Against Devil

12 - Whispers of Steel

I sat on the edge of my bed, finally still. The packhouse had quieted for the night, and for once, there were no obligations clawing at my shoulders, no barked orders or sidelong glances demanding my energy. My duties were done. A rare day off—granted, reluctantly—was mine, and I didn't know what to do with it. The truth was, I didn't know how to sit still. My life had been built on motion, responsibility, and the constant pressure of being useful. To stop was to risk unraveling. But even people like me—always moving, always pushing—needed a moment to breathe, to reclaim something of themselves before the burnout swallowed them whole.

So I'd stolen a few hours and wandered into the library, seeking nothing in particular and finding a book tucked in the back of a crooked shelf. I didn't even read the title before walking out with it. The cover was frayed, the pages yellowed and soft at the edges. It smelled like old woodsmoke and something herbal—familiar in a way I couldn't quite place. I sat now with the book open in my lap, flipping pages without absorbing a single word. My thoughts were elsewhere, always circling back to the same place.

To the scar on my finger.

I reached for it absentmindedly, running my thumb across the rough, puckered skin just beneath the first knuckle. It was pale now, nearly healed, but I could still feel the phantom burn when I pressed too hard. That cursed necklace—Lizzy's necklace—had done more than just scorch my skin. It had ignited something deep, something that still pulsed like a brand under my bones.

Every time I touched it, I remembered.

The pain. The fire. The way my body had convulsed as if I were being torn apart from the inside. The moment when the world had tilted and my own flesh felt like it no longer belonged to me.

I didn't want to remember. But it came anyway.

It had started on a day like any other. I was heading toward the courtyard, boots echoing against the stone corridor, my mind drifting through the usual static of pack duties, training schedules, and border reports. The tension in the packhouse had been thick that week, stretched tight like a wire about to snap. Eyes lingered too long, conversations cut short when I entered a room. Whispers behind closed doors. The kind of silence that was louder than any scream.

And then Lizzy collided with me like a thrown boulder.

Books flew into the air—heavy, ancient tomes scattering across the floor. One cracked open midair, its pages fluttering like broken wings before it slammed down.

"Where the hell are you running like that, Liz?" I snapped, stumbling back as I caught myself against the wall.

Lizzy dropped to her knees, scrambling to collect the books, cheeks flushed. "Sorry! I wasn't paying attention," she mumbled, brushing her wild hair out of her face.

I crouched beside her, helping gather the scattered volumes. Dust clung to my fingers and tickled my nose. One of the books was so old its spine split in my hand.

"What's got you so worked up?" I asked. "You look like you're being chased by the devil himself."

Her eyes sparkled with a kind of thrill that made my stomach twist. "Research. I found something weird. Maybe important."

Lizzy was many things—chaotic, brilliant, always knee-deep in something—but when she got that gleam in her eyes, trouble wasn't far behind.

"You need a hand?" I asked, even though I already knew I'd follow her. I needed the escape, the excuse to be anywhere but under the weight of the unspoken.