Chapter 7

She drew in a deep breath, as if to push the fog from her mind.

“Enough,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Straightening her back, she tried to recover a dignity that slipped from her grasp. Her swollen eyes lingered for a moment on the wrinkled linen covering her brother, before she quickly looked away, as though that single glance burned her.

Her voice rose again, weak but steady. “I thought I would die ... in their hands.”

Nakht shifted slightly, his features still gaunt from fever. His reddened eyes searched for hers.

Merit continued, her breath uneven. “When they dragged me from the gardens ... their arms were rough, the ropes dug into my throat. They laughed. I could already see my blood spilled on the stones, like mother’s, like father’s.”

Her fingers clenched against her knees until her nails turned white. She didn’t dare look at him. “Every hour, every moment ... I...”

A brief silence. Then Nakht’s broken voice rose.

“Did they...”

He faltered, grasping for words like a child caught in a lie. “I mean ... did they touch you?”

Merit’s breath caught. She understood at once what he feared. Slowly, she shook her head. Her dark eyes met his, heavy with gravity. “No. Not like that.”

Nakht lowered his head. His lips trembled, and he murmured so softly she had to strain to hear. “Not like I did...”

The words hung between them, heavy as stone. Merit turned away at once, her stomach knotted.

She spoke again, low, unwilling to let the silence linger. “They took me outside the walls ... into the dust of the outskirts. Through the whole night, I believed I would join our parents in the land of the dead. I could already hear their funeral songs.”

Nakht listened without a word. His fists tightened on the sheet, his face stiffened, but he didn’t interrupt.

Merit pressed on, as though walking barefoot over thorns: every word wounded her, yet she had to continue. She said nothing of the thought that had kept her standing in the darkness—the hope that her brother would come. She buried it inside her, smothered in shame.

She spoke of hunger, of nights waiting for footsteps that never came, of the hoarse laughter of the men who kept her prisoner. Nakht stayed still, head bent, fingers rigid on the linen. Sometimes his breath faltered; sometimes a stifled sob shook his chest.

“They beat me more than once...” she said, barely above a whisper.

Nakht clenched his fists so tightly the knuckles gleamed white. His voice came out hoarse, rough against the linen. “I...” The words collapsed into shame and pain. Then lower: “If I had known ... I would have faced them. I would have given my life for you.”

Merit looked at him, and another tremor ran through her. He wasn’t speaking with the arrogance of a king; his words carried the innocence of a boy too young, a brother who truly believed he could trade his breath for her salvation. “I risked my life for you, Merit. And I would have welcomed death as an offering, if it had saved you.”

His words slid into her like a warm current. His voice carried the surrender of a child and the fervor of a believer. Something stirred in her—a weakness, a memory—and without thinking, she reached out. Her trembling palm found his hand. Her fingers searched for his like an anchor in a storm.

He took her hand with the tenderness of someone holding a sacred relic. The touch burned, and yet it soothed. Tears welled up, thick, and this time they broke free. She sobbed, first softly, then harder, as if her whole body had to purge the fear it had stored.

“Nakht ... I was so afraid...” she whispered, head bowed, her voice trembling like a child’s.

At first he didn’t dare move. The embrace was pure memory: the hand of his sister, squeezed tight as in their childhood storms. But his hands shook. He knew better than anyone the flaw carved in his soul. Yet the need to protect her drowned everything else. He drew her against him, with a painful kind of caution. His arms closed around her—hesitant at first, then firmer—and his palm slid gently into her hair, caressing the nape of her neck. The gesture was simple. It held all the tenderness of their childhood, mixed with the regret of what he had failed to do.

Merit gave in to the embrace. For a moment, the walls, the prayers, the watching eyes of the court vanished. There was only the rhythm of their breathing, the rustle of linen, the salty taste of tears. It was precious and cruel at once: they had found each other again, fragile, after everything.

Then, without warning, Merit froze. Her body stiffened like a drawn bow. Her fingers dug into Nakht’s garment. The softness of her face vanished; a shadow crossed her eyes.

Nakht felt the rupture before he saw it. He pulled back so abruptly he struck the wooden frame of the bed. A faint sound of pain escaped him, as if swallowing his own weakness had torn him apart. He recoiled, shoulders rigid, fumbling to rearrange the sheet around him.