unwelcome. “What is it, Morwen?” “Our… guest,” Morwen continued, glancing nervously towards the heavy main door. “Lord Kaelen. He has slept these past two weeks. How does he… sustain himself? Does he not… require sustenance?” Elara paused, water dripping from her chin. A bitter, mirthless laugh escaped her lips. “Some entities, Morwen,” she said, her voice dry, “draw their nourishment from less… conventional sources.” She stared at her pale reflection, the woman burdened by dangerous truths, and knew that Kaelen, in his slumber, was feeding, growing stronger, on something far more sinister than bread and water.

A Memory of Scars