“Sisters are supposed to love each other, right?”
My voice came out small—too small for the crime I was attempting to distract from.
I shifted subtly, placing myself between Zaeran and the half-eaten chocolate cake sitting on the counter behind me. The crumbs were… conspicuous. Accusatory. Practically glowing beneath the palace lights.
Zaeran stared at me like a judge who had already reached a verdict.
Arms crossed. Posture immaculate. Violet eyes sharp enough to cut bone.
Guilty? Entirely.
Ashamed? Not particularly.
Did I know who the cake was for? Absolutely not.
Would I apologize? …That depended.
“They are,” she said at last, rubbing her temples, “but that is not the point.”
Whether the headache came from stress, duty, or me was anyone’s guess. Possibly all three.
I glanced around the chamber, suddenly hopeful. Maids. Servants. Anyone. Someone. Surely the palace did not abandon its princesses this thoroughly.
Nothing.
The room stood pristine and empty—far too quiet for my liking.
Zaeran noticed.
“You will not find staff here,” she said without lifting her gaze. “Or anywhere within fifty feet of this room. I ensured it.
Slowly, deliberately, she raised her head.
Her eyes locked onto mine.
“The perpetrator has some explaining to do,” she continued. “So. Speak.”
I clasped my hands behind my back and stared down at the golden marble floor, attempting an expression of innocence I did not deserve and could not convincingly perform.
“I… don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her gaze narrowed.
The scrutiny was surgical. Precise. The kind that peeled through skin and bone and found truth trembling underneath.
“I can see the chocolate on your lips, Atarae.”
I froze.
She assessed me in silence, weighing possibilities—how much punishment, how much restraint. Whether I was worth either.
Then she exhaled.
A single, resigned sigh.
Victory.
“Had it been anyone else,” Zaeran said evenly, “I might have taken a life. Consider this mercy.”
Relief bloomed instantly. I grinned, bouncing on my heels as I leaned forward.
“Mercy? From the great Zaeran Drevnov?” I teased. “Lucky me. Admit it—you love me.”
She scoffed. “I precisely do not.” Her eyes sharpened. “Do you have any idea what predicament you have put me in?”
“All this,” I said, tilting my head, “over a harmless cake?”
Her expression suggested a thousand deeply offended ancestors were watching her tolerate me.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “It is a wonder you are my sister.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose and murmured something in Latin—likely a prayer to whatever gods governed patience.
Her aura screamed I am considering murder and How did I get stuck with this creature?
I giggled.
I stopped only when her glare threatened my immortal soul.
Suddenly, the walls became fascinating. Very white. Very… wall-like.
Oh. And a vase.
A tall glass one near the corner. I studied it intensely, as though it had personally insulted me.
“You cannot ignore the consequences of your actions,” Zaeran said, gesturing sharply toward the remains of the cake. “We have discussed this.”
“Interesting craftsmanship,” I murmured, squinting at the vase. “Must be western.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You know the origin of the vase, yet you cannot acknowledge eating the cake?”
“Must’ve cost a fortune,” I added.
She crossed the room and deliberately bumped my shoulder, sending me stumbling a step to the side.
“Hey—what was that for?” I protested.
She did not answer.
Her armored heels clicked against the marble—slow, deliberate. Each step sounded like a sentence being passed. She stopped beside me, leaning close enough that I felt the chill of her presence.
“Today is our mother’s birthday,” she said quietly. “That cake was for her.”
Sunlight caught her profile as she turned slightly—sharp, composed, untouchable.
“Until some vermin decided otherwise.”
Vermin?
I snapped my head toward her, indignation flaring, and dragged the fork lazily through the remaining crumbs.
I hadn’t known.
If I had, I would have helped. I would have celebrated. But Zaeran never told me things like that. Never invited me in. I was always an afterthought—an inconvenience trailing behind her perfection.
A tight ache formed in my chest. I lowered my gaze.
Zaeran loved Mother. I had always known that. I had watched her shadow her every movement, mimic her posture, her tone, her cold precision.
She did not simply resemble Mother.
She became her.
“You do not touch anything left unattended,” Zaeran said coolly. “Food or otherwise.”
My shoulders stiffened.
Then she adjusted her cuffs and added, almost carelessly,
“But considering your age… what? Fourteen? I cannot imagine why I expected decorum.”
The fork slipped from my fingers and struck the marble with a sharp clatter.
Every time.
She never missed the chance—to remind me how young I was. How small. How lesser. As if my birth order were a crime. As if wanting her approval were a flaw.
Some wounds never healed.
Zaeran smiled, satisfied.
“I have a council meeting,” she said, gesturing toward the ruined counter. “I expect this cleaned by the time I return.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
Her footsteps faded down the hall.
She glanced back once.
I did not.
I was already hurting. She had accomplished what she came to do.
Zaeran Drevnov—precise, untouchable, her words leaving wounds no one ever saw.
I wondered, not for the first time, what had made her this way.
She would never tell me.
Not me.
I looked once toward the space she had occupied, then turned to call for a maid.
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