Author Luna Liz
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TADEAS (Bringer of Doom) CH 3 - Silenced
🕑 Added 2025-09-19 05:45:12 +0000 UTC
And still, I cannot look away.
My eyes are drawn to her the way a wounded creature is drawn to the scent of blood — not by choice, not by desire, but by something more sinister, something embedded deep in the marrow of my bones. Her steps are slow now, methodical, not out of hesitation but out of control. She moves with the same inevitability as a blade descending, a predator unhurried only because it knows its prey has nowhere left to run. I feel her presence pressing down upon the world like a second sky, lowering over all of us in smothering silence. There is no sound, not even the wind dares to breathe upon her arrival. The sea has stilled. Time has paused. And yet within me, everything screams.
Each heartbeat is a thunderclap in the hollow of my chest, reverberating with the panic I no longer have the strength to conceal. My skin tingles as if her gaze has branded me, scorched some invisible sigil into my flesh that no water will ever wash away. I feel as though I am being unmade, stripped down to the bones of who I am or who I thought I was, and something else, something unknown, is being carved in my place. A new identity, a darker purpose, a fate I never asked for and do not want. Yet it does not matter. She is here, and with her appearance, everything I knew of safety, of truth, of myself — collapses into dust.
She does not blink as she finds me within the crowd, and my being freezes at her discovery of me. Her eyes blaze with something indecipherable, an infernal fire that smoulders colder than ice. They almost seem to pierce me, not merely observing but dissecting, tearing through every layer I have ever built between myself and the world. And still, she smiles. That glinting smile, one of joy and curiosity. She almost seems to be quite excited, as though she has discovered what she had been searching for.
The wolves continue to remain silent, still caught in the grip of their instinctive submission. Even Callis, whose presence has always been a shield between the world and me, is mute now, her shoulders tensed like a bowstring drawn taut. I feel her inch closer to my heated skin, protective still even beneath the weight of whatever force has stolen the air from our very lungs, but I know it is futile. Callis cannot protect me from this. No one can. Whatever is happening — whatever this... becoming is, it was always meant to happen. It was always mine to bear. And that deep inner knowing, followed by the uncertainty of what it actually is, causes relentless tides of anxiety and profound horror within my being.
Her feet, exposed and ethereal, press into the warm sand with a grace so deliberate it borders on reverent. The moment her skin meets the shore, the air shifts subtly at first, like the hush before a prayer, and yet I feel it ripple through me like a hushed command. Each step she takes leaves behind a shallow imprint, not simply in the earth but in something deeper, something unseen. The grains part beneath her as if they recognise her dominion, welcoming her tread not with resistance, but surrender. Her pace is unhurried, not for lack of urgency, but because she has no need for it. The world waits for her. Time bends itself around her every step. She does not walk, she claims. She does not approach; she descends. This is the all-consuming power this female holds.
Her fiery hair catches the dwindling sunlight like a banner ablaze, igniting the air around her with a shimmering halo. With every motion, the brilliance of her presence ripples outward, turning heads, stealing breath, silencing thought. She does not glance left or right, nor does she hurry. She simply glides forward, unbothered by the weight of the stares upon her. It becomes unmistakably clear this journey, this arrival, this moment — it was forged solely for her. For me. For us to meet. And I wonder if she senses this too, or if it is just me who has gone mad?
Behind her, the warriors descend in disciplined silence, their movements a stark contrast to her fluidity. Broad-shouldered and imposing, they wear thick leather armour strapped tightly to their torsos, their limbs bare and dusted with faint ash, as though remnants of war still cling to their flesh. Their hair is braided, knotted, adorned with bone and metal not for vanity, but legacy. Tattoos snake down their arms and necks in looping, ancient runes, indistinct and menacing, as if meant to invoke fear without comprehension. And yet, their purpose is not to gather or to trade. Their eyes, sharp and unwavering, remain on her alone. They are not here for these lands. They are not here for us. They are her shadows. Her sentinels. Her blades.
She moves between the stalls with an elegance that feels too perfect, too deliberate. Her body flows like smoke caught in amber light, a vision that is not entirely real, and yet far too present to ignore. Her long auburn hair cascades over her shoulders in silken waves, glowing with a ferocity that mimics fire itself. It is the shade of blood kissed by sunlight, unmistakable in its brilliance, alive with motion even when the wind has died. Her gown, if it can be called that, clings to her form with a fluidity that defies stitching, a fabric that seems more elemental than tailored. It shimmers with a mesmeric charm, catching the sun only to devour it, a paradox of beauty and threat. Golden chains wrap around her hips and collarbone, showcasing her status, delicate yet weighted, each adorned with runes too ancient for this land. Around her ankles, metal cuffs echo softly with each step, the sound like the distant ring of ritual bells, beautiful, but foreboding. She is not dressed like royalty. No. She is dressed like a warning.
The wolves around us part without being told as she makes her way towards us. No one dares to breathe too loudly, no voice rises above a whisper. I hear only the muted shuffle of her footfalls against sand, the quiet clink of her adornments, and the strained rhythm of my own breath. I stand motionless, my fingers still coiled around the edge of the stall, though I no longer feel the wood beneath my grip. I feel only her. I watch her as she moves past the warriors of this land, merchants, and all wolves alike, her observing gaze skimming the wares and the faces with the kind of quiet scrutiny that makes the air feel thinner. She is not looking to be impressed. She is searching. And something in the pit of my stomach begins to coil with a dread I cannot reason with.
She is only a few paces from me now, close enough that I can see the delicate rise and fall of her chest, the slight shimmer of sweat against her brow where even her infernal presence is not immune to the sun. But she does not feel human. Not in the way others do. She feels older, heavier, as if she carries the weight of countless lifetimes inside her bones. There is a violence in her stillness, a promise of carnage wrapped in velvet silence. My breath snags in my throat, and my hands tremble against my sides, fists clenched so tightly the skin has gone pale. I do not know why she is here. I do not know what she wants. But I am aware that she has chosen our stall over the others.
There is no mistaking it. I feel the moment her gaze collides with mine, and the air is stripped from my lungs in a single instant. The sound of the ocean fades, the laughter and murmurs of the others fall into an abyss of silence, and all that remains is the weight of her attention, vast and unrelenting. Her eyes are pale, not of frost, but of silvered flame, and within them there is not a glint that is not cruelty, but something far more dangerous: joy. She smiles. A wide, open expression that is not unkind in its shape, and yet unsettling to me in its effect. It is the smile of someone who has finally found what they were looking for and who intends to keep it.
She begins to finalise the rest of her unwavering walk toward us, each step slow and certain, her eyes never leaving mine. And as she moves, the sand seems to soften beneath her, yielding to her as if even the land knows she is not to be resisted. The warriors behind her remain still, guardians of a sovereign whose power requires no command. I feel Callis tense beside me, though she does not speak; her unease radiates from her like heat from a stone. She does not understand what is happening. Neither do I, and yet... I feel it. I feel it in my bones, in the marrow that carries my blood, in the thread of my soul that begins to stretch and tremble beneath some unseen hand.
She stops before us, barely an arm's length away. That smile still graces her lips, soft and unthreatening. But it is her silence that speaks the loudest. She does not ask for my name. She does not offer hers. She simply looks at me, and the world around us continues to vanish into stillness. My breath remains caught somewhere between my chest and my throat, and I feel as though I have been cracked open beneath her gaze. Something has shifted. Something has been claimed.
And in that moment, I know with a certainty I cannot explain that my fate is no longer my own.
And then she speaks. "I had been searching for these for so long. I am so happy. It was so upsetting that I could not find them in any other packs. These hair clips are so breathtaking."
Her voice is unlike anything I have ever heard. The words curl from her lips with such elegance that I scarcely process their meaning at first. Her accent is foreign, unmistakably so, rounded in places where ours is sharp, and sharp in places where ours is soft. Each syllable she releases carries a melodic cadence, as though born from a language older than the tongue she now speaks. It is not merely the way she pronounces the words, but the weight she gives them — soft, sincere, and steeped in some distant world I cannot reach. The air itself seems to still around her voice, as though listening. And I...I am utterly, hopelessly spellbound.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat, watching as her fingers reach for one of the clips laid before us. She handles it delicately, like a sacred artefact, letting the silver glint between her thumb and forefinger as she turns it in the light. The pattern engraved along the spine of the ornament, a pattern I carved with my own blade under Callis's supervision, seems suddenly unfamiliar, as though her gaze has transformed it into something else entirely. Reverent silence blankets the space between us, broken only by the distant cry of gulls and the rustle of wind. I do not speak. I cannot. My tongue lies heavy in my mouth, and no words seem worthy of her ears.
And yet, her gaze returns to mine.
As if she is waiting for me to say something.
As if she wants me to.
"I-I made them myself... with my sister's help, of course. Each clip here symbolises something; it holds meaning, and you can choose what you are drawn to." The words fracture in my throat as they leave me, weak and hesitant, like threads unravelled from a tapestry not yet ready to be touched. They sound fragile in the air, vulnerable even, and I loathe the tremor that betrays me. My tongue feels clumsy, alien in my own mouth, as though language itself is unworthy of her presence. I do not remember the last time I faltered when speaking to another wolf, but before her, I feel reduced to something smaller... not insignificant, but unveiled. My admission, though simple, feels dangerous, as if I have given her a piece of myself in the telling.
Her eyes lower with a measured slowness, falling to the ornaments arrayed upon the stall. I watch as her long fingers extend, pale against the dark gleam of the wood, and lift one of the clips I carved within the four walls of my room. The gesture is tender, deliberate, as though she is respecting the work I have put into it, not wanting to damage it in the process. Light slides across the polished surface, catching against the curve of the metal, and when she tilts it ever so slightly, the reflection stains her skin with silver. The sight is disarming, my heart lurching against my ribs, as though even the smallest act she performs carries the weight of ritual.
I force myself to speak again, my voice breaking through the taut silence in a whisper hardly above the breath of the sea. "This one... is shaped after the dusk flower. It blooms only once a day, just as the last of the sun bleeds from the horizon, and for a single moment it reveals its petals in full before sealing itself away until the following night. My pack believes it is a symbol of patience and hidden strength of what thrives in silence, unseen until its time comes."
The explanation hangs between us like incense smoke, delicate, twisting, reluctant to disperse. For a moment, I regret the words, afraid they sound foolish, afraid she will dismiss them with the kind of ease that would shatter me entirely. But when I lift my gaze again, her eyes are already upon me. They are softened with something I cannot name. Her smile deepens, not cruelly, not mockingly, but with an attentiveness so profound that my lungs tighten. It is as though every syllable I utter matters. As though each breath I release is being committed to memory by a presence far older and stronger than myself.
"It is beautiful," she murmurs, her voice spilling over me in tones that are both honey and steel. The lilt of her accent wraps around the word until it ceases to sound like language at all and becomes something closer to a chant. "They all are. But this one..." She pauses, her gaze dropping once more to the ornament in her hand. "This one speaks to me, but not loudly enough. It is more of a whisper than a scream."
I am acutely aware of Callis beside me, of the rigid line of her body, of the way her breathing has sharpened into short, clipped inhales. She does not speak; she wishes for me to lead this conversation, and though her silence is unusual, I understand it. For once, she cannot guide me. She cannot shield me. She cannot sever what has already begun weaving itself between this foreign female and me. I can sense her apprehension pulsing like a second heartbeat, but it fades beneath the strength of the tether that coils between the stranger's mesmeric orbs and my own.
The ethereal female does not release me from her probing gaze as she subtly tilts her head to the side. She does not step back. She does not relinquish that smooth, devouring smile. And though my heart stammers wildly in my chest, though my hands ache from the force with which I grip the edge of the stall, I cannot deny the truth that has already rooted itself in the marrow of my bones. This is no fleeting encounter. No passing moment. Something has now been sparked to flame here, something vast, irrevocable, and terrifying. And though she speaks of hair clips and adornments, I know her words carry something far greater.
"Can you show me some of your favourite ones and tell me what they symbolise? How did you make them?"
Her voice is velvet-edged with flame, serene in cadence yet weighted with command, curiosity threading through her tone like a silken cord. The question itself is simple, harmless even, but when spoken by her lips, it does not feel like a request. It feels like a summons, an invitation into something I cannot retreat from. Her mouth shapes the words in ways that catch and linger, as if her tongue has borrowed from a language older than the seas, reshaping mine into something newly born. Every syllable drips with a strange intimacy, and though her tone is smooth, there is an undercurrent of intent, as though she is not asking about the ornaments alone but about me.
My breath stumbles in my throat as I lower my gaze to the stall. My trembling fingers skim the edges of the carved clips, pausing where the etchings catch light like water upon stone. These are simple pieces, bone and silver, fragments of wood adorned with stones and leaves — yet under her gaze, they no longer feel like trinkets. They feel like antiques, sacred extensions of myself, suddenly exposed, naked for her to see. I hesitate, for in truth, these symbols were never meant to be explained to strangers, for they bare my core. Each one holds a memory, a story, and my dreams. And yet, with her, I find myself desperate to speak, desperate to give her answers she does not deserve but demands nonetheless by the weight of her presence.
I lift the one closest to me, clutching it between my trembling fingers, a slender piece shaped from ivory bone and set with a shard of green stone. "This one represents renewal," I murmur, my voice hushed but earnest, as though confessing a secret I should keep hidden. "The stone comes from the riverbeds where the waters run coldest. My sister and I carved it into this shape to honour the way the earth heals itself even after the harshest winters. It is meant to remind the wearer that nothing remains broken forever."
The words come easier now, slipping past my lips in measured rhythm, yet my chest remains tight, as though every breath I offer is drawn directly from her eyes. She watches me closely, intently, her head inclined only slightly, her lips parted in what might almost be awe. The softness of her expression disarms me more than any blade could. For all her power, her presence, her unknowable depth, she listens. She listens in a way that makes me feel as though the universe itself has narrowed to this stall, to these ornaments, to me.
I glance briefly toward Callis, seeking grounding, but find just an encouraging nod towards me. Her jaw is tight, her shoulders rigid, her gaze fixed firmly on the auburn-haired stranger as though by sheer will she might shield me. Yet even she cannot break this spell. My sister's silence, once a comfort, feels distant, powerless, a barrier dissolving like salt in the tide. For in this moment, no words, no walls, no sister's strength can sever the female's demands of me. And so, my eyes return to her. Always to her. Always drawn back by that tender smile, by that insatiable curiosity.
Her eyes drift from the piece I hold to another that rests further along the stall, and something imperceptible but powerful transforms in the air around us. The change is so slight it might have gone unnoticed had I not been tethered to every flicker of her gaze, but I feel it immediately, an immense tension, a vigorous pull, like the silent draw of a tide surrendering to the moon. The weight of her attention shifts, settling upon the ornament as though it has claimed her utterly, as though it has beckoned her forward with a voice neither of us can hear but both of us feel. Her eyes widen, her hand rises slowly, every movement restrained yet absolute, and when at last her fingers close around the clip, it is with the delicacy one might afford something utterly divine. The way she seizes it, gently cradled between thumb and forefinger, her amber gaze never leaving its form, is enough to make my breath falter, as though she has not touched a trinket, but a fragment of fate itself.
"What is this one?" She asks, her voice low and deliberate, each syllable carrying the cadence of fascination. The way she looks at it perturbs me, because it is not curiosity alone I see in her eyes — it is recognition, as if this object, made by my hands, has been waiting for hers all along. As though it belongs to her.
The most expensive ornament I have ever created gleams faintly in the softening light of dusk. It is small, delicate, but the details are deliberate, precise. Threads of shimmering gold and cartilage are braided together, twisted into symmetrical curves that mirror one another without flaw, curling like twin vines that have wound themselves around the same trellis. Etched along its spine are patterns so fine they are nearly invisible to the untrained eye — loops and swirls that weave endlessly back into themselves, symbols without beginning or end.
At its heart lies a stone no larger than a fingernail, pale blue and glassy, a shard of riverstone polished until it shines with the stillness of water at dawn. Its base is bound with copper wire hammered thin, each strand pressed so carefully into the grooves that it resembles veins carrying light through flesh. Though I know I designed it, I have never felt as though it truly belonged to me. It was an idea that did not feel imagined but found, waiting in the ether for my hands to draw it into existence.
I draw breath, my chest aching with the weight of her attention, and when I speak, my words emerge softer than intended, threaded with something that sounds like reverence. "That one... is a symbol of souls. Two souls, bound together not by the moon's decree, nor by lineage, nor even by will, but by something greater." I lift my hand hesitantly, not daring to touch the piece now that it rests within her palm, but I trace the air near its carved lines as I explain. "Every curve is designed to mirror the other, every line folds into its twin. Its form has no beginning and no end. It represents a bond that endures through all things — through distance, through silence, through time itself. For every heartbeat one soul takes, the other echoes it. And no force, no storm, no death can sever that thread." The words weigh heavily as they leave me, heavy because they are not merely an explanation.
Even as the description fades into the air between us, my throat constricts as though I have spoken too much, as though my own confession has escaped with the explanation. For when I carved this piece, I bled for it. I pressed my thumb so hard into its grooves that the flesh tore, and in that wound, my grief was imprinted upon the bone. It was not only a symbol I made that night, but a vessel. I did not tell her that. I do not tell her now. And yet, as she holds it — as she studies its form with a stare that lingers too long, too deep — I feel a chill of certainty crawl through me that she already knows.
For the first time since she stepped onto the sand, she does not smile. Her lips part slightly, as though caught by the instinct to speak, but the words never come. Instead, her gaze remains fixed on the clip, her amber-gold eyes softened, transfixed, almost entranced. It is as if the ornament hums for her alone, as though its meaning has crawled from my blood into her bones. Her fascination is not the idle marvel of a visitor charmed by another's craft. It is something more primal, more binding. A recognition that runs deeper than her voice could name.
And though pride should rise in me — pride that something I shaped with my own hands could command such reverence — there is no triumph in my chest. What spreads there instead is dread, thick and unrelenting. For as she turns the piece gently between her fingers, her eyes drinking in every curve and etching, I know with an aching certainty that this is not mere curiosity. This is not admiration. This is not chance.
This is destiny making itself known.
This is recognition.
Somehow, with that recognition blazing so fiercely in her amber gaze, something stirs violently within me. It begins as a faint tremor — a subtle quiver beneath my skin, so slight I might have dismissed it as the aftershock of fear. But then it swells, rising like a tide against the shore, until my very soul feels as though it has been struck by some unseen hand. The sensation is not soft, not gentle, but brutal in its force, an agony that pulses in time with the beat of my heart. Each throb sears through me like molten iron, radiating outward until it consumes the breadth of my chest, winding through every vein, every bone, every breath.
My vision shudders, colours bleeding into one another, the world blurring at the edges as though it, too, recoils from the force that has taken hold of me. My knees weaken, trembling beneath the weight of it, and I find myself staggering inward, my body desperate for any anchor to resist the storm building inside me. My hand lifts instinctively, trembling, refusing my command even as it rises toward the source of the pain. My fingers curl against my chest, clutching at the thin fabric of my veil as though I could tear it open and drag the torment free. The pressure beneath my palm is unbearable, each heartbeat crashing against it with the weight of a hammer striking iron, relentless and merciless.
It is not merely pain — it is violation. Something has breached me, something has burrowed deeper than flesh or bone, tearing into the fragile essence that lies beneath. It does not claw outward, but inward, gnawing at the core of who I am until I feel hollowed, gutted, stripped bare before her gaze. The sound that escapes my throat is not a cry but a broken stammer of breath, shallow and ragged, as if my lungs themselves resist the torment festering in my chest. I cannot hold myself steady. My shoulders curl inward as though to shield myself, though there is no shield, no escape.
And all the while, she watches me. That fiery-haired stranger, that beautiful, terrifying creature, her eyes still fixed upon me with the same unblinking recognition. No malice. No cruelty. No pity. Only certainty. The certainty of one who has found what she had been searching for. The certainty of a bond that I never invited, never wanted, and yet could no longer deny.
The despair consumes me from the inside out, and in its suffocating grip, I understand with a trepidation that shatters through my bones: something has been awakened within me that will never again be silenced.
