<h4>Chapter 102: Only a Mad person</h4>


    Aira froze for a bit, her heart thundering, her stomach lurching. Then, finally, she stepped forward. She gritted her teeth together, held her nose with one hand, and went ahead to pick the pieces on the wrap. The smell wrapped around her like rot, but she tossed it into her mouth and swallowed, even as nausea flooded her senses like bile.


    She didn’t stop. She was about to take another piece, even as her mouth felt like it had been assailed by filth and death, only to watch Rymora jerk away from her and reward the content in her hands.


    Shaking her head to show that one was enough, even as Aira—who was clearly unwilling to take another—went ahead to ask with a voice filled with concern:


    "One can’t be enough?"


    But Rymora vigorously responded with a shake of her head that one was more than enough, even as she went ahead to stash it back into the bag with swift, urgent movements. The smell followed her, trailing like a death-marked perfume.


    Going ahead to hide the bag back into the underside of the wardrobe, where the smell would be easily buried and hidden from wandering noses.


    Aira was about to speak, only to dash to the bathroom the next second, her feet barely touching the ground as she ran. She washed her mouth out, over and over, with water so cold it shocked her lips, even as she refused to throw up what she had just eaten.


    She would keep it down.


    By the time she was back, Rymora had just finished scribbling in a piece of parchment paper, her fingers moving fast with stiff, urgent strokes. She handed it to Aira, whose reddened eyes still glistened, her throat clenching against the bile that threatened to rise again.


    She read the note with trembling hands, worm still twisting in her gut, nausea lingering like a film on her tongue.


    "I need to leave! Tomorrow morning I’ll find the healer and get the stomach potion just in case!"


    The words were hastily written, but Aira could still see the tight corners of concern in Rymora’s handwriting. Her gaze lifted to meet Rymora’s, and even though no words were exchanged, the worry there was unmistakable—etched in the furrow of her brows, the tremor in her breath.


    She felt fine.


    Too fine.


    She needed to feel like death.


    Her stomach was calm, her limbs steady—an unbearable stillness when what she desperately needed was sickness. Pain. Something violent enough to take her out of the game before she was thrown into the pit like meat. Instead, her body betrayed her, untouched by the filth she had eaten.


    She gave Rymora a shallow nod, jaw clenched, and wordlessly granted her permission to leave. Rymora didn’t linger. She slipped out through the door like a shadow being chased, closing it behind her with a hushed finality that made Aira’s skin crawl.


    The silence that followed settled like fog.


    Alone now, her gaze was drawn—pulled, possessed—to the ce where Rymora had hidden the bag. Her heart thudded once. Hard. A sharp beat of dread.


    <i>’One piece is clearly not enough!’</i>


    The thought pierced her like a de.


    The memory of the butchered corpses, twisted and bloodied, was burned into her skull like a curse. Her breaths grew shallow. Shaky.


    She stood by the door, frozen in ce. Fingers twitching.


    One step. Then another. Slow, deliberate.


    Her bare feet whispered across the cold floor until she stood before the wardrobe. Hands pale and shaking, she reached down and pulled the bag from the lower drawers, its weight heavier than she remembered—like something dead clinging to her.


    The thought of taking another bite turned her stomach, bile already prickling at her throat—but the thought of <i>not</i> doing it, of standing in the morning light with a clear head and a doomed body, rattled her to the bone.


    Better pain than death.


    She dug into the bag with numb fingers and brought out another wrap, holding it gingerly like it might rot her fingers on contact. She began to unwrap it with painstaking care. Her jaw clenched hard. She wouldn’t allow herself to be sloppy—not now.


    It looked different.


    But the smell.


    The stench hit her like a p, thick and wet, curling into her nose even as she held it shut. It was worse than before—stronger, more putrid, like decay had multiplied within theyers.


    Still, without letting herself hesitate, she shoved two pieces into her mouth. Chewed once. Swallowed fast.


    Before they could coat her tongue, before the slime could register, she forced it down.


    Her stomach churned violently.


    Nausea mmed into her like a wave. Her knees nearly buckled.


    She barely made it to the bathroom, stumbling like a drunk. She gagged, water sshing up the bowl as she washed out her mouth with desperate handfuls, refusing—<i>refusing</i>—to throw up. It had to stay in her system. It <i>had to.</i>


    After, she hurried back to seal the wrap, shoving it back into the bag with trembling hands before burying it again deep into the wardrobe’s underside, pressing it in until the scent was muffled by wood and cloth.


    Done.


    It was done.


    She sank onto the bed, every limb taut, every breath a tight thread of fear. Her expression was lined with panic, her eyes wide as she waited—for the ache, for the burn, for any sign that her body was breaking down.


    Time dragged.


    Still nothing.


    The panic worsened, bloating in her chest until her breaths came shallow and frantic.


    Sleep was impossible. The longer the night stretched, the more her gaze drifted to the wardrobe. Her mind turned in circles, faster and faster.


    What if the ones she’d eaten still weren’t enough?


    What if she woke up healthy?


    She toyed with the idea of taking more. Her hand even moved toward the bed’s edge—but at thest moment, she stopped.


    She would wait until morning.


    That one decision—small, foolish, desperate—was the one that would change her life.


    <strong>???</strong>


    "Farra! Have you seen it?" a voice snapped sharply, shattering the sleepy stillness of the pantry. A kitchen maid in a wrinkled apron clutched the shoulder of the older woman beside her, panic twisting her features tight.


    Farra flinched, irritated. "Stop! Why are you panicking so much, Gura? It’s unlike you!"


    But Gura’s grip only tightened.


    "I’m dead serious, Farra! Have you seen the pieces of rotten food I left out to toss away?" Her voice cracked as she spoke, eyes darting toward the shelves like they might bite her.


    Farra raised an eyebrow, her confusion deepening.


    "Why would you be looking for such a thing?" Her tone carried the sting of insult—like Gura had sprouted horns and asked to boil wine in the soup pot.