I did not look back.
If I did, I would break—and breaking was not permitted.
The corridor unfurled before me like a spine of white marble, torchlight gleaming along its length until the floor resembled polished bone.
Every step rang too loudly, as though the palace itself were recording my failure. The armor that had once grounded me now felt invasive, obsidian plates constricting my breath, a second skin I could not tear away.
I had argued.
Not pleaded—I had never learned how—but reasoned, pressed, demanded explanations that were never offered.
Mother had listened.
Then she had dismissed me.
Atarae would be sent away by sundown.
My jaw tightened until pain flared along my teeth.
Her voice still lingered in my head—measured, precise, unyielding—severing each objection with calm efficiency. No context. No reassurance. Only decree.
Final.
Behind me, I felt Griselda’s presence without needing to see her. It hovered like a blade poised between my shoulders. She followed at a deliberate distance, her steps even, controlled. She did not attempt to stop me again.
Not yet.
I cut sharply into a side corridor and halted. Griselda stopped as well. When our eyes met, she did not look away—golden gaze steady beneath the wavering torchlight.
“You said it so easily,” I said, keeping my voice low. Taut. “As though you were commenting on the weather.”
“Because sentiment will not save her,” she replied.
My hands curled at my sides. “She’s fourteen.”
“She is gifted,” Griselda said. “Which makes her prey.”
“She doesn’t even know what she is,” I snapped. “She sneaks cake. She hums lullabies. She still believes the world is kind.”
“And that,” Griselda said quietly, “is why she must forget.”
The words settled between us, dense and merciless.
Erase her memories.
I had heard the phrase before—in council chambers, murmured alongside traitors and failed mages. It was not execution. It was erasure. A careful unmaking, framed as mercy.
“You’re asking me to destroy her,” I said
Griselda stepped closer. “No. I am asking you to keep her alive.”
A bitter laugh escaped me. “By turning her into a stranger?”
“By sparing her from what would come otherwise,” she answered without pause. “Do you believe Seraphyne would hesitate once she understands what Atarae is? Do you think the courts would show restraint because she smiles sweetly?”
The truth struck hard.
That was the cruelty of it—it was true.
I looked down the corridor leading toward Atarae’s wing. Toward the kitchens. Toward the fragments of a childhood I had already lost, and was now expected to sever from her as well.
“She’ll hate me,” I said, barely above a breath.
“Yes,” Griselda replied. “If she remembers.”
The implication was clear.
If Atarae forgot, the hatred would have nowhere to land—
Except on me.
I swallowed.
I had been shaped for this. Mother had seen to that. Every withheld affection. Every sharpened expectation. I was not raised to be cherished—I was raised to endure.
Atarae had been spared.
Until now.
“Mother knows,” I said. Not a question.
Griselda inclined her head. “The Empress sanctioned it. She will not give the order. She will not carry the stain.”
Of course she wouldn’t.
That weight, like all others, would be mine.
I straightened. The armor settled as though it recognized the choice before I voiced it.
My reflection flickered along a polished wall—violet eyes hollow, expression too composed for the violence I was about to commit.
“She trusts you,” Griselda added, more softly. “When Atarae looks at you, she sees safety.”
That struck deeper than any accusation.
I closed my eyes.
I saw crumbs at her lips. Heard her humming. Felt the way she watched me as if I were unbreakable.
I opened my eyes.
And nodded.
“When?” I asked.
Griselda exhaled once. “Before sundown.”
I turned and resumed walking. My steps were steady again, each one a measured count toward the inevitable.
Before sundown, my sister would forget me.
Forget Mother’s voice. Forget the forest. Forget the crown she was never meant to wear. Forget the danger circling her like carrion birds.
Forget me.
Good.
If someone had to be remembered as a monster, I would accept the role.
Monsters survive.
And if erasing myself from her mind was the cost of keeping her alive—
Then I would pay it.
Without hesitation.
Without mercy.
Without regret.
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