The corridor was silent as I carried her.
Too silent.
Atarae’s body was light in my arms—far lighter than it should have been—yet every step felt as though I were dragging the weight of the world behind me.
Her platinum curls spilled over my forearm, loose and disordered, strands catching against the dark metal of my armor as if trying to anchor themselves to something solid.
I did not deserve to carry her like this.
The doors to my chambers opened with a muted creak. I stepped inside and closed them behind me, the sound final, irrevocable.
The room was dim, curtains drawn tight, the air heavy and still. It felt wrong to bring her here—into my space—when I had failed her so completely.
I crossed to the bed and lowered her onto the sheets with care, as though she were made of glass.
My hands lingered at her shoulders, then her wrists, half-expecting her to stir—to wake, to laugh, to scold me for worrying too much.
She didn’t.
Her chest rose and fell softly.
Peacefully.
As if nothing had been taken from her.
My legs gave out. I sank to my knees beside the bed, armor clinking softly as the strength left me.
My fingers trembled as I brushed a curl away from her face. Her skin was warm.
Alive.
And empty.
“I’m sorry… so sorry…” I whispered, though I knew my sister could no longer hear me. “I shouldn’t have let this happen. I should’ve done something—anything.”
The words tasted like ash.
I gathered her unconscious form against me, pulling her into my chest, tightening my grip as though I could physically hold her memories inside her.
As though I could force the world to give them back if I held on tightly enough.
But the memories were gone.
The one thing I feared—the one line I swore would never be crossed—had been erased before my eyes.
I pressed my forehead to hers. “I will watch over you,” I vowed, my voice breaking despite myself. “No harm will come to you. I promise this.”
The promise felt fragile.
What if I failed again?
The thought struck like a blade.
No.
My jaw tightened. My hands curled into fists against the fabric of her dress. I lifted my head, vision blurred—not only with tears, but with something sharper.
Resolve.
I would rip the world apart before letting it happen again.
Every council. Every law. Every so-called necessity that dared touch her—I would tear through them all if I had to.
She was my sister.
My responsibility.
My failure.
And I could not lose her again.
I remained there long after the candles burned low, kneeling beside her bed, armor heavy on my shoulders, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest as though it were the only thing keeping me tethered to the world.
Because if they ever tried to take her from me again—
I would not be so obedient.
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