Elma bolted upright, a ragged gasp tearing from her throat. Her lungs burned as if she had been submerged in deep water for hours, fighting for every scrap of air.
She sat there for a moment, her small heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
The nursery was bathed in the soft, golden glow of a peaceful morning. The lace curtains fluttered in a gentle breeze, and the scent of jasmine drifted in from the gardens.
It looked perfect. It looked like a lie.
Her hands moved instinctively, shoving the sleeves of her nightsilk gown up to her shoulders. She scanned her skin, her eyes frantic.
Nothing.
The emerald veins were gone. Her skin was pale, smooth, and unblemished. There was no trace of the entity's touch, no lingering hum of the paralysis.
A dream? her mind whispered, a desperate hope clawing at her logic. A hallucination brought on by the Aether strain?
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet hitting the plush rug. Her gaze dropped to the hem of her dress.
On the knees of the fine silk, two dark, jagged smears of garden soil stared back at her.
The dirt was real. So was the staircase. So was the cat mask.
She reached for a plush toy lying near her pillow—a soft, stuffed creature with button eyes—and pulled it into her lap. She lay back down, rolling onto her side and curling her small body into a ball.
She shoved the plushie's head into her mouth and clamped her jaw shut.
She bit down hard, the fabric straining against her teeth, using the physical pressure to anchor herself against the rising tide of panic. She needed to think.
Memory, unbidden and cold, surged to the surface.
She remembered being this age before. Not here, in the warmth of House Altheris, but in the White Chamber.
In her first life, there had been no jasmine and no lace. Only the faint tang of bleach and the echo of footsteps on cold tile.
She remembered standing before a flayed practice body suspended on iron hooks. A faceless instructor had used a slender metal rod to indicate the carotid artery, then the femoral, then the brachial plexus, naming each without inflection.
"Precision is the difference between a weapon and a tool," the voice had droned. "A tool hits what it can. A weapon hits what is vital. Again. Point to the kill-stroke for a target in heavy plating."
By the time she was five, she knew exactly how much pressure was required to collapse a windpipe or burst an eyeball. She knew the chemical composition of the neurotoxins they fed her to build her immunity.
She had been "Raised in Iron."
Now, she was being "Raised in Silk," but the curriculum hadn't changed.
She let out a muffled groan into the plushie, her jaw aching from the tension.
The woman in the cat mask said she would return today.
Christa stepped into the room, her silver hair catching the morning light, carrying a breakfast plate that smelled of honeyed oats and fresh fruit.
Elma's eyes moved slowly toward her, her jaw still clamped firmly onto the plushie's head. She didn't let go, even as her mother approached the bed.
"Uh... still biting your toys, I see?" Christa said, her voice a melodic contrast to the gravelly rasp Elma had heard the night before.
She set the tray on the nightstand and arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "You're late rising today. Are you feeling alright?"
"I am," Elma muffled around the plushie. She forced her jaw to relax, letting the toy fall into her lap.
Christa sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. She reached out, pressing the back of her cool, soft hand against Elma's forehead.
Her glowing blue eyes searched Elma's face with a precision that felt uncomfortably like an interrogation.
"You're sure you're okay? No fever?"
"I'm fine," Elma answered, her voice flat.
Christa sighed, as she pulled her hand away, her gaze swept downward, catching the dark, damp patch on the wool rug where the water orb had collapsed the night before.
Her expression shifted. "You didn't... wet the rug, did you, Elma?"
"No," Elma said instantly, her pride stinging. "It was water."
Christa offered a cold, knowing smile.
"It's alright," Christa said gently. "I'm not going to be mad if you did." Her tone carried a patronizing edge that made Elma's skin crawl.
"It was water. A cup of water." Elma raged against the accusation.
Christa's expression didn't change, but her voice turned quiet. "I took your plates out last night, Elma. There were no cups left in here."
Silence swallowed the room.
Elma stared at her mother, her tactical mind dissecting the moment. She understood the situation instantly.
To Christa, a stained rug meant a normal four-year-old. It meant a daughter who was a child.
The logical reaction—the one that would lower Christa's guard and make Elma seem less suspicious—was to admit it. To bow her head, play the embarrassed toddler, and give Christa the "normal" daughter she craved.
But the pride of D—66 was a jagged, immovable thing. She could kill, she could lie, and she could bleed, but she would not be accused of losing control of her own body.
"I took one after you left," Elma answered, her voice hard. She pointed a small finger at a silver cup sitting near the toy box on the far side of the floor. "I was thirsty."
The words hung in the air, cold and clumsy.
Christa stood up abruptly as she smoothed her gown. The disappointment was palpable.
"When you finish, we will do writing exercises," Christa declared, smiling softly—an expression that carried no warmth, only carefully leashed rage.
The door clicked shut with finality.
Damn it, Elma thought, staring at the empty air.
The rest of the day was a slow-motion war of nerves, far more exhausting than any tactical drill Elma had ever endured in the White Chamber.
The writing exercises were a torturous play. Elma sat at the small mahogany desk, forced to tremble and clumsily grip a quill. She knew how to write perfectly; the D-series were built for elite literacy and tactical documentation.
Faking the messy, erratic strokes of a four-year-old was a special kind of agony. Every time she intentionally botched a curve or slanted a letter, she felt a piece of her pride wither.
Across the desk, Christa sat like a gargoyle in silk, watching every movement. She wore that same infuriating, soft smile. She seemed to be savoring the friction.
As the hours dragged on, the light in the nursery shifted from gold to a bruised purple. The "Silk" of the Altheris life was beginning to dim, replaced by the familiar cold of the coming night.