Chapter 6: Memories of a Hunter

The air in the lower dungeons tasted of stagnant water and old fear. Willow followed Cillian through the labyrinthine corridors.

His boots clicked against the stone, a steady, rhythmic sound that grated against her senses. She kept her stride even, her chin tucked, her hands clasped loosely behind her back.

Each cell held secrets. Some were silent. Others held whimpers that trailed off into nothingness.

Cillian stopped abruptly. He stood before a heavy iron door with a narrow viewing slit. The metal grate was scarred with deep gouges, the marks of desperate fingernails.

"My collectors brought in a new batch of strays yesterday," Cillian said. He did not turn.

"The Guild is sloppy, Willow. They leave their youngest assets unprotected."

Willow kept her face a blank slate. She did not ask questions. She did not offer opinions. She waited.

"Observe," he commanded.

He signaled to the guard. The iron door groaned as it slid open.

Inside the small, dank cell, a young woman sat on a pile of moldy straw. Her hair was matted with grime, but her posture remained rigid. Elara. Her trainee. The girl she had taught to check the wind before setting a trap.

Elara’s eyes flicked up. Recognition flared, then vanished, replaced instantly by a hollow, vacant stare. She had been trained well. She knew the rules.

Do not acknowledge. Do not break.

"She claims to be a lost traveler," Cillian said. He stood behind Willow, his cold hands resting lightly on her shoulders.

"Yet, she carries the calluses of a sword-hand on her palms. And her heart rate? It barely rises when the inquisitor enters."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of Willow’s ear.

"She is a hunter, is she not?"

Willow looked at the girl. Elara’s lip was split, a dark crust of blood drying on her chin. The sight sparked a phantom agony in Willow’s own chest. She saw the girl’s knuckles, white and trembling beneath the dirt.

She’s terrified.

"I do not know, my Lord," Willow whispered. Her voice stayed flat, hollow.

"She looks like a beggar to me."

Cillian hummed. He shifted his weight, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of her tunic. He was not looking at Elara. He was looking at Willow’s eyes. He was hunting for the smallest flicker of empathy, the tiny crack in the armor he had spent days trying to dismantle.

"Is that so?" he asked.

He stepped toward the cell. Elara did not move. She sat still, a statue of endurance.

"I find it fascinating," Cillian continued, his voice echoing in the small chamber. "The way certain people recognize one another. The way blood calls to blood, even across the divide of a dungeon floor."

He glanced back at Willow.

"Would you like to question her?"

The question hung in the air like a blade. Willow felt the weight of the moment. If she accepted, she would have to watch Elara suffer, or worse, perform the violence herself to maintain her cover. If she refused, she risked Cillian’s suspicion of her own origins.

She stepped forward.

"If that is your command, my Lord," she said.

Elara looked up. For a second, the mask slipped. A tiny, imperceptible shake of her head. Don't.

Willow’s heart hammered against her ribs. She gripped the cold iron of the door frame until her fingers burned. She had to stay calm. She had to be the master’s servant.

"She is quiet," Cillian goaded, his gaze heavy on Willow’s profile.

"Perhaps a bit of discipline will loosen her tongue."

Willow took a step into the cell. The air was thick with the smell of Elara’s sweat and the metallic tang of dried blood. She knelt on the straw.

"Where did you come from?" Willow asked.

Elara looked at her. Her eyes were glassy, shielded.

"The city. I was just passing through."

"The city is far," Willow replied. She reached out, her hand trembling as she brushed a lock of hair away from Elara’s face.

She felt the heat of the girl’s skin. The pulse at her throat was rapid, a frantic bird hitting the cage.

"I have no coin," Elara whispered, her voice cracking. "I have nothing for you."

Willow looked down. She saw a small, hidden knot on the girl’s sleeve—a signal they had used in the field to identify each other. Elara was still waiting. She was still hoping for a way out.

Willow felt a roar of guilt in her throat. She was the one who had taught her to hold that position. She was the one who had told her that the Guild would always come for their own.

The Guild is not coming, Elara.

"She has nothing, my Lord," Willow said, turning to look at Cillian.

Cillian stood at the entrance of the cell. His shadow stretched long and dark across the floor, consuming the space between them.

"Nothing?" Cillian asked. He walked forward, his presence forcing Willow to move aside.

He loomed over Elara. The girl stayed silent. She did not even blink.

"You are very brave," Cillian murmured. He reached out and tilted Elara’s head back, his fingers tracing the line of her throat.

Willow’s hands curled into fists. She felt the urge to strike—to bury a stake in his chest and drag Elara out of the darkness. Her muscles tensed, her weight shifting to the balls of her feet.

One strike. One chance.

Cillian’s grip on Elara’s chin tightened. He looked at Willow. He saw the shift in her stance. He saw the flash of lethal intent in her eyes.

He let out a low, guttural growl, a sound of primitive warning.

"Do not," he said. The air in the dungeon grew heavy, saturated with his dark, suffocating power.

He shoved Elara back against the straw. He did not look back as he strode toward the door.

"Lock it," he ordered.

Willow stood frozen. Elara looked at her, one final, desperate plea in her gaze.

Run.

"I said, lock it," Cillian repeated, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage.

Willow moved. Her hands shook as she slid the heavy iron bolt into place. The sound was final. The sound of a life ending.

She followed Cillian into the hallway. He stopped and grabbed her arm, hauling her close until her face was inches from his. His eyes glowed with a volatile, pulsing grey light.

"I saw that," he hissed.

"I felt nothing," Willow said, her voice small, trembling.

Cillian pulled her chin up. He studied her face, his thumb digging into her skin. He searched for the truth, for the lie, for the hunter beneath the servant.

"You are a good actor," he murmured.

"But you are not dead yet."

He released her with a violent shove.

"Go to the kitchens," he commanded. "Do not let me see you again tonight."

Willow turned and walked away. Her heart felt like a weight of lead in her chest. She could still hear the silence of the cell, the weight of Elara’s gaze, and the growl that had echoed off the dungeon walls.

She turned the corner and pressed herself against the cold, damp stone. She gripped her arms, her knuckles white.

I am sorry, she thought, the words a hollow echo.

She closed her eyes and let the darkness take her, the image of Elara’s vacant, broken stare burning behind her lids. She was a hunter. She was supposed to protect them.

But here, she was only a ghost.

And the ghosts were starting to pay the price.