The first thing I noticed when I awoke was the silence.
Not the quiet hush of a library or the soft rustle of wind through garden trees—but the suffocating silence of a home that has already forgotten you. I sat up in bed, breath shallow, eyes darting about the old nursery. The quilted sheets beneath me were warm, untouched by dust. The window shutters were thrown open, sunlight spilling across the floor in golden slants, and for a fleeting moment, I could almost pretend it had all been a nightmare.
Except it wasn't.
I remembered everything.
Carina's voice, laced with venom. The vial. The pain. The light. The past. The letter. I clenched the covers in my small fists. Somehow, impossibly, I had been thrust back into my younger self—with every scar, every betrayal etched into the recesses of my mind.
Seven years old. Again.
Footsteps echoed beyond the nursery doors—soft, calculated, too light to be a servant. I slipped from bed, padding across the room on silent feet. My hand touched the handle of the door, but I hesitated. I already knew who it was.
Davis.
He always walked like that. The quiet self-importance of someone who thought his silence gave him control.
I backed away from the door, heart thudding against my ribs. My mind screamed conflicting things—he's your brother, he came to see you—but I shoved them aside. I knew better now. Michael had been the only one who ever came for me.
Everyone else watched me fall.
The door creaked open. Davis stepped inside, wearing that forced, polished smile he had learned from Father. He had always been too young to wear it so well—it looked like it might crack his face in two.
"Az," he greeted, as if we shared something sacred. "You're awake. That's... good."
I stared at him. "Did someone tell you to come?"
A flicker of something crossed his expression, but he recovered quickly. "No. I just thought you might be scared after what happened yesterday."
Ah. So this was before Carina locked me away. Before Father had remarried. Before I had been deemed a threat.
I tilted my head. "What happened yesterday?"
He hesitated again. Then: "You fell. Carina said you were climbing the banister and slipped. Hit your head. You've been sleeping for almost a full day."
A lie.
Carina had pushed me. That day had branded itself into my bones, but no one had believed me. Not then. Not ever.
"Where's Michael?" I asked, changing the subject. The only one I wanted to talk to.
"Still with the army," Davis said, walking slowly around the room, inspecting the bookshelf like he was avoiding my eyes. "He wrote to Father. Said he'll try to visit when he can."
I said nothing. Because there was nothing to say.
"Are you okay?" he asked, glancing back at me, softer now. "You've barely spoken."
I didn't answer.
Let him think me broken. Let him underestimate me. They all would, soon enough.
He stepped closer, kneeling to my level, like that might make me feel safe. "We can talk about Carina if you want. I know she can be... difficult."
"Difficult?" My voice was soft. Controlled. "She tried to kill me."
His eyes widened, but not from shock. From fear. Not of Carina. Of me.
"You must've hit your head harder than we thought," he said quickly, rising. His voice was nervous now, tight around the edges. "Try not to dwell on bad dreams, Az."
I gave him a blank smile. "Of course, brother. I'll try harder to be the quiet little doll you want me to be."
He blinked, unsure of how to respond. Then, without a word, he turned and left.
As the door clicked shut, I exhaled slowly. So Davis already doubted me, even now. He'd never trusted me—not when Carina started whispering to Father, not when I tried to speak the truth. He had always played both sides, hiding behind the illusion of peace while keeping himself comfortably removed from the consequences.
I would not make that mistake again.
The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the manor. The staff moved like ghosts—familiar faces blurred by time and bitterness. I wandered the halls alone, tracing the path I knew would lead me to the west wing.
Michael's study.
It was still locked. Of course it was. Father had sealed it the day Michael left, declaring it "unfit" for use until his return. I placed a hand against the doorframe, forehead resting against the cool wood.
He had known. Somehow, even back then, he must have known.
He'd hidden the letter where no one else could find it. Where even Carina couldn't slither her way inside. But I knew. Because I'd read it once. And now I'd read it again. Not today. Not yet. But soon.
A chill raced down my spine.
Voices floated from the sitting room—Carina's laughter, high and musical, followed by Father's deeper murmur. I crept to the edge of the hallway, peering around the corner.
She was wearing my dress again. The blue one. The one with the embroidered white lilies. Her hair was curled, her cheeks flushed with innocence, her smile a perfect weapon. Father leaned close as she whispered something in his ear, and he chuckled warmly.
They didn't even notice me watching.
I stepped back into the shadows, teeth clenched. My hands trembled, but not from fear.
This time, I wouldn't cry.
This time, I would watch. I would wait. And when the time was right, I would strike—not with screams or tantrums or childish pleas.
No.
I would break them in silence.
Later that night, beneath the veil of moonlight, I crept to the window seat in my room and cracked open the loose floorboard beneath it.
The letter was still there.
Still tucked into the hollow Michael had carved into the floor when he used to read to me from this very spot. The seal was unbroken. The parchment untouched.
I pressed it to my chest.
I would keep his secrets.
And I would make them all pay.
Not with rage. Not with fire. But with precision. With patience. With cold, calculated vengeance that would make even Carina wish she had killed me when she had the chance.
I didn't open the letter. Not yet.
Even now, I felt unworthy to touch the words Michael had written. I had remembered pieces of it—phrases carved into the inside of my skull—but something in me recoiled from breaking the seal again. As if reading it would make this real. As if holding it now, in this fragile moment, meant I had to accept that he was gone. Gone to war. Gone from this house. Gone from me.
But not dead. Not yet. Not this time.
I slid the letter back into the hollow with trembling fingers, replaced the floorboard, and returned to my bed. The shadows pooled around the corners of the room like watching eyes, and I let them keep their vigil while I lay stiff beneath the covers, listening to the stillness.
I didn't cry. I wouldn't let myself.
The tears I had wasted the first time had bought me nothing but more chains.
The next morning, Carina brought me tea.
That was new.
I had already dressed—silently, deliberately. I hadn't touched the ribbons she used to braid into my hair. I didn't want her fingers on me. Not now. Not ever again.
The porcelain teacup clinked softly as she set it on the table by the window. She moved with the same practiced grace she always had, draped in white silk like some angel from a storybook. But I knew the truth. Angels did not poison children. Angels did not smile with blood still on their hands.
"Morning, Azriel," she said brightly, as if yesterday hadn't happened. As if she hadn't tried to kill me. "You slept in. I thought you might like something warm."
I eyed the tea. Lavender and honey. My favorite.
She remembered. Of course she did. It's easier to poison someone when you know what they like.
"Thank you," I said, soft and measured. I made no move toward it.
Carina didn't sit—she rarely did, not when she thought she held power. She stood by the window instead, gazing out at the garden with a wistful sigh. "Father says the roses are dying again. It's a shame. Michael always kept them in bloom."
At the mention of his name, I looked up.
Carina's lips curled slightly. She saw it. She wanted me to look. She always had.
"I miss him too," she added, voice low, falsely tender. "He was the only one who ever took time with you, wasn't he?"
The room pulsed.
Don't speak his name like it belongs to you.
I said nothing.
Carina turned from the window and moved toward me. I fought the instinct to flinch. Her fingers reached for my hair, but paused an inch from my cheek.
"I could braid it, if you want," she offered, all sugar. "You look like a mess."
I stared her dead in the eyes. "I'll manage."
She laughed—sharp and brittle. The porcelain mask slipped just for a second, and I saw the wolf beneath. She lowered her hand.
"Well then," she said, brushing imagined dust from her skirt. "Suit yourself."
As she turned to leave, I reached out and gently touched the teacup. It was still warm.
"Carina?" I said, quiet as falling ash.
She paused in the doorway.
"You shouldn't poison people who know how to watch."
She froze.
Only for half a second. But I saw it. Her spine stiffened, her hand twitched where it gripped the doorframe, and when she turned, that perfect smile had fractured just slightly at the corners.
"I don't know what you mean," she said sweetly.
I smiled back, all teeth.
"I know."
She didn't visit me again for three days.
I used the time well. I tested the doors at night. Memorized servant routes. Counted footsteps between the guards who watched the eastern corridor. They weren't there for me—not yet-but but soon, they would be. Once whispers started to spread. Once Carina saw I wasn't playing the part anymore.
Once she realized her poison hadn't worked.
I spent every night at the window seat, rereading the lines of the letter in my memory:
If you find this, it means things have gone wrong. I pray they haven't. But if they have, Az—listen to me carefully. You cannot trust anyone in this house but yourself. Not even Davis. Not even Father. Especially not her. You know who I mean.
He had left it here for me because he had known. Not about the poisoning. Not about the betrayal. But he had known something was coming. Michael always had that instinct—the quiet kind of foresight no one believed until it was too late.
I had believed him too late the first time. I wouldn't make that mistake again.
The third night, Davis returned.
He knocked this time.
I didn't answer, so he opened the door anyway. I was perched on the edge of my bed, staring out the window, moonlight frosting my hands.
He hesitated at the threshold. "Az..."
I turned slightly, just enough to look over my shoulder. He was holding something behind his back.
"I brought you a book," he said awkwardly. "One of the ones Michael used to read to you."
I simply blinked.
He stepped forward and placed it on the floor beside me. It was the old leather-bound volume of fables, the one with the wolf on the cover and the jagged silver script. I used to cling to that book like a lifeline.
Now, it felt like a knife dressed in velvet.
"I thought maybe we could read it together," Davis said quietly.
I tilted my head. "Why?"
He looked taken aback.
"Because..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Because you've been alone."
"I've always been alone," I whispered.
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
I stood, walked past him, and closed the door in his face. Not a slam. Just a firm, quiet click. Then I locked it.
The book sat there on the floor, unopened.
Later that night, I stared at the ceiling in the dark and wondered how long I could keep pretending. How long could I wear the same blank face and recite the right words? How long before the walls closed in again? Before Carina made her next move.
The tea had gone cold on the window table.
I picked it up. Took a single sip.
And smiled.
No poison.
This time.
But next time?
She would try again.
And when she did—when she slipped and thought me too blind, too broken, too small—I would be ready.
Let them all think I'm just a little girl.
Let them all believe the poison hadn't worked.
Let them watch me grow.