The Thread in Her Throat (1)

Auren hadn't moved from the balcony since the music faded.

The laughter and music had dulled to a hush. No more performance, no more ceremony—only the slow drag of chains and boots echoing through the marble chamber.

Auren leaned against the cold stone rail. His posture hadn't changed, but his eyes were sharper now, pinned to the torch-lit circle forming below. The nobles gathered near the platform as if drawn to a familiar ritual. A single figure was being led into the center.

A girl.

Her hair were thick, tangled, dark—matted in parts with dirt and dried blood. Her tunic, if it could be called that, was little more than a shredded military coat cinched tight at the waist, the sleeves torn at the elbow. Cuts lined her legs beneath grimy trousers, and her right eye was nearly swollen shut. The left was bright gold.

Still burning.

"She's not from the city," Auren said, quietly.

"No," the Wazir replied. "She's not from here. Somewhere farther out—one of those places still clinging to the idea of freedom."

She walked as if pain had made its home in her body a long time ago. Proud posture. Stiff walk. The defiance wasn't gone, it had just learned to hide behind silence.

The Marquis watched from the platform. Auren caught the glint of silver at his father's sleeve—asserting formality, restraint, power. Valtan stood nearby, looking far too pleased with the spectacle.

"Citizens of House Veyr," the Marquis declared, "tonight we celebrate lineage, loyalty, and law. And to remind us of what we protect, we present the consequence of those who defy it."

The girl didn't look at the Marquis. She didn't even acknowledge the crowd.

She looked at Auren.

She looked at him like she'd seen him before—and didn't know how to feel about it.

Auren straightened unconsciously. For a moment, he felt pity—sharp. Then something beneath that. Unconsciously he extended his hand towards the direction of the girl.

Then it happened.

He didn't speak. He didn't move. But the space between them folded.

A spike of emotion hit him—cold, splintering pain. Her pain. Her fear. Her grief.

It lanced into him, stealing his breath. He gripped the railing hard, knuckles white, heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears.

Below, the girl staggered. Her body seized—like something invisible had punched through her. Her golden eye snapped back to him.

She collapsed. The guards rushed in to catch her. The crowd murmured, some recoiling, some whispering about curses or seizures.

The Wazir appeared beside him again, voice soft. "You didn't mean to, did you?"

Auren said nothing.

"She'll remember the feeling," the Wazir said. "But not where it came from."

Auren kept staring at the girl as they dragged her away.

"What did I do?" he asked.

The Wazir smiled faintly, almost reverently.

"You gave her Hope," he said. "Not yours. Hers. From a moment she had already lived."