Chapter 3: Prison of Moonless Nights
Drip. Drip.
Water trickled from the ceiling, carving grooves into the dungeon floor.
Alvin stared through the bars. Three weeks had passed. Three weeks of silence, save for one sentence that still echoed in his head:
“I gave it to you.”
He should’ve ordered her execution.
He hadn’t.
Instead, every morning he returned. And every night he left—frustrated, confused, ashamed.
“You’re not doing your job,” said Jern one evening, blocking the stairwell. “She’s still breathing.”
“She hasn’t given all her answers.”
“She hasn’t given one.”
“I’ll know when she lies.”
Jern scoffed. “You’re watching a ghost and calling it justice.”
Alvin pushed past him. “I don’t need your counsel.”
\*\*
Inside the cell, she sat as always—hands in her lap, chains coiled like a second spine.
He stepped in. Closed the door behind him.
She didn’t look up.
“You eat?” he asked.
She nodded once.
“Poison’s still in your blood?”
“Always.”
“How bad?”
She shrugged.
“You’re still not giving me much to work with.”
“You’re not asking questions you really want answers to.”
He blinked. “Like what?”
She finally looked at him. “Like why you come back every night.”
He didn’t answer.
She tilted her head. “You think I’m here to manipulate you. But you’re the one bringing water.”
“I’m bringing truth.”
“No,” she said. “You’re bringing guilt.”
Alvin stepped closer. “You don’t know me.”
“I know what regret smells like.”
“I don’t regret anything.”
“Then why didn’t you kill me?”
Silence.
She leaned back against the stone wall. “You keep trying to decide if I’m a monster or a memory.”
He stared at her a long moment. “Maybe both.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s closer to the truth than you think.”
\*\*
The next day, he came with a silver dagger.
She didn’t flinch when he entered.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“To test a theory.”
He knelt beside her, took her arm, and before she could react—sliced a shallow cut along her forearm.
She inhaled sharply.
The wound didn’t bleed red.
It shimmered—moonlight pooling under skin.
He dropped the blade.
“What are you?” he breathed.
She looked away. “Your nightmare.”
The glow faded slowly, leaving only a faint scar.
Alvin stood. “No one shifts that way.”
“I don’t shift anymore.”
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her like she was a puzzle that refused to be solved.
“I’ve seen wounds. I’ve seen wolves bleed. But never like that.”
“Because I’m not like them.”
“Then who are you?”
She didn’t answer.
“Tell me,” he pressed. “Say something real.”
Her voice was quiet. “You won't believe it.”
“Try me.”
She looked up. “The hunted mirror the hunter.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
But instead of responding, she bit her own tongue—hard.
Blood filled her mouth.
“Stop!” he shouted, reaching through the bars, grabbing her wrist.
Her lips were already red.
He cursed and called for a healer.
But by the time the door slammed open, she’d gone silent again—eyes half-lidded, heartbeat shallow.
“She’s killing herself,” snapped the healer. “You need to decide, Commander—interrogate her, or bury her.”
Alvin didn’t answer.
He stood motionless as they cleaned her wounds.
\*\*
That night, he didn’t sleep.
Instead, he paced the halls, passing torch after torch, memory after memory.
Finally, he stopped outside her cell.
She was humming.
Softly.
Same melody. Same one from the hills.
It clawed at his insides.
He leaned against the bars, eyes shut.
“I remember the fire,” he said, voice low. “I remember hiding. Crying.”
She kept humming.
“I remember someone found me. A small hand. A voice. And then… the necklace.”
He opened his eyes.
“You’re not supposed to be real.”
Her humming stopped.
But she didn’t speak.
And he didn’t move.
They simply stayed like that—two shapes trapped in moonless dark, haunted by the same ash.
\*\*
The next morning, he called for clergy.
Three robed figures arrived—one old, one young, one blind.
“She’s resisting,” Alvin told them. “I want the truth.”
“Her mind may be warded,” said the eldest. “We’ll need proximity. Consent.”
“You won’t get either. Do it anyway.”
They entered the cell.
Alvin watched from outside as they chanted, incense curling through the air.
At first, nothing.
Then the girl twitched.
Suddenly, the room pulsed with a low howl—like dozens of wolves baying behind stone.
The youngest priest collapsed.
The blind one screamed, blood trickling from his ears.
The eldest staggered backward and slammed the cell door.
“Stop! Pull back!”
They fell to their knees, trembling.
“What did you see?” Alvin demanded.
The eldest shook his head. “A storm. We reached out—and something… something reached back.”
“Something?”
“Wolves. Thousands. Trapped in her. Or guarding her. I don’t know.”
The blind priest sobbed. “They’re not letting us in.”
Alvin dismissed them.
Then stood alone, staring at the girl now curled motionless on the floor.
She didn’t hum that night.
Nor did he sleep.
\*\*
The next night, he brought a lantern.
Opened the door.
Sat across from her.
For once, she looked exhausted. Hollow.
“Who are you?” he asked, not as a commander—but a man unraveling.
She didn’t answer.
So he softened his tone.
“I need to know. Please.”
Finally, she whispered, voice like crushed frost, “The hunted mirror the hunter.”
Then closed her eyes.
He stared at her.
And for the first time, realized—
She was breaking, not resisting.
Just like he was.
He stood, stepped outside, and shut the cell door quietly behind him.
For the first time in years, Alvin felt… lost.
And maybe—just maybe—that meant the truth was close.