The threads of Madness

The wooden door of the dilapidated hut groaned, its creak cutting through the suffocating silence. A woman stepped in, her piercing blue eyes scanning the room until they landed on the frail figure lying on the rough straw mat. Her gaze brimmed with a strange mixture of pity and resentment, emotions she tried to conceal but failed.

Sunlight filtered through a jagged hole in the hut's sagging roof, the golden rays piercing the gloom and falling onto Veythor's face. His eyelids twitched, his body stiff as stone. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, revealing crimson orbs that burned like smoldering embers. He didn't move, his mind caught in a labyrinth of questions.

"Where am I?" he thought, his mind racing as he assessed his surroundings. The suffocating dust, the faint smell of decay—this place was too mundane to be the afterlife. His gaze flickered toward the woman, her silhouette outlined against the light.

"And who is she?"

Veythor's analytical mind kicked into overdrive, dissecting every detail, every nuance. Yet the puzzle refused to fit.

The woman broke the silence. Her voice, soft yet firm, was laced with an unspoken tension.

"Thank the gods you're alive. I was sure you wouldn't make it."

Her words hung in the air like a faint echo. Veythor's crimson eyes locked onto hers, unblinking, probing. A flicker of recognition stirred within him, but he buried it beneath a carefully crafted mask of indifference.

"Those eyes... Why do they feel so familiar? I've seen them before, up close. But where?"

The woman's face was partially obscured by a scarf, leaving her identity shrouded in mystery. She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening as she noticed his silence.

"Are you... alright? You're not feeling unwell, are you?"

Her voice dragged him back to the present, but he didn't answer. He was consumed by the gnawing sense of familiarity, the feeling that she was someone from his past. Then she reached out, her hand brushing his shoulder.

In that instant, a fragmented image surged into his mind—a fleeting vision of a woman, her features distorted by the haze of memory. His eyes widened ever so slightly as realization struck.

"Miral's daughter... Erika. The one who slipped through my fingers. So that's why she saved me."

Veythor suppressed a sardonic smile, his expression remaining blank. He knew now. She was here for vengeance, yet she didn't recognize the predator she had taken in.

Feigning confusion, he spoke, his voice trembling just enough to seem authentic.

"I... I'm sorry, but who are you?"

The woman hesitated, her fingers brushing her scarf before she spoke.

"Me? I'm Elena."

Her lie was seamless, her tone steady. But to Veythor, it was transparent.

"Still hiding, still desperate for revenge," he mused, a dark amusement curling in his chest.

He adopted the guise of a man adrift, lost in his own mind. His expression crumbled into feigned panic.

"I... I don't know who I am. Why am I here? What's my name?"

He clutched his head, his voice tinged with desperation. It was a masterful performance, a predator donning the mask of prey.

Her reaction was immediate. She stepped back, disbelief etched across her face.

"W...what? Are you serious?"

Veythor didn't answer, only nodding weakly. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she studied him, suspicion flickering in her eyes before she shrugged it off.

"Maybe it's for the best," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

Her dismissive tone only confirmed Veythor's suspicions. She wasn't here out of compassion. This was a calculated game, and she thought she held the upper hand.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice carefully laced with curiosity and vulnerability.

But she turned away, her movements sharp and deliberate.

"You must be hungry," she said, avoiding his question entirely. "I'll make you something to eat."

Without waiting for a response, she stepped out, the door closing behind her with a soft thud.

As the echoes of her footsteps faded, Veythor's mask slipped, revealing a cold, predatory grin.

"So, Erika... You think you're in control. How amusing. Let's see how long you can keep up this charade."

The end.

To be continued.

together the threads of their shared past, Questions lingered in the air like shadows for us

Who was Miral? Why had his daughter sought vengeance against Veythor? And why had she once been his target?

In the silent hut, Veythor plotted his next move, a hunter waiting to strike.