5 Chapter 5 – Shattered Composure
Their eyes met again-his, bare and raw; hers, unreadable. Q
“Go on,” he pressed. “Open your mouth. Say *anything*. A name. A lie. A curse”
A crash of glass. The thud of wings.
Inside, a single question echoed in his mind like a haunting refrain:
Eileen was still crouched over him, breathing hard, arm bleeding through her sleeve.
“Instead,” he muttered, “I think you’re breaking me.”
Eileen was already running before the scream finished.
“Leave it open.”
Without thinking, Eileen hurled herself forward, arm outstretched.
Cyr blinked up at her. “Why didn’t you-why don’t you *scream*?”
The fortress windows rattled, and lightning cracked across the sky. Servants muttered
of bad omens. Wolves bayed restlessly from the forest rim.
Then she turned and left, closing the door gently behind her.
Blood streaked across the floor. She wiped it away until the stones gleamed.
She didn’t respond.
Still-no sound.
Cyr’s lips curled. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
*Why won’t you scream?*
And for the first time in years, her heart beat faster.
Not from fear.
*Unable. Mute.*
The moment she entered his chamber, he nodded toward the door.
Cyr tossed the leather-bound ledger onto the table between them. The spine cracked from age, pages fluttering open to rows of faded ink.
She reached for bandages. Her fingers trembled only once.
By morning, she returned from the woodshed with fresh firewood. Snow frosted her
lashes, her braid frozen stiff. She moved with quiet precision, limbs unshaking, as she
rekindled the hearth.
She met his eyes, and for a breath, they locked-silver storm against storm.
Cyr watched her from the bed.
Still nothing.
The bird screamed again, beak flashing toward his throat.
Silence.
Just a ghost of one.
That night, he tested her again.
She stiffened.
And deep beneath that question… something else.
No reply.
Cyr gritted his teeth and swung a metal fire iron with one hand, slamming it into the hawk’s wing. The creature dropped, stunned.
Cyr smirked. “You’re not *unable*. You’re hiding”
In the attic, Eileen unwrapped her wound and repacked the salve. The claw marks were deep but clean.
He watched as she cleaned the wound, one-handed, blood soaking her apron.
A hunger he refused to name.
He leaned back in his chair, head tilting. “What would it take? Fire? Pain? A threat?”
She pressed the bandage to her wound and resumed cleaning the shattered glass.
Two hours passed.
Feathers and blood exploded in the air.
“No one would’ve stayed,” he added.
She traced it with her fingertip, then mouthed a name-*Cyr.*
–
She lit the fire. Steam rose from her skin.
She lit a single candle and took out a folded scrap of parchment.
Hope.
“You shielded me without hesitation. Took a claw to the arm for a cripple.”
On it: a sketch of a music box. Scorched at the corners. Its melody barely remembered.
She paused, looked at him.
Then came the shriek.
Eileen glanced at the column of figures-supplies, rations, and medicine. Her fingers paused, then she calmly picked up a quill and began to write.
“Don’t like the cold?” he asked, voice mild. “Let’s see how long your silence lasts.”
She froze.
She hesitated.
“Read it.”
She looked away.
She said nothing, but fetched fresh linens and began preparing the bed.
Not a word.
He released her. “So tell me-what are you really?”
Still, she remained.
“Anyone else would’ve cried out,” he muttered.
She twisted, shielding Cyr’s head with her body as the bird clawed wildly. Glass rained from the broken skylight. A claw tore across her shoulder.
She glanced back-expression unreadable.
She burst into Cyr’s chamber to find a shelford hawk thrashing against the beams, razor talons shredding tapestries.
The room fell still.
The wind howled in through the stone corridor. Snow licked at the hearth, but she didn’t react.
Cyr caught her wrist.
Cyr, stunned, struggled to lift himself from the floor-his chair had tipped in the chaos.
At some point, Cyr threw a log into the fire and muttered, “You’re a ghost.”
“You were outside all night,” he said. “No cloak. No gloves.”
The flame flickered.
She slowly sat back, retrieving the first-aid kit from the hearth cabinet without a word.
The only sound was fire crackling and the distant roll of thunder.
His voice lowered. “You’re not just a mute. You’re *trained*”
“I meant to break you,” he admitted.
But from something she never thought she’d feel again.
Outside, the storm raged.
That night, Cyr sat alone by the hearth, tea untouched.
He swallowed.
No scream.
Then, as she stood, Cyr whispered, “If you ever need a voice, take mine.”
Later that day, a storm rolled in.
“I don’t deserve that kind of loyalty,” he said, quieter now.
