Book One – Chapter 15

Yu barely recognised himself in the warped reflection of the window. The image was dull, stretched thin by imperfections in the old glass, like something peeling away. He turned from it, dragging his gaze over the room instead.

Minimalist did not even begin to cover it and yet, there was nothing more to say. The space was a stone box, just habitable enough to qualify as a room. A narrow bed. A small table. A single shelf. A chair. The latter two barely more than slabs of rock, different in size but identical in purpose. The bed and shelf were the same; carved straight from the walls, as though the room had been hollowed out rather than built. The only objects not hewn from solid stone were the slim wardrobe, the mechanical clock, and the mirror.

Yu’s eyes lingered on the mirror.

And then — silver.

Of all the fucking colours. Silver?

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Yu muttered.

He stepped closer to the mirror, tilting his head, twisting his neck, searching. Whatever the fuck the presumed Estingar had been talking about – whatever supposed silver had caught his eye – Yu saw none of it. Just the same dull plumage he had always known. Feathers in shades of not-quite-white, not-quite-grey, the dark smudges that ran from his beak to around his eyes verging on black. It was a lifeless, washed out plumage, the kind of thing that never drew attention and suited him just fine. Dull. No colours. Utterly unremarkable.

Yu knew what silver looked like. Silver gleamed. It caught the light, it shimmered in coins, in blades, in polished jewellery. His feathers did none of that.

This had to be some elaborate joke. A fresh humiliation at the expense of the new guy. Had not Estingar called himself the funny one? Or maybe, with those insectoid eyes of his, Estingar saw something else entirely. Maybe he saw the world on some sort of bizarre alien colour spectrum that someone with normal sight could not register.

Silver was not that far from grey, was it?

Wait.

Hold on.

Yu froze mid-motion. His stomach sunk as a particular memory surged, sudden and unwelcome. Harrow. That night by the fire. She had said something strange when he had asked about her shimmering exoskeleton.

“Funny you say that.”