9

She looked at the shadows in the corner.

The ones that moved when nothing else did.

They weren't cast by the light. Not exactly. Not in the way light and objects should work. The corner was dim, sure, but there wasn't enough in that space to explain the shape slithering at the base of the wall. It pulsed, sometimes, like it breathed. Sometimes it stretched, long and lean like a serpent. Other times, it just watched.

She was always watched.

Always.

Lily stepped toward it barefoot, silent, her linen hem brushing her ankles as she moved. She crouched, arms hugging around her knees. Her hair spilled forward, hiding most of her face, but her lips moved when she spoke.

"…Do you really not talk?" she asked.

The shadow twitched.

It slithered toward her toes like smoke, gliding across the polished stone floor in a way that defied physics. But as soon as it neared her, it recoiled. Fast. Like it had touched something burning.

"I guess not," she whispered.

She finally lowered herself fully, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor. Her bones ached from the position—she'd been bruising easier lately—but she didn't care. She curled forward, hugging her knees tighter to her chest. It was the only way to feel smaller. Invisible.

The air in the corner was cooler.

"I didn't like what you did yesterday," she murmured.

She opened her hand, palm upward. A faint red line traced the edge from thumb to wrist. Shallow. But painful. A reminder.

"You didn't have to knock over the teapot," she said. "It was hot."

The shadow twitched again.

She didn't know what it meant. Guilt? Laughter? Mockery? Obedience?

"It hurts," she admitted, blinking rapidly so the tears wouldn't fall. "But… I suppose I didn't bleed enough for him to notice."

A pause.

She glanced at the slithering form again.

"Do you tell him everything I do?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I hope not. I really do."

There was no answer. Of course there wasn't. But she still reached forward, slowly, fingers hovering above the dark shape like she expected it to bite.

It hissed—soft, a whispery static crackling through the floor—and then, tentatively, it extended a tendril toward her finger.

Tap.

Just once.

Like a child touching something fragile. The shadow tapped her finger again.

She blinked at the contact, her head tilting slightly. "…He said you're him, too," she murmured. "That you're more dangerous."

Silence.

The shadow pulsed.

"…I guess not, too," she said, a tiny smile ghosting over her lips.

-----

The door creaked open behind her.

She didn't flinch.

She never flinched for them.

Fae and Kiri stepped in like clockwork, arms full and movements delicate. They saw her—on the floor, speaking to nothing—and said nothing. Their faces didn't falter. Their voices didn't rise in concern.

They simply smiled.

"We've brought the scented candles as you requested, my lady," Fae said brightly.

Kiri stepped forward and revealed the large tray. When she removed the silk cover, delicate jars of glass were revealed—each filled with colored wax, wicks standing like little spines. Soft scents already began to fill the room.

Lily stood slowly, brushing her fingers against her skirt, and walked toward them.

She lit up like a flame catching kindling.

Joy bloomed across her face—not forced, not fake, but something quietly genuine. She knelt by the low table like a child visiting a candy stall for the first time, the hem of her robe puffing slightly as she sat.

"The mint soothed me the most," she said, lifting one of the pale green jars. "It cleared my head."

Her eyes fluttered shut as she inhaled. She smiled again—this time, fuller. Softer.

"It thrills me to try others," she added, already reaching for the next one.

Fae and Kiri sat across from her, watching the scene unfold with the kind of stillness usually reserved for altars. Neither spoke unless spoken to. They had learned this routine—Lily's quiet joys. Her moments of peace. They were rare, and delicate, and no one dared interrupt them.

"Oh—this one is lavender," Lily whispered, holding up a pale violet candle. "He doesn't like lavender. He says it makes him dizzy."

She giggled, not cruelly. Just… with a faint note of mischief. She brought it closer to her nose and sniffed again.

"I think it smells like summer."

"You have good taste, my lady," Kiri offered gently.

Lily beamed. "Do you think so?"

"Yes."

"We only brought the purest oils," Fae added. "Pressed and sealed by the monks at the Northern convent."

"They're always watching me," Lily said softly, her eyes focused on the row of candles. "Even the ones who pray."

Neither maid responded.

She picked up another—one a deep amber color—and sniffed.

"Spiced orange," she murmured, wrinkling her nose. "Too happy. Too loud."

She set it aside without a second thought and reached for the next. Her hands moved carefully, with reverence. Like she was handling tiny holy things.

Kiri quietly took the discarded jar and placed it back on the tray.

"Fae?" Lily asked suddenly.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Do you think… if someone prays too much, they start to go mad?"

Fae blinked. "I—I wouldn't know, my lady."

"Hm." Lily set another candle down. "I think I do."

The air shifted again.

That strange stillness returned. Not uncomfortable—but off. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

Lily's eyes drifted toward the shadow in the corner again.

It hadn't left.

It never did.

-----

Later, as Fae began to light the selected candles—mint, rose, cedar—Lily turned to Kiri.

"Do you think he dreams?" she asked.

Kiri paused in laying out the cushion pillows. "Who, my lady?"

She didn't answer.

She didn't have to.

The shadow pulsed once more.

And Lily smiled, still staring into nothing.