Matrona didn't speak. She moved fast—too fast.
Her hand tore through the air and cracked across Aurelia's face with such force it echoed off the palace walls.
Aurelia didn't scream. She couldn't.
The pain stole her breath.
A sharp, metallic taste filled her mouth—blood.
Her ears rang. The world went dim, distant. For a split second, it felt like she'd been ripped out of her own body.
Then she crumpled.
Her knees slammed the cold marble floor. Her palms scraped against it, trembling. Her cheek throbbed violently, already swelling. She blinked hard, but her vision blurred—tears, pain, humiliation.
Matrona stood above her, expression twisted in rage, as if Aurelia's very existence was a personal offense.
Aurelia didn't move.
She could feel the blood sliding slowly from her lower lip to her chin.
Then came the words—spat like venom:
"How dare you. Who do you think you are?"
Matrona stormed forward.
Before Aurelia could flinch, iron fingers clamped down on her face, nails digging into her cheeks. She was yanked upright with inhuman strength.
Aurelia's feet scraped the floor as Matrona slammed her against the wall.
The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs—her head thudded back hard. Stars burst behind her eyes.
"Tenebrarum is mine. He is mine," Matrona hissed, her face inches away, her breath hot and furious.
But her words felt hollow. Useless.
Like something said too late to someone already stolen.
Aurelia's heart slammed against her ribs, not just from pain—but from the sickening clarity of what those words meant.
Tears spilled without dignity, streaking down her blood-smeared face. But the worst wasn't what showed. It was what she felt.
She wanted to die.
Not just wished, not just hoped—prayed.
That Matrona would hit harder this time.
That the next blow would shatter her skull against the wall.
That her ribs would snap clean through her lungs.
That death—cold, silent, merciful—would finally take her.
Because surviving this meant waking up again.
In his world.
In her place.
With them.
Her trembling fingers didn't even rise to shield her face. What was the point?
She didn't scream.
She didn't speak.
She waited for the end.
---
"Don't ever cross my path again," Matrona snarled.
She flung Aurelia down.
Her head cracked against the floor with a sickening thud. Blood oozed from her temple, slow at first, then in a thin, steady stream. Her face was already unrecognizable—lips torn, one eye swelling shut, cheekbones painted red with fresh bruises. She tried to move but her limbs twitched uselessly, every joint screaming.
She choked, then coughed. A spray of blood splattered the marble—thick, dark, and warm. Her own breath turned on her, collapsing in wet rattles in her chest.
Matrona stood over her, eyes wild, chest heaving.
"Tenebrarum is mine," she spat, eyes gleaming like firelight on broken glass. "Do you understand, filth? He. Is. Mine."
Then she turned and stormed out, the door slamming so hard it shook the chandelier above, dust falling from the ceiling like ash after a fire.
Aurelia didn't scream.
She couldn't.
She lay in a growing pool of her own blood, heartbeat fluttering like a dying bird's. Her vision blurred. A soft ringing filled her ears. Her body no longer felt like hers. Just meat. Torn, useless, left behind.
Fira rushed in, breath ragged like she'd been the one dragged through a beating.
"No, no, no…" she dropped to her knees beside Aurelia, hands trembling as she tried to lift her. "Gods, what did she—"
But Aurelia wrenched herself away, curling inward on the cold, blood-streaked floor like a wounded animal. Her arms wrapped tight around her ribs. Her body shook, but no sound came out. Just the harsh rasp of breath through broken lips.
Fira hovered, panic rising in her chest.
"I bet you did this on purpose," she snapped—anger a mask for fear. "Do you even know what he'll do to Matrona if he finds out? Do you know what you've started?"
Aurelia didn't speak.
Fira pressed on, voice breaking, "I don't understand why you want to die so badly. There was no struggle—no scream. You just let her hurt you. Just let it happen. Anyone else would be grateful to be in your position. But you—"
"I'm not," Aurelia breathed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. But it cut through the air like glass.
"I'm not grateful. I'm not lucky. Do you even understand what it's like to wake up and wish you hadn't? To breathe and feel like you're already buried?" Her voice trembled, but her eyes finally lifted to Fira's. "Living without a reason… it's not living. It's waiting."
She rolled onto her side, her movements slow and stiff, each one a war against the pain. Blood matted her hair. Her fingers shook as they tried to push herself up, but she didn't stop.
"I bet you don't know what that feels like," Aurelia said. "But I do."
Fira said nothing. Her eyes dropped to the floor. For a moment, the silence was heavier than the blood on the ground.
She was a dark human too—bred in shadow, taught to serve, to endure—but still… she didn't understand this. Not this kind of broken.
She'd seen others cry, beg, scheme for survival. Seen them crawl for the scraps of Tenebrarum's approval, lie to themselves just to feel safe. But Aurelia wasn't begging. She wasn't crawling. She was breaking, openly, recklessly—like she didn't care who saw.
And Fira didn't know why it hurt to watch.
Aurelia was the first human she'd seen who didn't fight to live—but not out of strength. Not out of pride. It was worse than that. It was like she didn't see any point. Like dying wasn't something she feared—but something she wanted, quietly, like a whispered prayer tucked between ribs.
She wasn't special like the other girls.
Just different.
And that made her dangerous in a way Fira couldn't name.
There was no beauty spell on her. No practiced sweetness. No fear polished into obedience.
Just rawness. Rage. That dead kind of sorrow that didn't cry for help—just waited for the end.
And somehow… Fira knew.
Something deep, cold, and instinctive told her: Tenebrarum might fall for Aurelia.
Not the way mortals fall in love.
But the way darkness finds itself in another shape—recognizing its reflection in someone else's ruin.
If love was even possible for the demon prince…
It would look like obsession. Like ruin wrapped in tenderness.
And it would begin with a girl too broken to beg for mercy.
---
To be continued...