Chapter 7- When the Lights are still Out-

Ydoc opened his eyes.

Or maybe they’d already been open.
It was hard to tell. The light in the room hadn’t changed. It was that same dim, gray hue—the kind of light that exists in windowless places. Heavy. Still. Unforgiving.

His head pulsed with a low ache, his vision swimming for a moment before settling into focus.

His body... ached.

Not in the way a body aches after sleep, but in the way it aches after waiting. His legs were numb. His shoulders stiff. And his butt hurt—as if he’d sat too long in one position.

He glanced down. Still on the rug.

Not laying down. Not curled up.

Just sitting. Upright. Arms limp at his sides.

“Huh,” he muttered, voice dry and fuzzy. “Maybe I didn’t sleep after all.”

The silence offered no correction.

He pushed his weight to the side, letting his hip collapse onto the floor, and looked around his room—if it could be called that.

It was a box. A gray, wooden box. A cube pretending to be a space of comfort.

There was no bed. No pillow. Just the rug beneath him—thin and curling at the edges, frayed like a forgotten doormat.

There were no windows.

No paintings. No candles. No shelves.
No mirror to check his face. No place to hide anything precious.

The only objects were the small wooden table in the corner, and the chest beside it—his "wardrobe," full of old clothes Edwards had picked out.

Clothes that didn’t quite fit.
Clothes that didn’t smell like him.

The absence of things made the room feel huge in the worst way. A cavern of air where nothing lived.

And the floor—

The floor was scratched.

Deep gouges, long and ragged, etched into the wood like scars.

Claw marks. Not his. Not even vaguely his.

They looked like they’d come from something large—something with talons. Maybe a bird. Maybe not. But not human.

The scrapes led across the room, from one wall to the other, as though whatever made them had paced for hours. Or struggled.

And then—

Blood.

Stains.

Old. Brownish-red, faded into the grain.
Spots and smears in odd corners, half-washed but never erased.

He swallowed.

They weren’t his.
They couldn’t be his.

He hoped.

Ydoc wrapped his arms around his knees, staring at the blank wall ahead. His breath slowed, counting nothing.

The Festival of the Stars was today.
And the only stars in his room were the ones he saw when he closed his eyes too hard.
------

The room didn’t move.
Not at first.

Just the hum of nothing, and the faint creak of old wood breathing around him.

Ydoc stayed on the floor for a while.
He wasn’t sure how long.

His thoughts came in pieces. Blunted. Numb.

There’s something today.
Right.
The festival.

That was… today, wasn’t it?

He closed his eyes briefly, pressing a hand to his forehead. It didn’t help.

Edwards had been mad at him.
That much stuck. That bitter, sharp moment carved into his chest like a scratch that wouldn’t fade. The slammed hands. The voice shouting from the hallway.

He rubbed his temples gently, sighing.

“Festival of the Stars,” he mumbled to himself. “Something... about that. Lights. People. Masks.”

He hoped there would be candy.

That thought stuck out, bright and soft, like a ribbon floating in muddy water. Candy. He used to like it. Maybe still did. Something sugary. Anything to dull the ache in his gut.

His stomach twisted suddenly—sharp, hollow, needy.

It had moved past hunger.

This was something else now. A gnawing pain. Quiet. Constant. The kind of ache that made you forget what full ever felt like.

He looked down at his hands.
Gray.

His skin had always been that way, hadn’t it?

His arms were thin. Too thin. His sleeves, black and draping, made sharp shadows across the wooden floor—like a chalk outline of a puppet slumped in place.

He blinked slowly.
His head felt… numb.

His thoughts drifted again.

There would be a girl at the festival.

Lucy?
Luci?
Luce?

The name felt like a piece of thread between his fingers—familiar, but unraveling.

Edwards said she liked him. That she’d accepted something. A date? A ticket?

He didn’t remember asking her anything.

He rubbed his eyes. His cheeks felt… cracked. Dry.

He paused.

There were tear marks there. Faint, tight lines where salt had dried. He touched them gently.

He didn’t remember crying.

And now, somehow, he didn’t care that he had.

He moved. Slowly.

His hands pressed to the floor, and he began to lift himself from the rug. The motion was awkward—like a doll reassembling itself. Joints unused. Limbs out of order.

He rose halfway. The world tilted.

Not fast. Not violently.

Just enough to remind him that he was not well.

He swayed, eyes wide, catching the corner of the table before the room could pull him sideways.

“Up,” he said aloud, voice empty. “Up is good.”

He tried to laugh at his own joke.

But there was no breath behind it.
-----

He stood.

The rug sagged where he left it, flattened by a night spent sitting still like a forgotten marionette.

Ydoc's body moved with sluggish obedience—limbs wobbling, knees clicking, neck stiff. He reached for the wall to steady himself, and began the slow shuffle toward the door.

His stomach twisted again.

Pain.

Worse now. Tight and deep, as if something inside him was gnawing back.

He swallowed, tasting bile and nothing else.

His hand reached for the doorknob.

And paused—just long enough to catch a flicker of motion in the polished metal.

A reflection.

Not clear. Not defined. Just the shape of—

Feathers.

Black.

Thick.

Heavy.

Jutting from his back, from his neck, from the inside of his arms—grown haphazardly, like weeds through broken wood. Not placed. Not symmetrical. Some bent. Some sharp. Some moving when he hadn’t moved at all.

They weren’t supposed to be there.

He blinked.

He didn’t care.

Hunger.

His hand gripped the knob.

The cold metal against his skin vibrated—too warm, too loud, too alive.

And then—

Screams.

Not his.

All around him. Inside him.

Metallic voices—like they echoed from inside an iron pipe—screamed in panic, in agony, in fear.

“STOP!”
“PLEASE!”
“DON’T—NOT LIKE THIS—”
“HE’S STILL IN THERE!”

The door dissolved beneath him.

Or maybe he fell through it.

Ydoc was falling, slowly, silently, like a leaf dropping through water.

Darkness swallowed his vision.

But not his touch.

He could feel his body—
His jaw, clenched tight.
Something hard between his teeth.

Bone.

He bit down again.

The texture of it cracked—soft in the center, like marrow.

Something inside him shivered with satisfaction.

His arms were heavy.
Wet.

He could hear burning.

The groan of collapsing timber.
The hiss of rain hitting coals.
The pop and snap of meat blistering in flame.

He could hear someone begging.

He could hear someone laughing.

He could feel his own hands—so much larger than they should be—crushing something soft and small.

The feathers on his back stretched outward, blotting out the world like smoke.

And somewhere, behind the haze—

He was still hungry.

But…

Not as much anymore.
-----

It was red.

Not the color of blood—but vision turned inside out.
The red of fever, of raw eyes and broken capillaries.
A red that vibrated, as if his pupils were shaking in their sockets.

The world smeared sideways. His heartbeat thundered like a war drum in his ears.

He was standing—
Or floating—
Or crawling.
He wasn’t sure.

But the red was pulsing.

With every blink, a new scene.

A face. He didn’t recognize it.
A man—no, a farmer—staring at him, eyes wide, body trembling.

Mouth opening.

“Please. Please don’t—my voice—”

Ydoc bit down.

Crunch.

The taste of flesh, dirt, something sour like tobacco and salted pork.

“DON’T TAKE MY VOICE!”

Crunch.

There was a heat now.
Fire behind him, thick and choking.
The woods were burning—
Not in a blaze, but a sickness.

The trees collapsed like puppets with their strings cut.
The sound was wrong—
Like boulders falling down stairs, too fast, too wet.

Screams layered over screams.
Someone sang, in reverse.
Children wept.
Something mechanical clicked.
Teeth?
Or weapons?

Ydoc turned—
He could feel his own feathers shifting, twitching.
His arms soaked, steaming.
His mouth full.
Dripping.

And then—

He saw them.

In the middle of the red.

A spirit.

So cute.
So fluffy.

Small paws, wide cheeks, button nose. A little wag of their tail—
Their ears bent like folded paper, trembling.

And they were looking right at him.

No fear.

Only—

“I love you.”

Black.

Then—

CRUNCH.

CRUNCH.

A new flavor: ink.

Bitter. Warm. Velvety.
It flooded his throat.
It spilled from his mouth like oil from a broken machine.

And just before the dream collapsed, as everything bled into howling wind and sobbing smoke—

He said it back.

“I love you—”
--------

Ydoc’s eyes shot open.

A cold room.
A storm.

The sound of something dripping.

His heart pounded against his ribs, rattling like it was trying to escape.

He was on the floor.

Flat on his back.

Shaking.

Sweating.

His nose was bleeding again—no, not blood.

Ink.

It stained his lip.

It ran like a tear down his cheek.

He didn’t scream.
He didn’t cry.
He just lay there.

Wide-eyed.

Empty.

Was it a nightmare?

Or a memory…?