The morning after the ball dawns gray and wet. A storm broke sometime in the night, and the cold seeps into my bones like rot. I'm curled on the stone floor of the scullery, still dressed in the thin gray gown from last night.
They didn't even let me change.
Sorelda locked the door and threw me in here like trash after she slapped me.
Sixteen percent.
That's all my pain is worth so far. I once ruled armies. Commanded magic. Loved a king. But now… sixteen percent.
I don't know what happens when it reaches one hundred.
Maybe I die again.
Maybe I become a god.
Maybe I remember what it felt like to matter.
---
A key rattles. The door groans open. Clarisse's sharp little voice cuts the silence.
"Mother says you're not allowed upstairs. You smell."
She wrinkles her nose, holding a scrap of bread at arm's length.
I don't move. I watch her fingers, delicate and manicured, dip the bread into a bowl of honey. She licks it slowly before tossing the rest onto the floor near my feet.
Like I'm a stray.
"You should be grateful," she chirps. "If Father hadn't dragged you back from that temple, you'd be dead in a ditch. Useless as ever."
I remember Clarisse as a child—how I braided her hair when the maids were too tired. I taught her to read. She once called me her "moon-mother."
Now she calls me it.
I say nothing.
She leaves, and I eat the bread from the floor like the beast they want me to become.
Pain Conversion: 19%
system dormant.
---
The next day, Sorelda sends a servant boy down. He's trembling. He doesn't meet my eyes.
"Th-this came for the lady… um… Elira."
A scroll. Unsealed. Mockery again. The paper is damp and crumpled as if it passed through too many hands.
Summoned.
To the Royal Court of Solvane.
A public hearing.
Charges: vagrancy, improper conduct, suspected theft of property from noble estate.
My hands tremble as I grip the parchment.
They are dragging me into the lion's den.
This isn't punishment.
It's a trap.
They want to strip what's left of my name—Elira's name—publicly. With nobles watching. Maybe even with Kaelen on the throne, pretending to mourn me with one hand and destroy me with the other.
Pain conversion: 23% Pain
No skill. No strength.
Just humiliation, stacking higher.
I fold the parchment and press it to my chest like a prayer.
Let them try.
---
The next day, Sorelda has me fitted for court.
The gown is not new. It's one of Clarisse's old one, repurposed and slashed at the hem. The sleeves hang crooked, the neckline too low, the laces too tight. It's designed to provoke whispers, to expose my collarbones like a courtesan, to remind every eye that I am not worth tailoring for.
As the maids dress me, one whispers: "You used to be beautiful, you know… like a goddess in the stories."
I hold her gaze in the mirror.
I still am.
Just not the kind they pray to anymore.
Outside the courthouse, the cobblestone square is crowded.
Nobles line the stairs. Traders whisper from market stalls. Peasants crane necks. Everyone wants to see the girl that had the gutsto steal from a noble. A washed-up noble girl turned servant, dragged to court by her own kin.
As I'm escorted in by guards, a woman stops me.
At first, I think she's just another bystander—plain cloak, windblown hair.
But then I see her eyes.
Seren.
Once my maid. Once my sister in all but blood.
The woman who used to hum lullabies to me in the war camps, who braided my hair with coins and thorns and told me, "Never bow unless you mean to break their neck."
She looks at me.
I look at her.
She doesn't speak.
But something in her hand changes position. Her sleeve shifts—just enough for me to see the small silver crest sewn into the cuff.
A sigil.
Not of the palace.
Of the underground.
She turns and melts into the crowd before I can react.
My blood chills.
Is she watching me… or testing me?
Either way, I'm not alone.
Not anymore.
> Pain Conversion: 25%
---
The courtroom is not regal. It is built like a cage. Stone walls, narrow windows, a raised dais where the king's advisor—not Kaelen himself—presides.
The charges are read aloud. False theft. Disruption. Vagabond misbehavior.
I stand still, neck exposed, words sticking like thorns in my throat.
They want me to beg.
To weep.
To collapse.
But I do none of it.
I watch them.
The advisor's eyes narrow. "You are silent, girl. Have you no defense?"
No one ever defended me, I think.
Not when I was queen.
Not when I was burned.
And I will never beg again.
"I'm guilty," I say softly.
Gasps flutter.
"But not of theft."
I lift my chin, and for the first time since I died, I smile.
"I'm guilty of survival.