Silent howl

– Ritual of Stillness

“Tea again?” Cyr asked, glancing at the cup she set beside his elbow.

Eileen didn’t answer. Just adjusted the tray’s edge so it aligned perfectly with the carved table seam.

“You’ve been here ten days,” he said, swirling the brew but not sipping. “Still haven’t screamed. Or wept. Or begged.”

She unfolded a cloth and knelt beside his legs, rolling back the blankets with practiced care.

“I had a captain once,” Cyr said, watching her. “Claimed silence was a form of power. I thought he was full of shit.”

She dipped a sponge into glacier-cooled water, wrung it out silently, then began dabbing along his left knee.

“But you,” he continued, voice a low rasp, “you make it feel like a weapon.”

Eileen paused just long enough to acknowledge the remark, then resumed massaging the joint with long, steady strokes.

“No winces,” he noted. “Even when I knocked over that candle yesterday. You let the wax hit your sleeve. Didn’t twitch.”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “Tell me—what would it take to make you *react*?”

She squeezed out the sponge and set it aside, then retrieved the brace to re-secure his leg.

Cyr’s hand shot out. He caught her wrist again—tighter this time.

“I could force it, you know,” he said. “Whatever your secret is. I’m not just some broken prince in a chair.”

Their eyes locked.

She didn’t pull away.

He released her.

“You’re maddening,” he muttered. “Like an itch I can’t reach.”

—

Later, in the council chamber, Captain Varek leaned toward Cyr.

“The girl,” he said, “has no family records. No prior service. She’s... an orphan from the edge sector.”

Cyr toyed with the seal on his ring. “She’s not stupid.”

“No,” Varek agreed. “But clever doesn’t mean loyal.”

Cyr’s eyes flicked toward the frost-covered window. “She brewed a tea. I drank it. Didn’t die.”

“That’s hardly a test.”

“No,” Cyr murmured. “But it’s the only thing that’s dulled the pain in months.”

Varek stiffened. “You *felt* relief?”

Cyr didn’t answer. Instead, he whispered, “She has precision. Control. Something about her hands… they remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

—

That night, Cyr didn’t sleep.

He stared at the ceiling, muscles twitching from phantom signals. His arms still obeyed. His legs? Not yet. But his fingers… yes. He could close a fist again.

He gritted his teeth, then reached for the tea.

A new flavor tonight. Subtle. Metallic.

He took a long sip.

Then, he whispered, “You’re healing me. Aren’t you, little ghost?”

—

Eileen woke before dawn, slipping down to the south hall. Guards were thin here—most feared the abandoned greenhouse and its shattered glass walls.

Inside, vines twisted through snow-covered rubble. Moonlight cast silver shadows across frost-dusted petals.

She knelt by the old medicine beds, brushing away snow until she found what she needed: ferro-moss, duskroot, and three fronds of moonleaf.

Her fingers moved quickly, reverently.

A memory surged—children in white gowns. A boy curled in the corner, sobbing. She’d hidden these same herbs in her apron back then. A healer. A traitor. A girl who’d spoken truth—and lost everything.

A branch cracked.

Eileen froze, hand sliding toward her belt where she kept a tiny blade.

But it was only a fox, pale and half-starved, darting away through the broken glass.

Still, she didn’t breathe again until she returned to her attic and sealed the plants in wax paper.

Later, while the fortress still slept, she placed three drops of the distilled tonic into Cyr’s nightly tea.

Then waited.

—

Cyr stirred late that morning.

The pain in his back was duller. His fingers… tingled.

He looked toward the untouched tea on his tray, eyes narrowing.

“You,” he muttered, “are either a miracle or a liar.”

When Eileen entered, he said nothing at first.

She moved to his side, checking his legs.

He caught her wrist again. Not to hurt—just to *stop* her.

“You’ve done something,” he said. “I know it.”

Her expression remained calm.

“You won’t speak?” he asked. “Not even now?”

She gently pulled her wrist free and resumed the massage.

Cyr exhaled, frustrated. “You’re like snow. Soft. Silent. And deadly, if you stay too long.”

—

That evening, he surprised her.

“Come,” he said, gesturing to the parapet doors.

She blinked, then obeyed.

They stepped into the cold. Wind lashed at their faces. Above them, the aurora shimmered—ribbons of green and violet painting the sky.

Cyr watched her carefully.

“Beautiful,” he said. “But no one ever looks at it twice.”

She turned her gaze upward.

“I do,” he added quietly. “Every night. Just in case someone’s watching me back.”

They stood in silence.

Then, almost too soft to hear, he whispered, “I was never supposed to be king. My brother was. He died screaming. In flames.”

He looked at her.

“Do you dream of fire, too?”

Her hand twitched. Barely.

Cyr noticed.

“You do,” he said.

He turned away. “Good. Maybe one day you’ll scream for me. Or at least, *speak*.”

She stepped closer, gently adjusting the scarf around his neck where it had loosened.

He didn’t flinch.

In fact, he let her.

—

That night, as Eileen prepared another dose of tonic, she mouthed a single word into the shadows:

“Cyr.”

Not aloud.

Not yet.

But her lips remembered the sound.

And one day, when he was ready—

She would say it again.

For real.