That night, Seraphelle didn't summon Sauron to the throne room.
She summoned him to her private chamber—a place without magic mirrors, without guards, without symbols of power.
Only candlelight and old stone walls. Sauron was in the forge when he sensed her call. The Ring on his finger trembled slightly—not a warning.
Just… attention.
He extinguished the fire and left. Seraphelle stood with her back to him as he entered. For a long time, she said nothing. Then—very suddenly:
"I was not born to be queen."
Sauron didn't interrupt.
"I was taught to smile before I was taught to read.
I was taught to stand tall… so that others would look at me."
She chuckled softly, not happily.
"The king never loved me.
He loved… the image of me standing beside him."
She turned around. No tears. Just a very old weariness.
"No one has ever loved me," she said bluntly.
"They only cared about me because I was beautiful."
Sauron could have used this story as leverage.
He could have used that fear as a chain. But he didn't.
He just stood there. Listening. Waiting.
"I had to be cruel to myself," she continued.
"Because if I weakened—just a little—I would be replaced."
She took a deep breath.
"I was afraid… if I wasn't beautiful anymore… I would be forgotten."
Far below the mountain, the forge cooled. Sauron didn't return to it.
For the first time—he stopped not for strategic reasons. After a long silence, he asked, very softly: "Why… did you tell me this?"
Seraphelle looked at him.
Long. Very long. Then she said: "Because when you look at me… I don't feel like I'm disappearing."
In that moment—Sauron's chest suddenly… warmed.
Not magic. Not power. Just… presence.
Something he had erased from himself when he threw the memory of the song into the forge. The Ring on his finger reacted.
Not angry. Not defiant.
Just tightened around his finger—as if reminding him that:
He had chosen a different path.
Far away—
Snow White walked through the forest at sunset.
A wolf emerged from the bushes.
No growl. Just a stare.
Snow White froze. But instead of running— A word escaped her lips.
No thought.
No fear. A command:
"Kneel."
The wolf immediately lowered itself. Ears pressed close.
It dared not look up, trembling as if it were looking at a predator superior to itself. Snow White recoiled.
Her heart pounded.
"What… did I just do…?"
The wolf remained motionless. It dared not move, as if even the slightest action would be a death sentence.
Snow White turned and ran. She ran faster than all the years of her life combined.
Branches brushed against her dress. Thorns scratched her hands. But Snow White didn't care, because the feeling she had just experienced, the feeling of commanding the wolf, made her feel...
She was both terrified and… exhilarated.
Power.
A strong, sharp, sweet feeling, like poison.
When she got home—she gasped for breath, her body immediately bent over, drenched in sweat.
She vomited. Tears streamed down her face.
"No… no… no…"
She didn't realize—in the firelight of the fireplace, her shadow stretched across the wall. And on top of that shadow—
Faint, very faint—was the shape of a crown.
Back in Seraphelle's room. No one said anything more.
But between them—something had changed.
Not love. Not yet.
Not an alliance.
But…recognition.
Two beings who had once shattered themselves…to become something the world could not remove.
And somewhere, deep within Sauron's consciousness—a memory that no longer sounded.
But for the first time—it was no longer entirely empty.