The walls hummed like iron throats swallowing light.
Two months had passed, or maybe more—time had folded into itself like wet paper. The cell had no sound but the dripping from a cracked pipe above and the scraping of boots when they brought her food. Violet had stopped counting the days the moment her voice stopped echoing back.
At first she had screamed. Then whispered. Now she only breathed.
She sat with her knees to her chest, arms chained loosely enough to move but not enough to reach her face. The air smelled of stale bread and cold stone. The single lamp that hung from the ceiling dimmed at odd intervals, like it was breathing with her.
Her name sounded strange even inside her head now—Violet Holloway. The sound of it had become something foreign, a shape her lips didn't quite remember how to make.
Then came the voice.
"Still alive, little stray?"
Velanor.
Every visit began with those words, as if she delighted in testing whether Violet would answer.
Violet turned her head, vision swimming. The fifth princess of Isvalar stepped into the lamplight, dressed in satin dark as oil. Her hair, black and glimmering like obsidian glass, fell to her waist. Her eyes—black too, reflective, empty—looked down at Violet as though she were examining a specimen rather than a person.
Even Calla bowed when Velanor entered. That was what unnerved Violet most—the woman she once thought of as a mother shrinking back before someone barely older than her.
"You've gone quiet," Velanor said softly, walking in a slow circle. Her voice was smooth, deliberate, the sort that chose cruelty as carefully as perfume. "When you first arrived, you screamed for days. Now you sit there like a doll with a broken string."
Violet said nothing. She didn't want to give her the satisfaction of sound.
Velanor stopped behind her and leaned close enough that her breath brushed Violet's neck. "Do you know why I come here?"
Violet swallowed. "To make me hate you."
Velanor laughed—a sound too bright for the room. "No. To see if you still hope."
She moved closer, her shadow spilling across the floor. "Hope is the sweetest part of suffering. You strip it too quickly, and the rest loses flavor."
Each visit was the same: questions without purpose, answers twisted until they meant something else. Sometimes Velanor would speak for hours, not to Violet, but around her—as if her words were incantations that shaped the air itself.
Once she'd said, 'My mother fears me because she knows I see her for what she is—a coward with burned skin and a spine that bends too easily.'
And Calla, standing at the doorway, had flinched but said nothing.
Now, Calla entered behind her, carrying a silver basin. The lamplight caught her half-melted face, skin marred and rough like cooled wax. The other side, untouched, still bore the delicate beauty Violet remembered. The contrast made her unreal, as if two people had been stitched together.
"Look at me," Calla said. Her voice trembled. "Do you see what your mother's folly did?"
Violet lifted her head slowly. "Maria…" she whispered. "She—"
"She burned us all," Calla hissed. "She killed your father, she killed me, she killed herself for nothing."
"That's not true," Violet's throat cracked around the words. "She saved me. She saved you."
Calla's hand trembled before she set the basin down. Water sloshed, catching the light. "Saved?" she repeated softly, the word twisting into a laugh that scraped the air raw. "Do I look saved to you?"
Velanor's hand came to rest on Calla's shoulder. "Mother, don't waste your pity on the imitation. She clings to lies to make herself bearable."
Violet's breath caught. "Imitation?"
Velanor turned to her, head tilted in that elegant, mocking way that only those born to power could manage. "You still don't understand, do you? All this time, you've chased ghosts. You thought you were someone's daughter, someone's meaning. You were an accident born of another's ambition."
Calla's expression flickered—guilt, disgust, something nameless.
Velanor walked closer, the hem of her gown whispering across the stone. "Do you want to know what happens to accidents in royal houses?"
Violet shook her head weakly, eyes stinging.
Velanor crouched, her voice almost kind. "They're erased. Not by swords or fire, but by silence. A name never spoken is the cleanest death there is."
She straightened, motioned toward Calla. "Show her."
Calla hesitated. "Velanor, perhaps—"
"Show her."
The woman's burned fingers closed around the basin's edge. She lifted it slightly, letting the water catch the light. For a moment Violet thought she would be made to drink again—the cruel ritual Velanor enjoyed, forcing her to swallow the metallic taste of still water as if it were mercy.
Instead, Calla stepped forward and tipped it gently. The cold spilled down Violet's chin and collar.
"You're thirsty," Calla said quietly, the words brittle. "Drink, my dear."
Violet coughed, sputtering, but still tried to speak. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because," Velanor said, smiling faintly, "you keep asking why—and that's the only question we can still answer."
The princess paced a slow line before her, black skirts trailing like smoke. "You see, I am the fifth princess of Isvalar. The rightful heir since my siblings and their pretenders are gone. And you…" she pointed one gloved finger at Violet, "…you are the error that could stain my claim."
"I never wanted any of this," Violet whispered.
Velanor's smile didn't reach her eyes. "That's what makes you dangerous. Those who want nothing are hard to control."
Calla said nothing, staring at the wall. Her shadow trembled against the light.
Violet turned to her, desperate. "You loved me once. You visited me when I was small. You told me I reminded you of someone."
Calla's mouth tightened. "I lied. Every time I looked at you, I saw her—the one who burned my life to ash."
Maria.
The name didn't leave Violet's mouth, but it echoed inside her like a wound reopening.
"She's dead," Calla said simply. "Your precious Maria and that stubborn fool Garrett—they both died for a lie. And for you."
"No…"
Velanor clasped her hands behind her back. "See how mercy rots the heart, Mother? You kept her alive out of pity. You should have let the fire finish her."
The room felt smaller. Violet's breath came shallow, the air thick and hot despite the cold.
"Why?" she whispered finally. "Why do this? Why tell me now?"
Velanor's smile sharpened. "Because you asked what your sin was."
Violet's eyes lifted, wet and wide.
"Your sin," Velanor said, "is being born in my place."
The words fell like stones.
Calla looked away, her half-burned face twisting in something like shame, something like relief.
Violet stared at them both, the world tilting. "That's not true… it can't be…"
Velanor took a slow step closer, crouched again, and brushed a finger along the chain at Violet's throat. "You were supposed to die that night. But fate—fickle as ever—chose to spare you. And now here you are, wearing the wrong face, carrying the wrong blood, living the life that was meant to be mine."
Silence hung heavy.
Then, softly, she added, "The court will never know, of course. The last princess is still me."
Violet's breath hitched, half sob, half gasp. "You're lying."
Velanor smiled faintly, straightened, and turned toward the door. "Believe what you need to survive."
The lock clicked behind her as she left, her perfume lingering like smoke.
Calla lingered in the doorway a moment longer, half in shadow. Her eyes flicked back once—tired, hollow—and then she followed her daughter out.
The door closed.
Violet sat still for a long time. The water on her skin turned cold. Somewhere above, a bell tolled once, then again, marking an hour she no longer recognized.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "If I was meant to die… then why am I still here?"
No one answered.
Only the lamp flickered, throwing her shadow against the wall—thin, trembling, but unbroken.