11 - Ivar’s Grief


Sitting in my new bedroom—or should I say, prison—I can’t help but feel a mix of comfort and anxiety. The room is nice, sure, and the same women who helped clean me up have brought me new clothing.

It’s almost like they’re trying to make me forget I’m a captive. Almost. But no amount of soft linen or warm baths can quell the storm of unease raging inside me.

Since that moment on the cliff, watching Soren transform and fly away, I’ve been left in a swirling pool of my own thoughts, with too much time to wonder what my family is doing, what my captors are planning.

But comfort isn’t what I need right now. Information is, and of that, I have none. My anxiety’s been skyrocketing, every passing day a test to my sanity.

The door opens, and Ivar steps in, his presence immediately filling the room. His sharp wit and flirty demeanour have been a constant since my arrival, a thorn in my side that I begrudgingly admit keeps the despair at bay. Ugh, why did he have to look so damn hand
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