The heat was a physical weight. It sat on Aethel’s shoulders like a bar of solid iron. She had been standing tied to the pillar for a full rotation of the guards, her arms hoisted high above her head by the iron chains. The ring of white fire—the torches Sila called the "White Veils"—burned steady and hot, drying out her eyes and cracking her lips.
But Aethel was not broken. Not yet. She was bored.
She shifted her weight from one numb foot to the other, the chains clinking with a musical chime that echoed in the vast, empty dungeon.
"Are you going to stare at those papers until Last Light?" Aethel called out. Her voice was raspy, but it still held the sharp edge of defiance. "I thought you were the Red, not the Clerk."
Across the stone floor, seated at a heavy desk made of black basalt, Sila did not look up. She was dressed in a simple tunic, having shed the heavy armor of the previous Light, but she looked no less dangerous. She was surrounded by stacks of parchment scrolls and stone tablets. The business of the Council did not stop just because she had a prisoner.
"Silence, little sail," Sila murmured, dipping a long quill into a pot of ink. "I am putting out fires."
"You’re reading," Aethel corrected. "And you’re ignoring your guest. It’s rude."
Sila signed a document with a sharp, aggressive scratch of the quill and tossed it onto a finished pile. She picked up the next one. "You are not a guest. You are a biological asset currently under audit. Be glad I have not started the subtraction yet."
Aethel rolled her eyes. The fear from the initial capture had faded into a dull ache of discomfort. She knew Sila was playing a game. The silence, the heat, the waiting—it was all theater. Aethel had survived enough questionings to know the rhythm.
"My arms are going to fall off," Aethel said. "If you want me to talk, I need blood flow to my brain."
"You talk too much as it is," Sila said, her eyes scanning the text of a report. "If I cut off the blood flow, perhaps the quiet will finally come."
A heavy knock echoed from the iron door at the top of the stairs.
Sila paused. She did not look up, but her hand froze over the paper. "Enter."
The door creaked open, spilling a slice of cooler air down the stairs. A young servant girl, no older than twelve, crept down the steps. She held a wooden box in her hands as if it were a bomb that might explode. She wore the gray rags of the lower levels, and her eyes were wide with terror as she looked from the woman at the desk to the woman in chains.
"Mistress Sila?" the girl squeaked.
Sila finally looked up. Her eyes were cold, flat coins of gold. "Speak."
"I–I was cleaning the lower storage as you asked," the girl stammered. "Sorting the old things from before the... before the rise. I found this. It was tucked behind the shelves."
She held out the box. It was plain, made of unfinished wood, dusty and forgotten.
Sila frowned. She set down her quill and beckoned with one finger.
The girl scuttled forward, placed the box on the edge of the desk, and immediately retreated three steps, bowing her head.
Aethel watched with interest. Anything to break the monotony. "What is it? A present? Maybe it’s a snack. I could eat."
Sila ignored her. She reached out and flipped the latch on the box. The lid creaked open.
Inside lay a single object. A bag made of red cloth. It was thick velvet, the color of dried blood, with a heavy black drawstring at the top. It looked harmless. It looked like a bag for keeping dice, or perhaps jewelry.
Sila’s breath hitched.
She stared into the box. Her pupils contracted to pinpoints. Her skin, usually emerald green, went dusty ash.
"No," she whispered.
Then, she shrieked.
It was a sharp, high sound, not a battle cry, but a noise of pure, startled recoil. Sila scrambled back in her chair, the wood screeching against the stone floor. She knocked her ink pot over, sending a black river across her papers. She looked at the red bag as if it were a severed head.
The servant girl dropped to her knees, trembling. "I—I didn’t know! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!"
Aethel felt a drop of shame for the girl, and more for herself—still strung up, swaying just a little, the sweat matting down the hair on her jaw, and her pride battered by the knowledge that Sila had cracked first.
Sila managed to collect herself, but her breathing was off—fast, ugly, dragging like rock against bone. She snatched the red bag from the box and shoved the container aside, spilling ancient dust and a few wood flecks onto the surface. Her hand trembled. She gripped the velvet pouch with enough pressure to bleach the knuckles of her green hand to a ghostly mint.
Sila turned away from the box and glared at Aethel as if she’d orchestrated the whole thing.
Silence filled the room for a heartbeat.
Then, Aethel laughed.
She couldn't help it. The sight of the terrifying Sila the Red, the leader of the red skulls, nearly falling out of her chair over a piece of fabric was absurd.
"By the stars," Aethel chuckled, leaning against her chains. "Scared of a box are we? What’s in there, Sila? A spider? A bad memory? Or is the color red too much for you?"
Sila froze.
The fear vanished from her face instantly, replaced by a rigid, icy mask. She slowly stood up. She did not look at the servant girl. She looked at Aethel.
"You find fear amusing," Sila said softly.
"I find you amusing," Aethel shot back. "Jumped like sparks off a hot metal."
Sila walked around the desk. She moved differently now. The casual boredom was gone. She walked with the predator's intent. She held the red velvet bag by the string, letting it dangle.
"Leave us," Sila commanded the servant.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The girl scrambled up the stairs and was gone before the echo of the command died.
Sila walked toward the ring of white fire. She stepped through the heat, stopping inches from Aethel. Up close, Aethel could see a tremor in Sila’s hand, but her eyes were steady.
"Do you know what this is?" Sila asked, holding up the bag.
"A bag," Aethel said. "For keeping marbles. Did you lose yours?"
Sila smiled. It was a terrible smile. It didn't reach her eyes.
"It is a hood," Sila said. "My father used it. When the world was too big... when I was too loud... he would make the world small. He would say, 'Imagine you are nine, Sila. Be small.'"
Aethel’s smile faltered. "Okay. Touching childhood story. Fascinating."
"I want you to imagine you are nine, Aethel," Sila whispered.
Before Aethel could react, Sila shoved the bag over Aethel’s head.
It was thick. Heavy. The velvet blocked out everything. The world went from the blinding glare of the white torches to absolute, suffocating blackness in an instant. The smell hit Aethel immediately—dust, old sweat, and something metallic, like copper coins.
"Hey!" Aethel jerked her head. "Get this off!"
She felt Sila’s hands at her neck. The black drawstring was pulled tight—brutally tight. It cinched around Aethel’s throat, not enough to choke her, but enough to ensure it wouldn't slip over her chin.
"Sila!" Aethel shouted. Her voice sounded muffled and strange in her own ears, trapped inside the velvet. "This is childish! Take it off!"
"The light is for those who behave," Sila said, her voice coming from just outside the fabric. "Enjoy the dark. It has a way of... speaking."
Then, the sound of boots walking away.
"Sila!" Aethel yelled. "You can’t just leave me like this! It smells like a dead rat in here!"
She heard the scrape of the chair. The rustle of paper. The scratch of the quill.
"I’m talking to you!" Aethel screamed.
Sila did not answer.
And so the waiting began.
For the first Dreth, Aethel was angry. She cursed Sila. She listed every profanity she had absorbed from markets and memory crystals not meant for her. She insulted Sila’s furniture, her hair, her questionable sanity. She swung her body, trying to shake the hood loose, but the string bit into her neck and the chains held her firm.
"This is stupid!" Aethel shouted into the velvet. "I’m not scared of the dark, you witch!"
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound of the quill was the only response. It was rhythmic. Maddening.
By the third Dreth, the heat became the enemy. The white torches were still burning outside, radiating waves of warmth that the black velvet bag soaked up. Inside the hood, the air grew stale and hot. Aethel gasped for breath, sucking in the dusty fibers of the cloth. Sweat ran down her forehead, stinging her eyes, but she couldn't wipe them. She rubbed her face against her shoulder, but it only smeared the sweat around.
"Okay," Aethel gasped. "Okay, the joke's over. I get it. You have power. You made your point."
The quill scraped across parchment like fingernails digging into her ear canal. Scratch-scratch-scraaaatch. A page turned with a sound like skin peeling from bone.
"Sila?"
Nothing.
By the sixth Dreth, the physical pain of the chains was eclipsed by the noise, but the bag—the bag was everywhere. It clung to Aethel's face like a second skin, the velvet fibers catching on her eyelashes when she blinked. Each inhale pulled the fabric against her nostrils, each exhale pushed it away with a humid breath that had nowhere to go. The weave pressed patterns into her cheeks that she could feel but not see.
Deprived of sight, Aethel's hearing sharpened until it hurt. The drip of water somewhere far off hammered through her skull. The rustle of Sila moving a scroll roared like a landslide, vibrating through the hot, suffocating cocoon wrapped around her head.
And the quill. The endless scratching of the quill. It sounded like claws on stone. It sounded like something burrowing into the walls.
"Please," Aethel whispered. Her throat was parched. The heat inside the bag was suffocating. "Just take it off. I won’t laugh. I promise."
Silence.
Then, the sound of Sila pouring a drink. The glug of liquid into a cup. The soft sigh of satisfaction after a swallow.
Aethel licked her cracked lips inside the dark. "Water? Sila, please."
No answer. Just the scratching resuming.
By the ninth Dreth, the darkness started to have texture.
It wasn't just an absence of light anymore. It was a weight. It pressed against her eyelids. It filled her nose. Nine Dekors old. The comment Sila had made started to loop in Aethel’s mind. Imagine you are nine.
Nine Dekors old. Afraid of the closet. Afraid of the thing under the bed.
Aethel started to see shapes in the blackness of the bag. Bursts of purple and green light that weren't there. Phantoms of her own making.
"I can’t breathe," Aethel wheezed. Panic began to flutter in her chest, a trapped bird beating its wings against her ribs. "Sila, I can’t breathe in here. It’s too hot."
She pulled at the chains, thrashing. "Let me out! Let me out!"
The darkness didn't care. The quill didn't stop.
Time lost all meaning. Was it night? Was it the next Light? Has Sila left her? Maybe she was alone. Maybe Sila had gone up the stairs Dreths ago and left her to rot in this red sack.
"Don't leave me," Aethel whimpered. The smart-ass voice was gone. The confident rebel was gone. There was only the dark, and the heat, and the smell of old dust. "Is anyone there? Please."
She started to cry.
The tears were hot and uncomfortable inside the mask. They ran into her ears. Snot clogged her nose, making it even harder to breathe. She hyperventilated, short, shallow gasps that tasted of velvet.
"I’m sorry," Aethel sobbed, her voice breaking. "I’m sorry I laughed. I’m sorry. Please. Take it off."
She hung from her wrists, her legs giving out, supported only by the iron cuffs. She drifted in and out of consciousness, a fever dream of red velvet and black silence.
Then, a sound.
Click. Scrape. Click.
Boots on stone. Approaching. Stopping. Then silence.
Aethel stiffened. She held her breath. Something cold pressed against her cheek through the velvet—metal, perhaps a key or a small knife. It traced a line down to her jaw, lingered at her throat. The pressure increased until she whimpered. Then it vanished.
She felt fingers at her neck. Cold, hard fingers. They fumbled with the knot, then paused, tugging it tighter before finally loosening it.
"Please," Aethel whispered.
The tension released. The string loosened.
The bag was ripped upward.
The sudden exposure to the air felt like ice water. Even the hot air of the dungeon felt cool compared to the hell inside the hood. Aethel gasped, gulping down greedy lungsful of oxygen. She blinked, her eyes streaming, blinded by the sudden return of the torchlight.
Sila stood in front of her.
Aethel could not hold it back. She broke. She hung from the chains, sobbing openly, tears cutting tracks through the sweat and grime on her face. The defiance was gone. She was just an adult woman reduced to a terrified child in the dark.
Sila held the red bag in her hand. She stared at the limp velvet, then back at Aethel's weeping face.
Sila's voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to crawl directly into Aethel's ear. "When I was nine, I made a sound during my father's meditation."
Her thumb traced the edge of the hood, nail catching on a frayed thread.
"He built the box himself. Measure me first. Made it exactly my size—so small my shoulders touched both sides at once. The wood was green, still weeping sap. Splinters faced inward."
Aethel's tears felt cold now against her burning face.
"The first time, I lasted three Dreths before I soiled myself. He left me until First Light after that." Sila's eyes fixed on something far beyond the dungeon walls. "By the sixth time, I learned to slow my breathing when the bugs crawled in. By the twelfth, I could make my heartbeat only once per breath. By the twentieth, I could leave my body entirely when he poured the water in through the breathing holes."
She leaned close enough for Aethel to see the pinprick scars around her nostrils.
"I counted splinters with my fingertips in the dark. There were six hundred and forty-three. I named each one after a star I'd never see again."
Sila lifted the hood. A drop of something dark had stained its inner lining.
“When I turned ten, he said I'd graduated. He showed me this. Said, 'Now you can take your darkness with you.' I wore it for three Threxs straight while completing my studies. He'd ring a bell when I made mistakes I couldn't see." Sila's fingers moved to the hem of her robe, hesitated, then lifted it just enough to reveal a pattern of pale horizontal ridges across her thighs. "Once, I tried to remove it during my mathematics lesson. I couldn't breathe properly, couldn't think.
“He used a thin rod of white-oak. Always here," she traced one particularly pronounced scar that wrapped around her leg like a bracelet. "Where clothing would hide it. The rod would whistle before it struck. Eventually, I began to flinch at any high-pitched sound."
Aethel saw it then—the hollowness behind Sila's eyes, a void that had been carved out long ago.
"I'm so sorry," Aethel whispered.
Sila's pupils contracted to pinpoints. "My father would have left you in it until your skin fused with the fabric. Then peeled it off."
Sila's eyes then flashed white. She seized the wooden box from the desk, knuckles blanching against its edges. With a feral scream that tore from somewhere beneath language, she smashed it against the stone wall. Once. Twice. Again. Each impact punctuated by a grunt that sounded like a child's stifled sob. The wood didn't just break—it exploded, splinters embedding themselves in the mortar between stones.
Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stalked to the nearest White Veil torch. She twisted the red velvet hood in both hands as if wringing a neck, then thrust it into the white fire with such force the torch bracket bent. The fabric ignited with a hungry whoosh, flames licking between her fingers before she released it.
"Burn," she whispered, watching the hood writhe and blacken on the floor like a dying thing. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in something too savage to be called a smile. She ground the burning remnants under her heel, grinding ash into stone, before turning toward the stairs.
The heavy iron door didn't just close—she slammed it with enough force to send dust cascading from the ceiling, the lock engaging with the finality of a blade falling.
Aethel hung in the silence, chains cold against her raw wrists. The red hood writhed on the floor, its death throes illuminating the dungeon in unsteady light. As flames devoured velvet, Aethel's tears dried on her cheeks, replaced by something heavier. Those pale horizontal ridges across Sila's thighs flashed in her mind—not random, but precisely placed, each one a perfect distance from the next, like rungs on a ladder climbing up her captor's skin. A girl nine Dekors old, measured like livestock. A box built to fit her exactly. Twenty times. Twenty. The number echoed in Aethel's mind as she pictured tiny fingers counting splinters in absolute darkness, lungs fighting for air that grew thinner with each panicked breath, a child learning to barely exist just to survive. Her own Dreths of torment suddenly seemed merciful by comparison. When the last ember faded to gray ash, Aethel whispered to the empty room, "What's left of you, Sila? What little girl is still trapped in that box, counting splinters in the dark?"
Well. That explains a lot.
We finally get a peek behind the mask. The "Splinters" story gives me chills every time I read it.
Question for the comments: Aethel actually felt sorry for Sila at the end. After seeing what "The Father" did to her, has your opinion of Sila changed? Is she a villain, or a victim who learned to survive?
Don't forget to Rate the story if you are enjoying the launch! See you Friday for the conclusion of the opening sprint!
After the "Box" story, how do we feel about Sila?
