A QUEST OF DEATH : Dawning Darkness

20 | A Soup For A Sorry - Part 3(new)

Devereaux stood outside Ada's chamber, his grip steady on the tray as he paused for a moment, listening. The faint crackling of the hearth was the only sound that greeted him. The low murmur of conversation he had heard earlier was gone.

Slowly, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Kaya had left. The only sign of his presence was the faint scent of brine and seaweed lingering in the air, as if the ocean itself had paid a brief visit to this dark place. The selkie's absence was palpable, the room feeling emptier without the warmth of his quiet words and gentle presence.

Ada lay motionless on the bed, sprawled across the crimson sheets, her eyes fixed on the empty ceiling above. Her face was pale, the tracks of dried tears still visible against her skin. She didn't move as Devereaux approached; didn't even seem to register his presence. Just... stared, lost in thoughts he couldn't begin to fathom.

Something tightened in his chest at the sight.

He approached silently, the only sound the faint clink of silver as he set the tray down on the small table beside her bed. The aroma of the hangover soup wafted up, rich and comforting, but she didn't stir. Didn't so much as glance at it.

"Ada?" His voice was soft, careful.

Nothing.

He tried again, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, leaning in slightly. "Ada, I brought you something."

Her gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, as if she hadn't heard him at all.

A flash of frustration—mixed with worry—flared in his chest. This was not the Ada he knew. This lifeless, hollow shell... It made his very bones ache to see her like this.

"Ada," he said more firmly, his voice gentler now, almost coaxing. "It's hangover soup."

For a long moment, she didn't react. Then, ever so slowly, her eyes shifted—just barely—towards him. A flicker of recognition passed through them, but it was fleeting, as if she were looking at a stranger. His heart twisted painfully at the sight.

"You... made soup?" she murmured, her voice so soft it was almost lost to the crackling of the fire.

Devereaux nodded, his gaze never leaving her face. "Yes," he said quietly, his tone tinged with a touch of nostalgia. "My mom used to make me hangover soup when I was still a human. It was a fast and very effective remedy for me. And I thought... it might help you as well."

There was a long silence, broken only by the low hum of the flames. Slowly, Ada turned her head, her gaze drifting to the bowl of dark broth. She didn't reach for it, didn't move, just looked at it as if she were staring at something far away.

"I don't... deserve this," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don't deserve any of this."

A pang of something sharp and unnameable shot through him. He leaned forward, his expression softening. "That's not true."

She laughed then—a broken, bitter sound. "It is. I'm... pathetic. Look at me."

"I am looking at you," he murmured, his voice firm but gentle. "And all I see is someone who's hurting. Someone who needs to be taken care of, even if she thinks she doesn't deserve it."

Slowly, tentatively, he reached out, his fingers brushing against hers. She flinched, just barely, but didn't pull away. He took that as a good sign, a small victory in a battle he hadn't realised he was fighting.

"Just one sip," he urged softly, his voice a low, calming murmur. "For me."

For a moment, he thought she might refuse. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded—just a tiny dip of her head. Gently, Devereaux lifted the bowl, holding it up to her lips. She hesitated, her gaze flickering to his face, searching for something in his eyes.