Eira's pov
I haven't spoken to him in days,unless you count the curses I throw at him like knives.
Draven visits every day, without fail. Like clockwork. Morning and night. Sometimes he brings things. A book. A piece of fruit. A blanket. Once, it was a tiny music box that played a sad, haunting tune. He didn't say anything when I slammed it into the wall. Just looked down at the broken pieces like they meant something to him. Like I hurt him.
But I don't care.
I won't break. I won't be another one of his pets, kneeling and grateful for scraps.
He acts like we're friends. Like this,me locked in a gilded room with barred windows and guards outside the door,is some kind of game, and we're just two players learning to get along.
I mock him every chance I get.
"Bringing me another gift, Draven? How thoughtful. I was hoping for a crown next."
He always smirks, like he enjoys it. Like my hate is a language he's fluent in.
