EUPHORIA

learning more

At first, communication between them was difficult.

Damian spoke, Raven listened. He would gesture, simplify his words, and wait for her to repeat. Sometimes she would, sometimes she wouldn’t. The frustration was evident in her tense posture, the way her brows pulled together when she couldn’t find the right words. But Damian was patient.

He never pushed her, never made her feel small for struggling. When she got something wrong, he simply tried again, his voice steady and calm. And when she got something right, he would nod in approval, offering quiet words of praise.

The first full sentence she spoke was, “I want to go outside.”

The second was, “This food is warm.”

By the end of the first week, she could ask for simple things. Water. A blanket. A book.

By the second, she was forming short sentences, still hesitant, but improving every day. “The fire is good.” “It is cold outside.” “You are quiet.”

By the third, she was speaking with confidence, though complex words still gave her trouble. She had started to ask questions—curious, hesitant questions. About the world outside. About Damian. About the things she saw but didn’t understand.

Every night, they sat together, Damian correcting her words, helping her shape her sentences. And every night, something between them softened, something unspoken growing in the quiet spaces between lessons.

But there was one question she had yet to ask.

Until tonight.

A Real Conversation

The fire crackled softly in the stone fireplace, casting flickering golden light across the wooden walls.

Damian sat on the couch, one leg bent, a book resting in his lap. He wasn’t reading. His attention was on Raven, who sat on the floor beside the couch, staring into the flames.

She had been quiet today. More than usual.

Normally, she asked questions. Small, careful ones. But tonight, she was lost in thought, her fingers curled loosely in her lap, her expression unreadable.

“You’re thinking,” Damian said, closing his book.

Raven blinked, as if pulled from her own head. Slowly, she turned to look at him.

"I..." Her voice was hesitant. She was still piecing together her words, but they came easier now. "I have questions."

Damian gave a single nod. “Ask.”

Raven searched his face, then turned her gaze back to the fire. Silence stretched between them before she finally spoke.

"Why... do you help me?" Her words were careful, deliberate. "You do not... need to."

Damian didn’t answer immediately. He watched her, his expression unreadable, as if weighing his response.

"You didn’t deserve to be there," he said at last.

Raven frowned slightly. “But I... kill.” Her fingers curled against her pants. “They say I am... monster.”

Damian’s face didn’t change. “You defended yourself.”

Raven let out a short breath, something caught between frustration and disbelief. “You do not know.”

Damian tilted his head slightly. “I know enough.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. No doubt.

Raven stared at him, searching for something—hesitation, suspicion, anything. But all she saw was certainty.

She wasn’t sure what to do with that.

For so long, she had been treated like something dangerous, something to be feared. Even when she had done nothing but exist. Even when she had tried to be good.

But Damian didn’t look at her that way.

The fire crackled softly in the silence between them.

Slowly, Raven exhaled, her fingers relaxing.

"...Thank you," she said quietly.

Damian didn’t look away. “You’re welcome.”

It wasn’t a grand moment. It wasn’t dramatic. But something between them shifted, something unspoken.

For the first time since she had been taken from her home, Raven allowed herself to believe that she was safe.

That maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t alone anymore.

And for now, that was enough.