The cell stank of old iron and rot.
Light leaked through the cracks between stone bricks, thin and trembling. Violet sat on the ground, back pressed to the damp wall, wrists cuffed in bands that pulsed faint blue with suppressive mana. Every breath carried a taste of metal.
The guards hadn't spoken much—only dragged her through the halls, muttering "Pretender" under their breath. She'd asked about Calla twice and both times had been answered with the back of a gauntlet.
The door creaked open. Two guards stood beyond the bars.
"The girl that asked for Lady Haroth," one said. "She's awake."
The other snorted. "Should've slit her throat when we found her. Asking about dead royals and vanished servants—she's either mad or dangerous."
"Quiet," Violet hissed, rising. "Where is she? Where's Calla Haroth?"
The first guard's expression didn't change. "Lady Haroth hasn't been seen for four years. Not since the Purge of the Heirs. The three royal heirs died that same year. You pick a fine time to pose as one of their kin."
Her pulse stopped. "Pose?"
He smirked. "You claimed to be her daughter, didn't you? That's treason—pretenting blood with the royal family employees."
"I didn't—" Violet tried to shake them off, but their grips tightened with every try, leaving a mark.
They took her bow, and satchel... Leaving the Jack Ring and trinklet by her.
The cell door slammed shut again. Their laughter faded down the corridor.
She sat for a long while, knees drawn to her chest, the chill seeping into her bones.
Four years ago.
The same night her village was drowned in the bloodbath and she was stranded from her parents. The same night she traveled between realms.
It couldn't be a coincidence, a strange doubt came to her mind with concern, "maybe they came for her too.."
The sound of movement broke her thoughts. A soft cough came from the neighboring cell.
"Quite a welcome, isn't it?"
The voice was male, low and dry, the kind that carried its own shadow.
Violet turned. A man sat on the floor of the next cell, hair tangled and clothes torn. His armor, though dirt-stained, still bore faint sigils of a soldier. His wrists, too, were bound.
"You're… not with them?" she asked.
He smiled faintly. "If I were, I wouldn't be rotting beside you. Name's not important. Let's say I asked the wrong questions to the wrong people."
"What kind of questions?" Violet plopped with her head down.
"The kind that get you thrown in here for listening."
She studied him for a moment, unsure. "They said my mother disappeared four years ago. Maybe you know something."
His gaze sharpened. "Your mother?"
"Calla Haroth," she whispered. "She worked for the royal family. I've been looking for her ever since the night my village was attacked, I was separated by mama and papa that night too."
"Four years ago," he murmured. "The same year the first Prince died."
Violet nodded slowly. "I think whoever attacked my village was looking for her too, why would anyone do that?"
He leaned closer to the bars, eyes narrowing. "Then you're tangled in something bigger than you think. Don't trust the guards. These days, half of them take orders from whoever pays fastest."
Her stomach tightened. "Why would they lie?"
"Because the capital's been rotting from inside since the prince and princess started dying," he said flatly. "They call it peace, but it's chaos dressed in uniform."
She stared at the floor. "Then how do I find her?"
"You don't need too" he said, then smirked when she glared..."just let someone with dirtier hands help you, you seem someone interesting, lady will be pleased to see you"
He shifted, wincing slightly. Then, to her surprise, he bit hard on his back tooth. The crunch echoed in the silence.
Violet flinched. "What are you—"
He spat something small into his palm—a tiny shard of crystal shaped like a tooth.
( SUMMON CARRIER )
He flicked it toward the narrow slit of a window high on the wall. The crystal landed against the sill, shimmered, then twisted into a tiny rat of smoke and light. It vanished into the world beyond.
Violet blinked. "What—"
"Old trick," he said. "Carries messages faster than birds. Give it a few minutes."
Before she could reply, heavy steps echoed from the corridor again. The guards returned.
One barked, "You, girl. The captain wants you."
Violet swallowed spit and tried to get away from the gate.
He unlocked the cell door and reached for her arm. Before his fingers touched her, the man in the next cell spoke.
"Hey, ironhead," he drawled. "Forgot to check my bindings."
The guard turned. "Shut it, rat—"
The man broke the cell bars and lunged, faster than his wounds should've allowed. His shackles glowed, snapped apart, and he drove his shoulder into the guard's chest. Steel clashed; the other guard shouted.
"Run!" the man hissed, seizing Violet's wrist.
The corridor blurred. Torches spilled light on cracked stone as they fled. Behind them came the clang of armor and the shout of pursuit.
They burst through a side gate into the night, they ran into the alleys and the men followed.
Violet's lungs burned, but the stranger didn't slow. He pulled her through narrow alleys until the sound of boots faded. Then, at last, darkness swallowed them both.
"Where am I? It's all dark?" Violet thought...
When she woke, her mouth was covered, the scent of dust and old wood pressing against her senses.
A hand loosened the cloth. "Don't scream."
Light bloomed slowly—a faint blue shimmer from a lamp stone. She blinked, her eyes adjusting.
They were in a wide underground room, half-ruined, scattered with crates and blankets. Across from her sat a girl—no, a young woman—wrapped in blood-stained robes, her arm bandaged in strips of torn cloth.
An amputated arm with eye patch on the left one, a crutch beside her.
Her face was pale as snow, her hair silver-white even in the dim light, and her right eye—violet, deep and cold—mirrored Violet's own.
Violet froze, "who is she? Why does she look like me?"
It was like looking at herself—older, wounded, and weary.
The girl raised her head. Her voice was soft but steady. "You're awake."
"Who… are you?" Violet managed, she was still staring at face, it felt like she was looking at the mirror that reflects the future rather than the present.
The stranger smiled faintly. "Beatrice. Fourth heir of Isvalar. Second daughter of The Empress and The Emperor."
Violet's heart skipped. "A princess?"
Beatrice nodded. "What's your name?"
"Violet." she answered, Violet turned hesitant, calculating her words with more in mind than in her tongue.
The princess tilted her head. "Violet," she took a pause, she squinted her eyes, "Strange. You look familiar."
Violet hesitated, then removed her cloak. Her eyes glimmered faintly in the lamplight—violet, unmistakable.
Beatrice's expression shifted from curiosity to stunned disbelief, she held her crutch and tried to stand up, the man helped her and she moved closer to violet, staring at her face, "…did you dye your hair?"
Violet blinked. "How do you—"
Beatrice turned toward the shadowed corner. "Undo it."
The man who had freed Violet—now standing guard—nodded and muttered a short incantation.
( LIGHT OF TRUTH )
The air rippled.
A faint silver light crawled through Violet's hair, peeling away the black dye strand by strand until the true color returned—moonlit silver, radiant even in the gloom.
Beatrice took a step forward, eyes wide, lips parting but no words forming.
she swept her finger through her hair and held hers close to it.
"This can't be…" she whispered.
Violet looked at her now close to her gaze, if not on the Beatrice in front of her, she would've believed someone has stolen her hair.
Her lips trembled in weird horror and shock.
Before Violet could answer, the sound of distant shouting echoed from above.
The man at the door turned sharply. "We've been found."
Beatrice snapped out of her trance, her tone shifting to command. "Seal the entrance."
He nodded and moved toward the stairs.
Violet caught one last look at the princess's face—still pale, trembling slightly.
Beatrice's whisper followed her as the light dimmed, almost too soft to hear.
"It can't be… you."
***
Meanwhile...
A wounded guard limped through a narrow passage, clutching a bloodied arm. His breath rasped as he reached a small altar at the end of the hall. From a satchel, he pulled a slim instrument carved from black bone—
It was a Sakeli, he pushed the message into its mouth and it started coiling.
Far away, in a room draped in shadows and gold, a gloved hand reached out as the air shimmered. A tiny paper folded itself into the waiting palm.
The figure opened it. One line, written in haste, flickered in the candlelight:
"a young girl, violet eyes, came looking for my lady Calla..."
A low chuckle filled the room.
"Found you, my little bird."