When Lorian came at noon, as he did every day, Sylvera was waiting.
She sat cross-legged in the farthest corner of her bone-woven cage, spine straight, hands folded in her lap. The gag was long gone, but her silence felt sharper than any curse. It filled the space. It dared him to speak first.
She had started seeing him clearly now. Not the pretty lie he wore like a robe. Not the smile. Not the prince act.
The thing underneath.
And today… she saw the cracks. Small ones. Easy to miss.
Not for her.
His shadow lagged behind him by a heartbeat, like it had to remember what shape to be. Where his boots touched the stone, there was no breath of frost, no pale mist, no cold print left behind. Nothing. Like even the floor didn't want to admit he was there. And above, in the courtyard, the birds always did the same thing. The second he entered, they went silent. Their songs snuffed out mid-note. Nature holding its breath.
He stepped into the chamber like he belonged in a story. Smooth movements. Practiced charm. He wore a deep green cloak today, gold thread stitched into it, perfect royal ease.
Sylvera didn't look at the cloak.
She watched his eyes.
She watched the way his fingers curled. Too stiff. Too slow. Like he was copying the idea of a hand.
"You're staring," he said at last, voice light, amused. Perfect.
Sylvera tilted her head a little. When she spoke, her voice came out calm. Too calm.
"I was wondering…" she said softly. "Do you ever miss being alive?"
It was a simple question.
It hit him anyway.
For the smallest flicker, his face twitched. Too fast for most people. Not for her. Something passed behind his eyes so quick she couldn't hold it long enough to name it. Surprise. Pain. Anger.
Real. Just for a second.
The mask slipped.
Then it snapped right back into place.
Lorian laughed and reached up to adjust the high collar of his tunic. Black veins crept up his neck now, like cracks in porcelain. He kept them hidden beneath silk and charm. He always did.
"What a strange question," he said, dismissive smile fixed on. "Aren't we all just… borrowing these bodies anyway?"
Smooth words.
But the edges were frayed.
Sylvera heard it. The forced ease. The way he didn't hold her gaze as long as before. The way he blinked a little too often.
She didn't say anything else.
Because now she knew.
He remembered.
Somewhere deep under the rot and the crown's poison, the man he used to be still existed. Not whole. Not safe. But flickering. Like an old candle that refused to go out.
That gave her hope.
Hope was dangerous.
But it was there.
He stepped closer. Slow and easy, like a shadow drifting. The cage didn't creak, didn't tremble, but Sylvera felt the air drop colder as he neared. Her skin prickled. Her breath tightened.
Lorian crouched in front of her, fine clothes brushing the bone-laced floor, and leaned in.
Too close.
His breath was cool. It smelled faintly of herbs. His eyes—those eyes that once made her stupid—gleamed faint violet in the gloom.
"Don't get so curious about me," he whispered, voice low, almost tender.
"It's dangerous."
His fingers brushed her jaw, feather-light.
"Are you still in love with me, Sylvera?" he asked softly. Almost sorrowful. Like a lover begging for a truth he already feared. Then his voice shifted, just a little. "Tell me… how did you discover this?"
She didn't flinch.
Not this time.
Her heartbeat thundered, loud, annoying, trying to give her away. But her face stayed calm. Calm enough to be cruel.
"You told me," she said.
Her voice didn't shake. It surprised even her.
"You told me in the way your shadow moves too slow. In the way the birds go quiet. In the way your smile never reaches your eyes."
She leaned forward just enough to meet his gaze head-on.
Her eyes burned.
"The dead don't hide well," she said quietly. "Not from someone who loved them."
For one heartbeat, something flickered behind his expression.
Hurt. Guilt. Hunger.
She couldn't tell which. Maybe all of it.
It was there.
Then it was gone.
Lorian stood and dusted off his tunic like nothing had happened. Like this was just a normal noon visit. Like her words hadn't just stabbed into him.
But his voice didn't have its usual polish.
"Careful, little witch," he said. "Love has made you sharp."
Sylvera smiled faintly.
"And you dull."
Lorian froze.
Just for a second.
Her words hit deeper than she expected. She felt it. Saw it. He hadn't told her about the shadow. Not the birds. Not the way death clung to him, always just there, like a smell you couldn't wash out.
And yet…
she knew.
His eyes narrowed. Not anger. Not exactly. Something tighter. Something thinking.
He didn't speak.
Didn't ask how.
Didn't press.
Instead, he turned away slowly, shoulders tense, and walked toward the stairwell without another word.
The door to the cage groaned open behind him.
He didn't lock it.
He didn't need to.
Sylvera stayed where she was, hands still in her lap, gaze fixed on the open doorway. Freedom sat right there. A step away. Almost insulting.
But she didn't move.
Not yet.
Because something had shifted.
And for the first time, Lorian had walked away unsure.
Sylvera sat beside a puddle of black water that had seeped through the cracks of her bone-woven cage. The surface looked oily. It rippled under flickering candlelight. Shadows danced across the stone… but some shadows moved when she didn't.
That made her skin crawl.
She stared into the reflection.
It looked like her.
But wrong.
Her cheekbones seemed sharper. Her skin looked pale and strained, as if the castle's rot had crept under it and made a home there. Her lips were dry. There was dirt under her nails. Real dirt. Not glamour, not story.
And her eyes—
Her breath caught.
In the black water, her pupils shimmered violet.
Not brown.
Violet.
Not entirely human.
She blinked hard, hoping it was just the light. Hoping it was the bad candle flame playing tricks.
The glow stayed.
"When did you mark me?" she whispered.
For a moment, silence.
Then the walls exhaled.
Slow. Heavy.
Like ancient stone groaning in its sleep.
The castle breathed.
And it answered.
"The first touch.
The first glance.
The first lie you believed."
The words slid around her like smoke, and memories crashed into her head so hard she almost flinched away.
The Wounded Knight.
Lorian's sudden appearance—injured and regal—too clean, too perfect. That meeting hadn't been chance.
It had been a trap.
The Healing.
The way her magic had flowed into him so easily, so smooth, as if it belonged in him. Like her power recognised him.
She hated that part.
The Love.
How fast it swallowed her. How quickly she needed his praise, his smile, his approval. It had felt like destiny. Like she was chosen.
But it hadn't been destiny.
It had been enchantment.
No potions.
No spells spoken out loud.
Just touches and looks and careful moments repeated until they became routine. Until her own thoughts softened. Until her own self began to bend.
Slow erosion. Slow shaping.
He never forced her.
That was the worst part.
He shaped her.
Crafted her into exactly what he needed.
Until that final night, when she thought she chose him. The warmth. The closeness. Her heart beating so hard it felt like a promise.
She had thought it was freedom.
It hadn't been.
It had been a ritual.
A seal.
The spell finishing.
"You were perfect," the castle whispered, voice older than memory.
"Strong enough to be useful. Lonely enough to be grateful.
The ideal familiar."
Sylvera's hands curled into fists so tight her nails cut skin. Blood welled in half-moon shapes. The pain grounded her, and she clung to it because the betrayal was too big to hold otherwise.
Not just betrayal from him.
From herself.
She had stopped questioning.
She believed it. She believed she was lucky, chosen, seen.
Her choices had been his.
Her wants rewired.
Her strength bent.
Her love twisted into chains.
She saw the web now. Every moment laced with intent.
And it burned.
Not just shame.
Rage.
That spark inside her rose steady now, not flickering anymore. Something hard. Something awake.
He'd built her to be a tool.
But he'd made her too well.
Too strong.
Too dangerous.
And he didn't even realise it yet.