SHADOWS OF SORROW [S.S]

32 - In the Shadow of Screams

Hello my Darlings :) We are slowly approaching the end of Amaya and Sebastian's Journey. Their Shadows are catching up to them after all. You can expect another five chapters before this book ends. As some of you might have already noticed though: Shadows of Sorrow is now part of a series called 'The Whispered Tales' on ao3. Meaning there WILL be a second book. The storyboard is all set, following our beloved characters (plus, minus a few) into a future after Ranroks Battle, facing the hardships of what they had to sacrifice in order to survive. There is a literal spoiler for the title of the second book in this very chapter. It accommodates to Shadows of Sorrow as for its wording. So keep an eye on that.

I do apologize for the inconsistency of my updates lately but I celebrated my birthday in Paris whilst staying there for a whole week and university + work can be rather frustrating sometimes. Robbing me of any inspiration or creativity.

Without further ado: read at your own risk.

Love, Lea

[not proofread]
[very slight emetophobia warning]
[mentions of sexual assault]
[Graphic descriptions of violence]

It was dreadful. The darkness that surrounded her like a veil, sucking the energy out of her body with every trembling breath she took. The cold stone floor under her fingertips, biting into her flesh when she inched forward, carefully, on her knees, trying to map out the dimensions of the room she's been locked in. Nothing but darkness. Nothing but Coldness. Too cold. Cold,cold cold,cold...
Amaya turned her head in hopes of catching a glimpse of light, some illumination for her eyes, for her mind... For this situation. They actually managed to capture her. suppressing her magic with iron shackles. The glimpse of power buried deep within the core of her soul, waiting to unleash onto someone, somewhere, somehow...

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten...

She counted the numbers aloud to make sure she was awake. Make sure this was real. Making sure she wasn't dead or didn't go mute. Eleven, twelve, thirteen...
There was a dribble somewhere. Maybe it was still raining outside.
A screeching sound echoed somewhere behind the walls, like an old iron door being forced open. Her nerves and senses were on alert, eyes flickering through the darkness, unsure were one of the walls started and the other ended. Where was the door? Where were the corners? She couldn't remember. Was she even facing the door? Or a wall?
Indistinct mumbles somewhere on her left.
Where was she?

Another screech. The jingling of a key. Shackles. The biting cold seeping into her skin with every second she sat on the stone floor. It was mind numbing and unsettling at the same time. Amaya didn't know if she wanted to scream, cry, be quiet or die. Her emotions were a rollercoaster of options and the person who was in control of everything she did suddenly peaked into her cell, the hat hiding his eyes, his figure a shadow in contrast to the burning light that seeped into the dark room. Amaya had to shut her eyes harshly to keep them from hurting at the sudden illumination. The illumination she was hoping for. It almost felt warm. The way real sunlight would feel.

"How is our special guest doing?" His voice made her nauseous. The drawl, the sickening smirk on his face she could make out just by a few words. Everything about Rookwood was inching her towards a cliff of pure hatred. A murderous lust. The need to see his blood on her hands, feel the warmth of it on her skin. Fresh. The metallic scent in her nose. She had enough time to imagine it. It almost felt real. But it wasn't. He was standing in the doorway, smirking down at her like Amaya was some sort of prey. She might be. Part of his scheming, a piece in his game. Something to take advantage of. Someone to use.
"Not very conversational I See. Hm..." Rookwood stepped forward, a set of manacles dangling from his fingers as he tilted his head at the witch on the floor, her eyes teary and red as she looked up at him. Pure rage in her eyes. A promise. A death-sentence.
I will kill you, Victor Rookwood. I will rip you apart to the point not even your own family will be able to identify the remaining parts of you. Rip you to shreds.