And The Shadows May Follow

Silver eyes appeared haunted, pain and stress she couldn’t hide showing in their depths. Her whispered words struck him hard—her hoarse, trembling voice showcasing torment he couldn't banish with words or strength alone. He listened in silence, allowing her to speak and let her burden be known, knowing that she so desperately needed to release her troubles.

When she spoke of her fear, her dreams, and the grotesqueness of their content, his expression remained steady. But within, anger stirred—not at her, never at her, but at the cruel malefactor that dared to touch her in this way. He wanted to destroy the very idea of Moros, to tear the specter from her mind and grant her the peace she so clearly craved.

As her voice faltered and her eyes closed, Caedes stepped closer. He lowered his skull until their foreheads touched, breathing in deeply as he searched for the words he needed to tell her. His tone was firm, yet gentle enough to comfort her—he hoped. “You are not mad, Mariah,” he said, his voice a low rumble, aimed to steady her mind and convey his support. “What you feel, what you have seen, is real if it is real to you. That is what matters. Neither you, nor I, or anyone else can diminish that fact.”

His gaze softened, his posture shifting slightly to make himself less imposing, he lowered his body slightly, not quite a kneel but close enough. He wanted her to feel safe, not scrutinized. “We may not have the answers,” he admitted after a pause, tone laced with sincerity. “But I have been working on something—a way to help with the dreams. It is… not a cure, and it may not even be the solution we need. But if you are comfortable with it, I would like to try a… trial run of sorts.”

He let the words linger, offering her the choice without pressure. It was a delicate line she walked, between clinging to her own strength and needing someone to lean on. His solution might not work; it might even fail spectacularly. But he hated seeing her like this, caught in the vice grip of something he could not fight for her. She may not appreciate being turned into an experiment either, but healing is what the brute knew; and if he could use it to his advantage he certainly would.

One thing bothered him irrevocably, however. Crystals? His jaw tightened imperceptibly. His mind turned over the implications, the imagery she described. To her, it was madness. To him, it was a piece of a puzzle he didn’t understand, but couldn’t ignore. Didn’t her father have crystal claws? Was that connected? Should he ask her to explain further? Was this all just another method of torture by Moros? And again, at the back of his mind—was Moros real, or imagined?

Caedes didn’t dwell on that. His father had taught him quite a bit about the mind, to argue fact or fiction was of no benefit to anyone. So, he would solve one problem at a time. Starting with her sleep.