It’s been quiet for awhile now. As quiet as it gets, anyway: faint moans still seep through the floorboards above, and she can occasionally hear a shuffling and dragging sound. But there are no more screams, at least. No more whimpering or horrified shrieks. No more pleading.
Argentea isn’t sure how long she’s been without food. Since before the last clash up above, at least. Was that a day ago? Two? It’s hard to keep count, with only the thin, weak light between the floorboard cracks. She’s hungry, that much she knows.
Her eyes drift to the stairs, barely visible in the gloom. They trace it up to the ceiling, where she knows there’s a trapdoor. She’s been waiting for it to open, with both anticipation and apprehension. If food is to come, it’ll be through that door. But if it opens, will it be for food? Something happened up there. Something bad. She can only speculate as to what.
There’s another thing she knows: she won’t last much longer without food. Already she feels weak, listless. What food she had been getting provided little nourishment. She suspects that no further food would be coming, barring some dramatic changes in the situation upstairs.
She realizes that she needs to seriously contemplate the possibility of death. She finds, oddly, that it doesn’t bother her as much as she’d expect. Except, of course, that she knows things that Oppara needs to know. Things she learned in Zimar. Dreadful things.