The torchlight wavered after the door shut.
The echo of the slap stayed behind like iron on her skin.
Violet did not cry at first.
The world felt slowed, the air syrup-thick.
Her mind ran in circles: this isn't her, she can't… she cared once.
She remembered the pale woman who used to visit the cottage when Maria was baking bread. The same voice that had praised her handwriting, that had brought ribbons and tiny glass charms. The same Calla who had knelt once and said, you look so much like your father.
"Mother," Violet whispered, and her voice broke on the word.
Calla turned back, elegant even in cruelty. "Still clinging to that?"
The tone was so smooth it hurt worse than a blow.
"I am your daughter."
Violet's breath came ragged. "Mama said—she said you looked after me, that you sent for me, that—"
"Maria," Calla repeated the name as if tasting something sour. "That woman would call mercy motherhood if it made her feel righteous."
Violet shook her head, the chains pulling tight. "You visited. You cared. You—"
Calla laughed then, quiet but shaking the air. "Cared? When I looked at you my skin crawled. Those eyes, that hair. Every reminder of what should never have been."
Her hand rose again, deliberate, and another slap landed. Violet gasped. The sound was sharp and final.
"You can't mean that," she said, the words sliding out between sobs. "Please don't mean that."
Calla crouched so their eyes met. "I meant every word. You were a mistake dressed as hope. Every time I saw your face I remembered the price of weakness."
The words shredded what little breath Violet had left. She pressed her forehead to the floor, whispering nonsense fragments—Maria's prayers, Garrett's name, the tune Luciel had hummed once. None of it reached her.
"You must be thirsty," Calla murmured. She unstoppered a flask and tipped it against Violet's lips.
The water came fast, too cold, spilling down her throat. She coughed, swallowed, gasped for air.
When she looked up again, tears blurred the torchlight. "What did I do?" she asked. "Tell me, please. What did I do?"
Calla tilted her head, studying her as one studies a cracked mirror. "Your sin is pretending to belong to me."
"I don't understand—"
"You're not my blood," Calla said. Her voice turned flat, administrative. "You never were. I endured that lie because it was useful."
Violet's mouth trembled. "Then why tell me you'd come back? Why promise—"
"Because you listened." Calla stood, wiping her hands as if cleaning dust from silk. "Because you believed anything I said."
The light shifted at the doorway. Footsteps approached, light and measured.
Another girl stepped into the cell—taller, posture perfect, wrapped in royal blue trimmed with silver thread. Her hair was the rich dark of polished wood, her eyes the same deep amethyst as the Haroth crest embroidered at her throat.
Calla's expression changed instantly; her face softened. "Velanor," she said, and her voice, which had been steel moments ago, melted into pride.
The girl regarded Violet with polite curiosity. "This is her?"
"Yes," Calla answered. "The shadow that lived in your place."
Velanor's gaze flicked over Violet's chains, her tangled silver hair, her bruised cheek. "She looks frightened," she said calmly.
"She should." Calla's tone was almost fond.
Violet stared between them. "Your… daughter?"
Calla smiled, perfect and rehearsed. "My only one."
"No," Violet whispered. "You're lying again."
Calla turned her head slightly. "You think love is truth? Love is convenience, girl. Maria loved you because she needed someone to love. I pretended because I needed a secret kept."
Velanor folded her hands. "You pitied her?"
"I hid her," Calla said. "So they wouldn't find what they were truly hunting. And she mistook it for affection."
Violet's heart pounded. "So I was never—?"
"Never part of this blood," Calla said. "Never wanted. You were a cover. A decoy left behind to rot in peace."
Velanor's gaze didn't waver. "She believed otherwise all these years?"
"She was raised by stories," Calla replied. "Stories are useful until they start asking questions."
Violet shook her head violently, silver strands catching the light. "Maria said you cared! She said you watched over me even when you couldn't be there!"
Calla looked almost amused. "Maria always had a gift for comforting lies. Did she tell you how she begged me to take you away? I refused. I told her you'd only bring ruin."
The words hit harder than the slaps had. "She begged you…"
"Yes," Calla said softly. "And I left you with her. Out of pity. Out of disgust. The same thing, really."
Violet's tears came slow and hot. "Then why now?" she asked. "Why bring me here if you hate me so much?"
Calla glanced at Velanor. "She needed to see the who was the shadow that lived for her sake."
Velanor's mouth curved faintly in smug.
Calla touched her daughter's shoulder, the gesture tender. "Good. Then wait outside, my heart. I'll be a moment."
Velanor inclined her head and stepped back through the door, her perfume lingering in the air.
When she was gone, Calla faced Violet again. The warmth vanished. "You see now?"
Violet could barely breathe. "You used me," she said, the realization raw. "You used my life for your lies."
Calla didn't deny it. "Every house keeps its ghosts somewhere." She reached out and brushed a lock of silver hair from Violet's face. "Yours just talks too much."
Violet flinched away. "You'll regret this," she whispered. "Someday you will."
Calla smiled without humor. "Regret is for people who doubt their choices."
She turned, the hem of her gown whispering against the stones. "Rest, child. The guards will come for you soon. We'll decide what to do with you after my daughter is crowned."
The door closed behind her with a hollow click.
Violet stayed kneeling long after the footsteps died.
Her breath came in shallow pulls.
She thought of Maria's face—kind, lined with years, smelling of smoke and flour. The hands that had held hers when nightmares came.
That was mother. That was home.
She pressed her bound wrists together until the skin split, until the pain reminded her she was still flesh.
"She lied," Violet whispered into the dark. "But Maria didn't."
A faint sound answered—water dripping somewhere distant, a reminder that time still moved.
She lifted her head, eyes catching the dim gleam of her Jack ring's hidden glimmer beneath the grime. It flickered once, as if remembering her.
"I'll live," she murmured. "Even if they wish I hadn't."
The torch outside guttered. The cell sank back into shadow.
And in that silence, her heartbeat steadied—slow, stubborn, unbroken.