Chapter 34: White KnuckledMiz'ri stood in the threshold of the lobby, her hand still frozen near her neck where the braided red colr sat against her skin. The air smelled of beeswax and expensive, imported lilies, a scent that was too sweet, too cloying. It reminded her of the funeral parlors in Niranai, beautiful pces designed to hide the rot.

  Inside, the Garden Gang was trying to decompress, but the tension was thick enough to chew. Gourdy was sitting on a low ottoman, his massive hand resting on Artie’s knee. The scout was shaking, a fine tremor that rattled the teacup in his hands.

  "She looked just like her," Artie whispered, his violet eyes wide and unseeing. "The way she stood. The way she didn't even look at me when she spoke."

  "I'm pretty sure she was just focused on her daughter," Gourdy soothed, his voice a low rumble. "She isn't Xiltheka."

  Artie flinched at the name. "Matriarchs are all the same, Kohl. It doesn't matter what skin they wear. They look at you, and they measure your worth in how much pain you can take before you break."

  Miz’ri stepped forward, the floorboards creaking under her boots. "Xiltheka…I've heard that name before…" she said, her voice ft. "Are you from House Xorrrin?"

  Artie looked up, surprised to be addressed with anything other than disdain. "Yes. She used to test the sharpness of her knives on the scullery boys." He touched a thin, white scar on his cheek. "She liked symmetry, she demanded obedience…”

  Miz’ri nodded, leaning against a pilr. "My mother, Ilharess Niranath, preferred her riding crop as it didn't get blood on her carpets. If I failed a spell or even if my hands shook during a ritual she would strike the knuckle. Just enough to bruise to the bone, not enough to stop the lesson." She flexed her long, obsidian fingers. "She wanted us to be perfect. When I picked up a sword instead of a wand, it was the first time she looked at me like I was a broken tool."

  “Such is life in the Reaches" Artie murmured, a dark camaraderie sparking in his eyes. "We ran for a reason, right Sister?”

  "How touching," a cool voice drawled from the reception desk.

  Danni was leaning over her ledger, a quill poised in her perfect hand. She didn't look up, but her smile was razor-sharp. "Bonding over your trauma. It’s almost sweet, in a pathetic sort of way."

  Baby, who had been trying to drape herself seductively over the counter, faltered. "Danni, don't be mean. They've had a rough day."

  "Beatrice, darling, if you want me to work that gock like the flutist I am - shut your pretty little mouth while the adults are talking.” Danni countered, finally looking up. Her violet eyes pinned the sorceress with a look of utter lust.

  “Y-Yes, ma'am.” Baby murmured and seemed to unravel, the confident smirk sliding off her face. She put her hands in her p and cast her eyes to the ground. Sweat of arousal forming around her brow.

  “Good girl. I'll tell you when you're allowed to talk again.” Danni then turned her gaze to Miz’ri. She looked at the elf’s twitching hands, the sheen of sweat on her forehead, the way her eyes darted toward the door every time it opened. "And you," Danni mused, tapping her chin. "What's got you so twitchy? Is it just missing your chubby girlfriend, or maybe…something more…”

  Miz’ri snarled, the sound ripping out of her throat before she could stop it. "I am looking for air."

  "You look like a junkie looking for a hit, Shadow-Kin.," Danni corrected, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A depraved junkie who just lost her supply."

  The accusation hit Miz’ri like a physical blow. It was too close. Too accurate. Danni wasn't just being cruel; she was being a mirror.

  "You know nothing about me," Miz’ri hissed, her hand going to her empty belt. "You are a voyeur, Danni. You sit in your golden tower and watch people bleed because you're too afraid to live."

  "Perhaps," Danni smiled, unbothered. "But at least I don't need to break things to feel alive."

  Miz’ri couldn't breathe. The walls of the inn were closing in. The scent of lilies was choking her. She needed to leave. She needed to run.

  "I'm going out," Miz’ri announced, her voice shaking. "Don't wait up." She spun on her heel and fled, bursting out into the cool, smoggy night of Rurokitarin, leaving the safety of the cage behind for the danger of the street.

  The smog was thick, tasting of ash and unwashed ambition. Miz’ri walked fast, her boots striking the cobblestones with a frantic, uneven rhythm. The Silence was no longer a whisper. It was a roar, a white-noise static that filled her skull, demanding to be drowned out. Her hands were shaking. She shoved them into her pockets, clenching her fists until her nails bit into her palms.

  Find something, her addicted mind hissed at her. Find a warm body. Find a fight. Find anything to make it stop.

  She passed a tavern, the sound of ughter and breaking gss spilling out. She passed a brothel, the red nterns swaying in the wind, promising oblivion for a handful of copper. Her feet slowed. Her body leaned toward the doors, drawn like a moth to a fme. Miz’ri touched the colr at her neck, mind drifting to the way Talisa looked at her. It was a lifeline. She forced herself to turn away from the vice.

  I have to be there when she gets back. But as she turned her mind went to the statuesque Danni and her violet gre. Then to the judgemental yet pitying looks of the Garden Gang. She turned to look at her own reflection, her own crimson eyes, half-stooped in sadness and exhaustion, strung out on sorrow. Everyone expects me to break. They expect me to be unable to resist. They know how weak I am…

  Her mind spiraled, thinking of the only strength she had, the only connection that hadn't abandoned her. She doesn’t see my weakness, even after staring at my pain in the eyes. She is my strength…but how do I show her that? "She likes food…"Miz'ri muttered to herself, the word sounding ridiculous in the dark. "Maybe a nice surprise when she gets back from being around her mother.” I don't care if the gang may think I'm out whoring, I'm coming back with fried dough instead of another hole in my soul. A tiny, pathetic anchor. Talisa loved sweets. She knew her curvy lover would want something fried and sugary when she came back from her mother’s interrogation. If Miz’ri could just focus on that as an act of service instead of an act of consumption, maybe she could survive the night.

  Miz'ri wandered until she found the night market near the smelters. It was crowded, noisy, and reeked of grease. Miz’ri joined the line for a pastry cart, standing stiffly among the borers. The time stretched on as she stood there, Miz’ri’s busy mind racing with thoughts of Talisa, the colr, her mother, everything hitting her at once. She had to force herself to be present, to focus entirely on the task at hand. Miz’ri closed her eyes and let out a long sigh.

  trying to focus on the task at hand, until her bubble burst.

  "Are you in line?" The voice was soft, slurred, and dangerously friendly.

  Miz’ri stiffened as she opened her eyes. The line had moved in front of her. She turned slowly. Standing next to her was a human girl, a twenty-something of petite build with wavy red hair reaching past her shoulders. This young woman was wearing an orange dress that was cut low, revealing a lot of pale skin that was just as loose and easy as her smile. The little line of cleavage acted like a constant smiley face on her chest. Even from this distance Miz could smell the cheap wine and jasmine perfume enshrouding the girl.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry.” Miz said, taking a step forward. “Got a lot on my mind.” Come on, this shouldn’t take this long.

  "You look like you've had a long night," the girl giggled, swaying slightly as she stepped behind Miz’ri. She reached out, her hand brushing Miz’ri’s arm. "Are you an adventurer? You look dangerous." But the way she said dangerous felt more like ‘sexy’. The touch was electric, the spiral afterwards was gut retching.

  Miz’ri’s vision tunneled. The noise of the market faded. She looked at the girl, and she didn't see a person. It would be so easy.She saw a pulse fluttering in a pale exposed neck that could soon be full of bites down to the eager swell of the girl’s breasts. The soft ample flesh that Miz’ri quickly imagined how she’d tie up in intricate knots after convincing the girl she wanted to give up control. She saw a naive smile that would shatter so easily as she screamed Miz’ri’s name in some godforsaken alleyway. It would be such a relief. This girl was nothing more than a way out of the Silence. The hunger was physical, a heat in her hands that twitched and spasmed, wanting to grab, to bruise, to take, to own and break anything else that refused to be cimed.

  Miz’ri took a step toward the girl, her hand rising. The girl smiled, mistaking the predator’s focus for interest. "My name is—"

  Miz’ri flinched. The name. If she knew the name, it became real. "Get the fuck away from me," Miz’ri choked out, tears already forming in the corners of her eyes.

  The girl blinked, confused. "What?"

  "I said back the fuck up!" Miz’ri shoved the girl back, clumsily, without grace. The girl stumbled, colliding with a worker behind her.

  "Hey! Watch it!" the worker shouted. The crowd quickly turned to see what the commotion was. Embarrassment flooded Miz’ri’s mind, an unknown shame that she long since drowned out with sensation and violence. But it was here, raging in her mind, angry it had no way to be soothed. She had no way to protect herself from its shing out. Driving her close to the edge of a mental break.

  Chest heaving from a near panic attack the elf turned towards the cart and pushed her way to the front of the line. She threw a handful of silver at the baker and growled with bared teeth.. The baker, terrified by the crazy dark elf with the wild eyes, shoved a grease-stained sack of pastries at her. Miz’ri snatched it and ran.

  She didn't look back at the girl. She didn't look at the brothels. She ran blindly into the dark, clutching the bag to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her from falling off the edge of the world. Miz’ri didn't stop running until her lungs burned and her legs gave out. She colpsed in a narrow, dead-end alleyway between a textile mill and a coal chute, sliding down the brick wall until she hit the damp cobblestones. The bag of pastries y in her p, a greasy, crumpled testament to her failure. She leaned her head back against the brick, gasping for air that tasted of sulfur and rot. Her hands were shaking so violently she had to clench them into fists to stop the tremors.

  "Pathetic," she whispered to the smog-choked sky. "You are pathetic."

  Hot, angry tears leaked from her eyes, tracking through the soot on her face. She hated crying. But she couldn't stop. She was weeping for the girl she had almost hurt, for the control she had almost lost, and for the terrifying realization that she couldn't even buy a doughnut without wanting to destroy something.

  "Are you alright, miss?" a voice said.

  Miz’ri flinched, her hand flying to her empty belt where her sword should have been. She snarled, a wet, feral sound, and looked up. Standing at the mouth of the alley was a woman. She was human, short and stout, with rich brown skin and eyes that crinkled at the corners. She wore the simple, rough-spun habit. grey wool dyed with blue at the hem.But she didn't look like a priestess, her frame was sturdier like a retired brawler turned librarian. She was leaning on a heavy oak staff in one hand, basket tucked under the other arm. She was watching Miz’ri with an expression that wasn't fear or pity, but recognition.

  "Go away," Miz’ri choked out, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Unless you want to bleed."

  The woman didn't move. She stepped closer, her boots crunching on the gravel. “How long has it been?”, her voice raspy and warm, like dry leaves. "How long since your st hit?” She stopped a few feet away, looking down at Miz’ri with a warm expression. “I know this well…The shaking hands. The anxious sweat. You just walked away from a ledge."

  Miz’ri ughed, a broken, hysterical sound. "Less than a day of this ‘sober’ existence and here I am, broken." she confessed, the words tearing out of her. "Not from wine. From people. I am trying not to consume the world to fill the hole in my chest."

  The woman’s eyebrows rose, and then her chest sank. “I see you know that demon as well…"

  Miz’ri looked at her, really looked at her. "What do you know of the Silence?"

  "I wasn't always a Sister of Brass," Esther said, sitting down on a crate opposite Miz’ri. She rested her chin on her hands. "I used to be a messy, loud, pansexual disaster of a thing. I left a trail of broken hearts and empty bottles from here to the coast. I thought if I kept moving, kept taking, I wouldn’t ever have to live in silence."

  Miz’ri froze. "The Silence…” she whispered. "You hear it too?"

  "I do, and there are others who hear it too,"the older woman said. "Hi. I’m Sister Esther. You are not alone in feeling that roaring void that tells you you’re nothing unless you’re making noise. Unless you’re hurting or being hurt."

  "I am Miz’ri Niranath…and It’s eating me alive ," Miz’ri admitted, clutching the bag of pastries. "The Silence is a monster that consumes my joy, my peace, my sanity.I don't know how to kill it."

  “The Silence? Is that what you call it?” Esther said with a tilt of her head. Miz nodded, which made the older woman shake her head. "That’s your mistake, Miz’ri. You named it. You gave power to it when you gave it a seat at your table, where it devours everything it sees." She pointed her staff at Miz’ri’s chest. "Only you can stop feeding it."

  Miz’ri stared at her. "Stop feeding it? It demands to be fed."

  "Fuck it’s demands." Esther corrected firmly. "It demands that you panic. It demands that you run. It demands that you cim another soul just to not feel weak. But in the end you just feel like more of a hole, don’t you?” Miz’ri was crying again now, fully nodding her head at the truth id out.

  “What do I do?” Miz’ri asked as the bag fell to her p and she csped her weeping face in her hand, allowing herself to feel even around this stranger. “How do I starve the S…this thing?”

  Ester stamped the end of her staff proudly. “You say hell no when it demands to be fed. You must starve this rot inside of you to make room for yourself." She stood up, brushing off her habit. "It hurts, doesn't it? Being empty?"

  "It’s agony," Miz’ri whispered. “I’ve been living in agony for decades.”

  "I’m sorry you’ve been through that, but I’m happy you’re feeling it now." Esther smiled, a genuine, beatific thing. "That means you’re finally allowing yourself to feel your own edges. Where you are just you. And you are enough to fill that space, to be less jagged, if you give yourself time."

  A bell tolled in the distance. Esther sighed. "I have to go. My partner gets cranky if I’m te with dinner.” She hoisted the heavy basket in her hand, showing the parcel of a meal within it.

  "Partner?" Miz’ri blinked.

  "Wife. Partner. Lover. My shining star." Esther winked. "She’s boring in all the cutest ways, perfect for a former disaster like me. She likes gardening and holding my hand. And she’s the best thing that ever happened to me." Esther turned to leave, but she paused. "Do you live around here, or are you just passing through?”

  “Passing through, but…we kinda stopped here.” Miz’ri said, deciding dishonesty had no pce in this conversation. "I’m at the Iron Wing Inn."

  Esther’s eyes shot up as she was scanning her mind. “I think I know where that is. Well, either way, you’re not leaving in the morning?”

  Miz’ri shook her head. “No…it was a rough arrival, I had a bit of a crash out when I arrived. We agreed to stay in the city to get me help with…The….this.” she pointed weakly towards her head, and then wiped away some remaining snot from her nose.

  “Do you truly want help?” Esther asked, gathering herself before she truly had to go.

  “I need it. I can’t keep living like this.” Miz’ri let out a long sigh, “I can’t lose my Sanctuary to the Silence when I’ve already lost everything else…”

  Esther put her basket down and reached out a single hand onto Miz’ri’s shoulder. “There is a solution. Meet me tomorrow night at The 'Broken Spine' bookstore on the East End Market, at dusk. Come if you truly want to know you are not alone in this fight." Esther tightened the grip once more, and then walked out of the alley.

  "Stop feeding it, huh…" Miz’ri whispered to the dark. She stood up. Her legs were still shaking, but the roar in her head had dialed down to a hum. She slowly began to walk away from her crying spot, wandering through the crowds of people, eyes cast down in thought rather than shame. This city was unfamiliar but she didn’t mind wandering until she found her way again. The well-kempt exterior of the Iron Wing seemed to invite her amongst its coal-stained neighbors. Miz’ri stood outside the threshold, gripped the bag of cold pastries, and burst through the heavy oak doors of the Iron Wing like she was being chased by a legion of devils.

  In the common room, the hearth had burned down to a low, orange glow. Gourdy and Artie were still there, hunched over a small table. At the sound of the door smming, Artie nearly vaulted over the back of his chair, his hand going to his boot-knife, while Gourdy surged to his feet, his massive frame casting a long, protective shadow. They both froze when they saw her. Miz’ri was disheveled, her white hair clinging to her damp temples, her face streaked with the remnants of tears and city soot.

  "Rosie?" Gourdy asked, his voice thick with a mix of dread and hope. He searched her clothes for blood, his eyes scanning her pupils for the tell-tale gssiness of a repse. "Are you... did you..."

  Miz’ri didn't answer. She walked to the center of the room, her boots heavy on the rug, and smmed the grease-stained paper bag onto the table. "I bought doughnuts," she announced. Her voice was thin, vibrating with a tremor she couldn't suppress. "I mean…they're cold now. And they smell like a furnace. But I bought them, actually bought them with marks and everything.."

  Artie looked from the bag to Miz’ri, his shoulders slowly dropping an inch. "You went out... for pastries?"

  "I went out to survive," Miz’ri corrected, colpsing onto the velvet loveseat, the same one she had shared with Talisa only a lifetime ago. She buried her face in her hands for a second, then looked up, her red eyes burning with a fierce, desperate light. "I’m guessing she’s not back.” Gourdy shook his head. “Figured as much. Where’s Baby and that Altan bitch?”

  Artie snorted, sliding back into his seat and reaching for the bag. "They disappeared upstairs hours ago. Danni made some comment about 'properly punishing' her for the afternoon's insolence." He paused, pulling out a sugar-crusted ring of dough and inspecting it. "Judging by the sounds coming from the floorboards earlier, it’s going to be a long night for them. Honestly, I don't get it."

  Gourdy sat back down, his weight making the floor groan. "Get what, Artie?"

  "The time,” Artie said, taking a bite and talking through the sugar. "Gay sex between us men is a series of sprints. It’s athletic, it’s explosive, it’s intensely erotic, and then you give each other a kiss and go get a sandwich. Get on with the rest of your day. But you dykes? You’re fucking marathon runners, and I mean that literally. You’ll be at it until the sun comes up and then probably discuss your feelings over breakfast for another three hours. It sounds exhausting."

  Miz’ri let out a dry, hacking sound that might have been a ugh. “We do love a good sexual decathalon.” The thought of Danni being occupied was the first bit of good news she'd had all night. "Good. Let them have their fun.” Her eyes looked up stairs to her room and then sharply turned back. “I just... I can't be alone tonight. It’s too quiet. I’ll hear the Silence and It’ll eat me alive."

  "The Silence?" Gourdy asked softly.

  Miz’ri winced. She thought of Esther’s advice. Stop naming it. Stop feeding it. "The... the noise. I just need you to stay. Talk. Py cards. Tell me about the kitchen knives again. Anything."

  Gourdy and Artie exchanged a look. There was no judgment in it, only the quiet, iron-cd loyalty of the runts of the litter. "I'm terrible at cards," Gourdy warned, already reaching for a deck sitting on the side table. "I always forget which suit is which."

  "That’s because you’re a brute, Kohl," Artie teased, though his hands were still shaking slightly as he dealt. “But you’re my brute, and that’s what counts.”

  The hours that followed were a blur of agony and distraction. Miz’ri sat on the loveseat, her body a battlefield. This was the white-knuckling. Her right leg bounced with a frantic, rhythmic energy she couldn't control. Sweat slicked her palms, and a dull, pulsing ache settled behind her eyes, the physical manifestation of a mind screaming for its usual numbing agent. She gripped the velvet armrest of the sofa so hard she could hear the wood beneath the fabric begin to groan. Every time the urge surged, every time her brain suggested that she could just slip out for ten minutes and find a body to break, she reached up and clutched the braided red colr.

  Grounded, she told herself. One minute. Just get through one more minute. One Minute becomes an hour. Hours add up to this night being over. She watched the boys. She watched the way Gourdy’s brow furrowed in concentration over his hand. She listened to Artie’s endless, rambling stories about the petty dramas of the Niranath kitchens. They were her anchors, holding her steady in the storm of her own making.

  Twice, she nearly bolted. Twice, the Silence, no, the noise, became so loud she thought her ears would bleed. Both times, Gourdy simply reached out and rested a heavy, warm hand on her shoulder. He didn't say anything. He just reminded her that he was there. Slowly, the charcoal sky outside the windows began to bleed into a pale, sickly grey. The soot-stained light of a Rurokitarin dawn filtered through the grime.

  Miz’ri sat slumped on the loveseat, her white hair a mess, her eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. She was exhausted down to her very marrow. Her muscles ached as if she had run a hundred miles, and the craving was still there, a low, persistent thrumming in the back of her skull. But she was sitting in the same spot.

  The bag of doughnuts was rolled up to save three little sugary rings for Talisa. The cards were scattered across the table. Artie was asleep in his chair, his head lolling to the side. Gourdy was awake, watching the window with the patient endurance of a mountain. Miz’ri looked down at her hands. They were still, for the first time in hours. She reached up, her fingers tracing the intricate braid of the crimson silk around her neck. She had survived the night. She hadn't run. She hadn't fed it, and that alone was a victory. She felt empty, hollow, shaking, and utterly spent. But as the first bell of the morning tolled in the distance, signaling the start of the city’s day, Miz’ri Niranath felt a tiny, flickering spark of something she hadn't felt in centuries.

  She felt hope.