The Thread Between Us
1173 Words
For the first hundred steps, Aurora didn’t speak.
She wasn’t even sure she was breathing properly.
The stone corridor wound downward, swallowing the thin light from above. Every step echoed back at her like a stranger’s footfall.
And all the while… his hand stayed locked around hers.
---
The thought kept circling: What if it’s not him?
She’d seen what the mirrorborn could do—how perfectly it could wear her face, her voice. What if…
What if it had gotten to him? What if it was guiding her deeper into the dark for reasons she couldn’t see?
She could let go. She could demand he prove himself.
She didn’t.
---
“Breathe,” Lucien’s voice said, low and certain.
She startled. “What?”
“You’re holding your breath,” he replied without looking back. “You’ve been doing it for the last minute.”
She hated that he’d noticed. She hated that the observation made her exhale in a shaky rush.
---
The path opened into a narrow hall where moss crept over the stones like green frost. Lucien slowed, his pace measured.
Finally, he released her hand.
The absence of his grip was sharper than she expected.
---
“We should rest here,” he said, glancing at the walls. “No other entrances. Only one way in. I can guard it.”
“You mean guard me,” she muttered, hugging her arms.
That flicker of a smirk touched his mouth. “If you prefer to think of it that way.”
---
She wanted to snap at him—wanted to hold onto that tiny flare of annoyance instead of… whatever else she was feeling. But the quiet pressed down like a weight, and the shadows behind them seemed too still.
So she sat on the cold floor, pulling her knees to her chest.
---
Lucien didn’t sit. He leaned against the far wall, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the hall. The image should have been intimidating. It was.
But when his gaze finally landed on her, his voice softened just a fraction. “You did well up there.”
Her laugh was brittle. “You mean I didn’t get copied and dragged into a shadow?”
“I mean,” he said, “you didn’t believe it. That’s harder than you think.”
---
She studied him, trying to read the shape of his words. “How do you know so much about them? The mirrorborn.”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted, like he was weighing how much to say.
Then—“I’ve had one wear my face before.”
Aurora’s breath caught. “And…?”
“And it fooled someone I cared about,” he said flatly. “They didn’t survive it.”
---
The admission was bare and sharp enough that she looked away, guilt prickling her skin. She’d suspected him, hadn’t she? And yet here he was, telling her something he hadn’t needed to.
“Lucien…” She hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
His gaze lingered on her. “Don’t be. Just remember what I told you.”
---
The quiet stretched between them, not quite comfortable but not jagged either. She could feel him watching her—not constantly, but often enough that each glance brushed against her like the ghost of a touch.
When she looked back, he didn’t look away.
---
“You’re different,” he said.
The words were so unexpected that she blinked. “From what?”
“From the others I’ve… guarded.” His mouth quirked. “Less afraid of me. More afraid of yourself.”
It felt like he was peeling her open with those words.
---
“That’s ridiculous,” she said quickly, because it was easier than asking what he meant.
“Is it?” His tone was unreadable, but his eyes… they were fixed on her like she was a puzzle worth solving.
---
The conversation shifted after that, small questions and half-answers. She learned that he’d been in these halls before—years ago, on a job he didn’t elaborate on. That the “lock” wasn’t just a keyhole, but something alive, something that could choose to stay closed.
And he learned—because she let it slip—that she’d been hearing whispers at night since the Reaper marked her.
---
“You should have told me,” he said, sharper than before.
“It didn’t seem important,” she lied.
He stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. “Everything is important, Aurora.”
Her name in his mouth felt heavier than it should have.
---
She tried to look away, but his hand lifted, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The gesture was brief, almost impersonal—almost.
Her pulse didn’t get the message.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly.
“I’m cold,” she lied again.
---
The faintest curve touched his lips. “Liar.”
She should have pushed him away. She didn’t.
---
When they moved again, it was slower. His pace matched hers, his steps always half a beat in sync. Sometimes his shoulder brushed hers—not often enough to be obvious, just enough to make her aware of it.
The thread between them felt tighter than it had before, invisible but pulling.
---
Hours—or maybe only minutes—later, they emerged into a space so vast she couldn’t see the ceiling. Broken stone pillars jutted like teeth from the ground. At the center was a half-collapsed dais, and on it… a chair of blackened iron.
Lucien’s eyes scanned the room once before landing back on her. “We’ll stop here for the night.”
---
Something about the place felt wrong, but the fatigue in her bones made her nod anyway.
As she sank onto the dais steps, he stayed standing, arms folded, watching her. The look wasn’t quite guarded, but it wasn’t open either.
“Why do you do that?” she asked suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Watch me like I’m going to disappear.”
---
His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Because one day, you will.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. She didn’t know if he meant death, or the curse, or something else entirely.
---
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full, thick with the things neither of them said.
And then Lucien took a slow step forward, and another, until he stood just in front of her.
He crouched slightly, so their eyes were level. “Aurora.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“Don’t hate me for this.”
---
Her heart lurched, panic sparking—but before she could ask for what, he leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath against her skin.
The world narrowed to his voice, low and steady.
“It’s the only way.”
- Writer
