‡Chapter Eighteen‡
Third Person
A week had crawled by since Martina found herself tangled in this mess, and in that time, she had changed. She wasn’t doing well—not at all. Maybe it was the unfamiliar walls closing in around her, the faces she didn’t know, the suffocating scent of the infirmary that clung to her skin. Or maybe it was the simple fact that her freedom had been stripped away.
Day after day, she lay in that stiff, unwelcoming bed, a prisoner of her own thoughts. The dark smudges beneath her eyes had deepened, a quiet testament to sleepless nights and restless days.
Her wounds were gone, her bruises faded. By all accounts, she was fine. So why did she still feel so wrong?
"Your Grace, you should eat and regain your strength. The prophets have spoken—they plan to visit the infirmary soon. You wouldn’t want them to see you like this." The boy's voice was careful, almost pleading, as he placed the food on the small table beside her bed. Martina didn’t respond. She barely even blinked. Her gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, lost in the cracks and shadows above. Her attention drifted, fixated on something just beyond her grasp—an unfamiliar presence, an unknown word her mind kept fumbling over. It was foreign, elusive, like a whisper in a language she had never heard yet somehow recognized.
It was her own hearing—an eerie sound she could neither see nor trace back to its source. It existed just at the edge of perception, relentless and unshakable, like a phantom only she could sense.
 .
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.
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Why am I hearing things?
The sound tormented her. It wasn’t the sharp ringing of pain or exhaustion—it was something else. A soft, flowing noise, like water slithering through the filthy canals of the underground city. But there were no pipes here. Nothing that could explain it. And even if there were, what power did she have to command the soldiers outside to check?
She had asked once. The boy left in charge of her care had simply blinked at her in confusion before letting out a puzzled huh.
A rushing sound—water. But from where?
The room held nothing that could create such a noise. No pipes, no leaking valves, nothing. If it were coming from below, surely others would hear it too, would complain about it. But no one else did. No one else even noticed.
Too bad she was the only one affected, as if her own mind had turned against her, tormenting her with something no one else could perceive. Maybe it was punishing her, inflicting wounds she couldn’t see. Maybe it wanted to end her.
Or maybe—after all the beatings she had taken from the Marshal—her head really was broken.
I haven’t slept for days. Every time I close my eyes, I drift for barely a minute before that wretched sound drags me back. Ali hasn’t come. Grandma hasn’t either. There’s no one to tell about this—this thing that’s gnawing at me.
Maybe I really am turning into a monster.
Martina’s mind spiraled, a storm of restless thoughts pulling her deeper. Paranoia tightened its grip, forcing her into a corner with no way out.
Claudio, on the other hand, could do nothing but watch as Martina withered before his eyes. He wondered if the doctors had noticed—if they had reported it to the prophets. Their sudden decision to visit felt unusual. Or maybe it was just his own paranoia creeping in.
A week had passed, and not a single night went by without Claudio drowning in regret. Regret for interfering, for getting tangled up with what might as well have been a corpse.
If the gods above truly existed, he wished—begged—for them to turn back time. To bring things back to when life was simple, when his hands clutched a pickaxe instead of shackling him to this suffocating room of so-called luxury.
Out in the slums, at least, there was freedom.
He wanted to leave this place, to escape the stifling walls and the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. But what could he possibly do? The only person who could help him was slipping away, sinking into a struggle he couldn't understand.
"Can you really not hear it?"
Martina forced herself up, drawing on what little energy she had left. The soldier flinched, caught off guard by her sudden movement. Even if they never spoke the words aloud, their bodies betrayed them. The way they moved, the way they hesitated—it all revealed the truth.
The fear of being trapped inside with someone who had rejected both logic and miracles.
"Hear what, Your Grace?" His voice was firm, distant—like he was speaking to a stranger, not a person. Even if his words draped her in honor, his tone stripped it away—cold, and unable to mask what he truly thought of her.
A smirk tugged at Martina’s lips, though there was no humor in it. That title—Your Grace—it pushed something inside her, twisted something raw.
It pissed her off.  
A title that didn't belong. A title she would reject, even if it was forced into her hands.
Grace. 
She was already at her breaking point, and the conversation had barely begun. Maybe it was the exhaustion—the endless nights without rest. Or maybe it was the soldiers, standing stiff and silent like statues, their very presence grating against her nerves.
Then the sound surged. Erratic. Relentless. Louder.
It roared in her head like a tidal wave rushing toward her, deafening, unbearable. It was too much—too much. Martina wanted to scream, to claw at her ears, to tear them off if that’s what it took to silence the noise. If her eardrums ruptured, if the world went silent, maybe—just maybe—she would finally know peace.
Maybe I really am turning into a monster.
The thought cut through her rising anger, cracking the foundation of her frustration. Inside her mind, she scrambled to make sense of it all, to grasp at any answer that could explain what was happening to her.
Maybe they were right. Maybe I am something worth taking down.
For a fleeting moment, the relentless noise faded, swallowed by the weight of her own thoughts. She stared blankly at the soldier, unseeing, her mind slipping beyond the present. It felt as if she were floating—her consciousness unraveling, drifting away from her body like a thread slowly coming undone.
“Your Grace?”
Claudio’s voice wavered as he called out to her. Claudio—a miner, lower than dirt in the eyes of those above him. He never liked it, never accepted it, but even he was forced to bow to the weight of titles. Forced to address her that way, whether he wanted to or not.
Martina sat there—too still, too unnatural. Like a statue carved from something lifeless.
He glanced at the soldiers, expecting indifference, but even they looked unsettled, shifting uncomfortably in their rigid stances.
Martina didn’t respond. She didn’t blink. She just stared through them, eyes empty, as if she were somewhere far beyond the room—somewhere they couldn’t follow.
"I understand it now..."
Martina’s voice was soft, almost amused, a quiet chuckle slipping past her lips as her gaze shifted to Claudio. Just the simple tilt of her head was enough to make him freeze, eyes wide with unease.
For a moment, neither of them moved. A silent standoff—each waiting for the other to break the unbearable tension.
"I'll call the doctor... Please stay put for a moment, Your Grace."
A soldier—one different from the last—finally spoke, his voice stiff and careful before stepping out of the room. Now, only the armed men remained, their grips tightening on their weapons.
They knew. They all knew.
There was an overstimulated, unpredictable woman in the room with them, and that made them nervous.
Claudio lowered his head, avoiding her gaze—an unspoken attempt to escape the weight of her piercing eyes.
Martina let out a quiet sigh.
"I'm tired... Sorry for that," she murmured, her voice unexpectedly calm.
Without another word, she sank back into the bed, pulling the covers over herself like a barrier between her and the world.
"I'll try to sleep. Please don’t make any loud noise."
The room remained tense, the soldiers standing rigid. But Martina had already shut her eyes, retreating into the only escape she had left.
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