When Lorian came at noon, as he did every day, Sylvera was waiting. She sat cross-legged in the farthest corner of her bone-woven cage, spine straight, hands folded in her lap, the gag long removed, but her silence sharper than any curse.
She had begun to see him clearly now—not the beautiful lie he wore like a robe, but the thing beneath. And today, she saw the cracks. Small, subtle things anyone else might miss. But not her.
His shadow lagged behind him by a heartbeat, like it had to remember what shape to take. Where his feet touched the cold stone floor, there was no breath of frost—no condensation, no chill, as if even the natural world refused to acknowledge his presence. And always, always, the birds fell silent when he entered the courtyard above, their songs snuffed out mid-note, like nature itself held its breath when he passed.
He stepped into the chamber like a prince in a fairytale, every movement smooth, every smile practiced. He wore a deep green cloak today, embroidered with gold thread, the picture of royal ease. But Sylvera had stopped looking at the surface. She watched his eyes. She watched the way his fingers curled, too stiff, too slow.
"You're staring," he said at last, his voice light, amused, perfect.
Sylvera tilted her head slightly. Her voice, when she used it, came out smooth and even. "I was wondering… do you ever miss being alive?"
It was a simple question, but it struck like lightning.
For the barest flicker of a second, his face twitched—too quick for most to notice, but not her. Something passed through his eyes, too fast to name. Surprise? Pain? Anger? She couldn't tell. But it was real. The mask slipped.
Then, just as quickly, it returned.
Lorian laughed softly and reached up to adjust the high collar of his tunic. Black veins crept up his neck now, like cracks in porcelain, carefully hidden beneath folds of silk and charm. "What a strange question," he said with a dismissive smile. "Aren't we all just… borrowing these bodies anyway?"
His voice was still smooth, but the edges had frayed. Sylvera caught it—the forced ease, the way he wouldn't meet her gaze quite as long as before.
She said nothing more.
Because now she knew.
He remembered.
Somewhere, buried deep beneath the rot and the crown's poison, the man he used to be still flickered like an old candle, nearly snuffed but not quite gone.
And that gave her hope.
He stepped closer. Slow, smooth, like a shadow drifting into her light. The cage didn't creak, didn't tremble, but Sylvera felt the air grow colder as he neared. Lorian crouched before her, his fine clothes barely brushing the bone-laced floor, and leaned in.
Too close.
His breath was cool, smelling faintly of herbs. His eyes, once so easy to get lost in, gleamed faintly violet in the gloom. "Don't get so curious about me," he whispered, voice low and almost tender.
"It's dangerous."
His fingers brushed her jaw, feather-light. "Are you still in love with me, Sylvera?" His words were soft, almost sorrowful, like a lover begging for a truth he feared. "Tell me… how did you discover this?" She didn't flinch.
Not this time.
Her heartbeat thundered in her chest, but her face stayed calm. "You told me," she said, her voice steady. "In the way your shadow moves too slow. In the way the birds go quiet. In the way your smile never quite reaches your eyes.
" She leaned forward just enough to meet his gaze, her own eyes burning. "The dead don't hide well. Not from someone who loved them." For a heartbeat, something flickered behind his expression. Hurt? Guilt? Hunger? She couldn't tell.
But it was there.
Then it was gone. He stood, dusting off his tunic like nothing had happened, but his voice lacked the usual polish. "Careful, little witch. Love has made you sharp." She smiled faintly. "And you dull."
Lorian froze. Just for a second. Her words had struck deeper than she could have hoped. He hadn't told her. Not about the shadow. Not about the birds. Not about the way death clung to him like a second skin. And yet—she knew.
His eyes narrowed, not with anger. He said nothing. Didn't ask how she'd learned. Didn't press. Instead, he turned away slowly, shoulders tighter than before, and walked toward the stairwell without another word.
The door to the cage groaned open behind him. He didn't lock it.
He didn't need to.
Sylvera stayed where she was, hands in her lap, gaze fixed on the open doorway. Freedom, it seemed, was just a step away. But she didn't move. Not yet.
Sylvera sat beside a puddle of black water that had seeped through the cracks of her bone-woven cage, its oily surface rippling under flickering candlelight. Shadows danced across the stone, but some moved when she didn't. She stared into her reflection—it looked like her, but wrong. Her cheekbones were sharper, her skin pale and strained, like the castle's rot had crept under her skin.
But it was her eyes that stole her breath. In the dark water, her pupils shimmered violet—not brown. Not entirely human.
She blinked, hoping it was a trick of the light, but the glow remained. "When did you mark me?" she whispered.
At first, silence.
Then the walls exhaled, slow and heavy, like ancient stone groaning in its sleep. The castle breathed—and it answered.
"The first touch.
The first glance.
The first lie you believed."
The words coiled around her like smoke, and memories crashed in. The Wounded Knight—Lorian's sudden appearance, injured and regal, was too clean, too perfect. That meeting hadn't been chance—it was a trap. The Healing—how her magic had flowed into him, unresisted, like it belonged there.
And The Love—how quickly it consumed her. How deeply she needed his praise, his smile, his approval. It had felt like destiny. But it had been enchantment.
No potions, no spells spoken aloud—just touches, looks, and careful moments. Routine. Repetition. Slow erosion of self. He'd never forced her—he shaped her. Crafted her into exactly what he needed.
Until that final night, when she thought she'd chosen him. The warmth, the closeness, the way her heart beat with his. It had felt like freedom.
But it was a ritual. A seal. The spell's completion. "You were perfect," the castle whispered, its voice older than memory.
"Strong enough to be useful. Lonely enough to be grateful.
The ideal familiar."
Her hands curled into fists, nails cutting skin. Blood welled in half-moon shapes. The pain was real, but so was the betrayal—not just from him, but from herself. She had stopped questioning. She believed it—believed she was lucky, chosen, seen.
But all her choices had been his. Her desires, rewired. Her strength, bent. Her love, twisted into chains. She saw the web now—every moment laced with intent. And it burned. Not just with shame—but with rage. That spark inside her rose, steady now, no longer a flicker. He'd built her to be a tool.
But he'd made her too well.