Flynn immediately starts rummaging through the supplies, pulling out a small, dented tin of what looks like jerky. He tosses one to me. "Eat. You look like a ghost."
I fumble the catch, the dried meat landing in the dust on the floor. I pick it up, brush it off, and stare at it. My stomach clenches. I'm hungry, I know I am, but the idea of eating feels...wrong. Like trying to digest a stone.
"Eat," Flynn repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. He bites into his own strip with a loud, aggressive crunch. "No way they'll cook anything tonight."
"I'm not hungry."
"Liar." He walks over and stands in front of me, blocking my view of the rest of the room. He's not angry, but he's not backing down either. "You used a lot of... whatever that was. A lot of energy. You need to refuel. Don't care what you are or how you did it. I lost too much already to lose my best friend to starvation because he's being stubborn."
Best friend. The words hit me like a physical blow. We aren't. We can't be. I'm Tainted Blood. He's... Flynn. Golden boy. The living embodiment of everything the Order stands for. He's friends with everyone. I'm friends with no one. The words are a kindness I don't deserve, a label that feels heavier than the grief of the fallen Order.
But he's still standing there, holding another strip of jerky, his blue eyes refusing to let me look away.
With a sigh that feels like it drains the last of my strength, I take it from him and force myself to take a bite. It's tough, leathery, and tastes of salt and smoke. But as I chew, the knot in my stomach loosens, just a fraction. A tiny spark of life in the cold, dead embers of my body.
We eat in silence, the only sounds our chewing and the distant drip of water somewhere in the crypt. The food is a small, finite comfort. When it's gone, the hunger is sated, but the dread remains.
Flynn wipes his greasy hands on his trousers and lies back on his bunk, lacing his hands behind his head. He stares up at the stone ceiling. "You know," he says, his voice quiet, "I always pictured my future differently. More... celebration. Less... crypt."
"Me too," I admit, my own gaze fixed on the ceiling above my cot. "Though I mostly pictured a future that involved running away from the Order to normal life. Not a crypt."
The words slip out before I can stop them, a rare admission of vulnerability.
Flynn turns his head to look at me, a small, sad smile on his face. "Yeah, well. Can't say I'm happy about everything else...but guess I'm glad you didn't get to sneak away."
I'm about to open my mouth and say...something.
Something about how it's because I turned out to be useful.
Before I can even try, he throws a pebble at my head. He's a bad shot. He's aiming for my forehead, but it bounces off the wall and hits my opposite shoulder.
"Ow." I say, rubbing the spot. "The hell?"
"Don't get all mopey on me." He says, his smile gone, now replaced with a frown. "Don't you think we've got enough suffering without adding in self pity? You're not dead. I'm not dead. Amelia's not dead. That's more than most can say. Be happy with it."
"...Don't throw rocks at me again," is my response. I'm too tired to fight him on any of the rest of it. And honestly...
I know he's right.
Even if I don't want to say it. Even if I don't want to believe it. I have to.
"Deal." He says, and lies back down. The quiet settles over us again, but it's different this time. Less heavy. Less suffocating.
I close my eyes. I can feel myself drifting. Not into sleep, but into that hazy, in-between place where thoughts become disjointed and the world dissolves into a meaningless hum. The image of the humanoid Gloom Dweller flashes in my mind—his silver eyes, the intelligent, predatory curiosity. The glyph in Thomson's hand. The faces of my classmates, twisted in fear. The feeling of the Gloom answering my call.
A shudder runs through me, and my eyes snap open. Sleep is not a refuge. It's a gateway to the very things I'm trying to escape.
I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the cot. The stone floor is cold beneath my bare feet. I need to move. I need to think. I need to do something other than lie here and wait for the horrors to find me.
Flynn is already asleep, his breathing even and deep. A blessing, for once. I don't have to explain myself. I slip on my boots and quietly leave the room.
The corridor is dark, lit only by the faint blue glow of the ward-lights that pulse gently along the baseboards. It feels… alive. A slow, rhythmic heartbeat. A defensive magic so old it has become part of the structure itself. I walk toward the main chamber, my footsteps muffled by the thick dust on the floor.
The Crypt of Heroes is even more somber in the quiet of the night. The Exorcist Candle on the central table has been extinguished, leaving only the ghostly blue light of the wards. The stone faces on the sarcophagi seem to watch me, their expressions stern and judgmental. A hall of heroes, and I, the monster, am trespassing in their sanctuary.
Thomson is there.
He sits on the stone bench at the central table, a single, flickering Exorcist Candle casting long, dancing shadows. He's not looking at the glyph anymore. He's staring at one of the scrolls, a deep frown etched on his face. He looks up as I approach, his expression unreadable in the candlelight.
"Can't sleep?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.
"No."
"None of us can." He gestures to the bench opposite him. "Sit."