Chapter 36: Firelight Promises
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A few moments later...
Crackle... Crackle... Crackle...
The fire was small, but it was stubborn. It ate dry twigs and split bark with quiet hunger, spitting sparks like tiny stars trying to escape. The flames stayed low, disciplined, the way the Slik guards built them—enough warmth to keep bones from stiffening, not enough light to invite every hungry thing in purgatory to come knocking.
Wind slid over the ridges in long, cold breaths.
Wooooo...
It tried to creep into the hollow where they camped, but the stone walls around them broke the gusts, turning the air into a slow swirl instead of a blade.
Sekhmet sat with his back against a rock face, nightmare coat pulled tight. His boots rested on the ground, toes angled toward the fire. His posture looked calm, but inside him, everything stayed awake.
Purgatory did not teach people how to relax.
It taught them how to pretend.
Across from him, Lily sat close enough to the firelight that warm orange painted her cheeks, but far enough that shadows still hid the sharpest parts of her expression. Her guards formed a perimeter without being told. Two watched the ridges. Two checked the ground for tracks. One stood at the narrowest entry point like a statue carved from discipline.
They did not interrupt.
They did not gossip.
They did not pretend they were not listening.
They were guards, and even when they looked away, their ears stayed pointed.
Bat Bat sat on Lily’s lap like it owned the seat.
It had curled itself into a ball at first, pretending to sleep, but every time the fire crackled too loudly, it cracked one eye open and stared at the flames like it suspected betrayal. Occasionally it muttered to itself in a sleepy child voice.
"Warm... nice..."
Lily gently stroked its head with one finger.
Bat Bat sighed happily.
Sekhmet watched the scene, and something inside him felt strange. Not soft. Not weak. Just... unfamiliar.
In purgatory, most nights were spent alone, or in fear, or in violence. You did not sit with someone you trusted. You did not let your focus drift. You did not share warmth and quiet without expecting it to be stolen.
Yet here he was.
Sitting with Lily.
A girl he once knew.
A woman now.
And she looked at him like he was not a monster.
Sekhmet’s jaw tightened slightly.
"If she knew what I have become, would she still look at me the same way?"
The thought came without permission.
He pushed it down.
Not now.
Not tonight.
Tonight was a fragile thing. Like a thin glass cup balanced on a blade.
He did not want to knock it over.
Lily’s gaze drifted across him again, the way it had been doing in small stolen glances ever since the fight ended. She tried to hide it by pretending to watch the fire or Bat Bat or the guards, but Sekhmet noticed. He had learned to notice everything.
Finally, Lily spoke, voice quiet.
"Your eyes look different."
Sekhmet’s gaze flicked to her.
"What," he said, flat.
Lily tilted her head, studying him.
"They are sharper," she said. "Not just because you are older. It is like you are always looking for something behind what I say."
Sekhmet exhaled slowly.
"That is purgatory," he replied.
Lily nodded once, but she did not let it go.
"And your hands," she added softly.
Sekhmet glanced at his own hands, resting on his knees. They looked normal. They look human. But they did not feel normal. They were stronger now. Faster. Capable of controlling blood like it was a rope.
"What about them," he asked.
"They look... steady," Lily said, searching for words. "Not like someone who grew up in comfort. Like someone who learned to hold a knife and not shake."
Sekhmet’s mouth tightened.
"I had to," he said.
Lily’s eyes softened.
"I know," she murmured.
For a moment, silence returned. The fire crackled. The wind sighed.
Then Lily leaned back slightly, gaze shifting to the dark sky above the hollow.
"When I was twelve," she said suddenly, voice carrying a quiet smile, "I used to think you were made of stone."
Sekhmet blinked.
"That is not a compliment," he said.
Lily’s smile widened.
"It was a compliment," she insisted. "You never cried. You never panicked. You never got scared when the city lord’s dogs barked at you."
Sekhmet snorted softly.
"I was scared," he said.
Lily turned toward him, eyes amused.
"You were not," she accused.
Sekhmet met her gaze.
"I was," he repeated. "I just refused to show it because you would have laughed."
Lily gasped, offended.
"I would not have laughed."
Sekhmet’s brows lifted slightly.
"You laughed when I tripped on the stairs," he reminded her.
Lily pointed at him like a judge.
"That was different," she declared. "You looked like a proud old man falling down like a sack of grain. It was funny."
Sekhmet’s mouth twitched.
"I was twelve," he said.
"And proud," Lily replied.
Bat Bat lifted its head sleepily.
"Proud," it repeated, trying the word.
Lily giggled.
"Yes," she whispered to the bat. "Proud."
Bat Bat blinked at her, then declared softly:
"Lily pretty."
One of the guards coughed sharply into his fist, as if choking on dignity.
Cough — cough.
Lily’s cheeks colored faintly, but she did not look away.
"Thank you," she told Bat Bat in a gentle voice. "You are also... very small."
Bat Bat puffed up.
"I strong," it said.
Sekhmet muttered, "Strong enough to disrespect leaders with bodily functions."
Bat Bat leaned forward, proud.
"I pee," it said, nodding.
Lily laughed again, this time louder.
Ha... Ha...
Sekhmet watched her laugh and felt the strangest thing.
The sound did not irritate him.
It did not distract him.
It loosened something inside him that had been locked for years.
He did not smile fully.
But his eyes softened a fraction.
Lily noticed.
She always noticed.
Her laughter faded into a warm smile.
"There," she said quietly. "That look."
Sekhmet frowned slightly.
"What look?"