Calla stayed through the evening, as she always did—or always had, in the life Violet had already lived.
She sat by the fire with Maria, speaking in that gentle, musical voice about the capital's weather, the Empress's health, the cost of maintaining her position. Her hands moved gracefully as she spoke, every gesture measured, every smile timed perfectly.
Violet sat in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, watching.
*She's good at this,* Violet thought. *So practiced that even Maria can't see the rot beneath.*
Maria laughed at something Calla said, her face bright with the warmth of sisterhood. She never noticed the way Calla's eyes flickered toward Violet every few moments—calculating, assessing, like one checks meat hanging to cure.
But Violet noticed.
She noticed everything now.
The way Calla's smile thinned when she looked at her. The way her hand hesitated before touching Violet's shoulder, as if the contact itself was distasteful. The way her voice dripped false honey when she said, "You look so pale, little bird. Have you been resting as I instructed?"
Violet's fingers curled into the blanket until her knuckles went white. "Yes, Mother."
Liar. Murderer. Monster... Violet cried in her mind.
"Good girl," Calla murmured, brushing a strand of dyed-black hair from Violet's face. The touch made her skin crawl. "You must take care of yourself. Your constitution is so… fragile."
"My constitution is fine. It's your poison that makes me weak." She clenched her teeth.
Violet forced herself to smile—small, sickly, the perfect imitation of the dying child she was supposed to be. Inside, her mind churned like a winter storm.
She's going to give mama the medicine. The same vial. The same lie.
Calla reached into her satchel and pulled out a small glass vial, its contents dark and viscous like old honey mixed with ash. She handed it to Maria with a theatrical sigh. "Here. This batch should last through the month. Make sure she takes it every night before bed. Without fail."
Maria accepted it like a holy relic, her expression full of desperate gratitude. "Thank you, Calla. We wouldn't know what to do without—"
"Family takes care of family," Calla interrupted smoothly, her scarred half-face catching the firelight in a way that made her look like something carved from wax.
Violet's stomach twisted into knots, "Family. You don't know what that word means."
Her nails bit into her palms. The pain helped her stay still, helped her keep the mask on.
Dinner followed the pattern Violet remembered with sickening clarity.
Maria served stew—thick with root vegetables and strips of rabbit meat Garrett had trapped that morning. The smell should have been comforting. Instead, it made Violet's throat close.
Garrett ate in methodical silence, his eyes occasionally drifting toward Violet with the kind of concern that comes from watching something slowly die. Calla ate with perfect manners, dabbing her lips between delicate bites, the picture of refinement.
And Violet sat there, staring at her bowl, seeing two timelines at once.
This is the night she dyed my hair again. This is the night she told me people feared my white hair. This is the night she wove another thread into the web that would strangle me.
Maria's hand landed gently on her shoulder. "Eat, Littlebird. You need your strength."
Violet lifted the spoon mechanically. The food was warm, but it tasted like ashes and old blood. She swallowed without chewing much, counting seconds until this performance could end.
Across the table, Calla watched her with eyes that gleamed like polished stones—pretty, hard, empty.
She's checking. Making sure the medicine is working. Making sure I'm dying on schedule.
But Violet didn't flinch. Didn't break. She ate in silence, each bite an act of defiance she couldn't yet voice.
Finally, as the fire burned down to embers, Calla rose.
"I must return to the capital," she said, pulling her white cloak around her shoulders like a shroud. "I'll visit again soon. Take care of her, Maria. She's so very delicate."
Delicate.
Violet's jaw clenched hard enough to make her teeth ache.
Maria walked Calla to the door, thanking her again, promising obedience. Garrett nodded once—always a man of few words—his expression unreadable as stone.
Then Calla was gone, her footsteps fading into the winter dark like a receding poison.
Violet sat by the fire long after the door closed, staring into the dying flames.
I'm not delicate. Not anymore.
That night, Violet lay in bed, eyes open, listening to the house breathe around her.
Maria's soft snores. Garrett's occasional shift of weight. The wind scratching at the shutters like fingers trying to get in.
She pressed her palm flat against her chest and took a slow, experimental breath.
No burning. No tightness. No cold creeping through her veins like winter roots.
I'm not sick...
The realization hit her like cold water. In the first life, the poison had worked slowly—years of cumulative damage, eating her from the inside out. But now she was seven again, and her body was whole. Reset.
The medicine hasn't had time to work yet. I'm still healthy.
A wild, dangerous energy surged through her small frame.
She slipped from bed without a sound, moving like a shadow across the rough wooden floor. She pulled on her coat—too big, always too big—and eased the door open.
The night air bit her face, sharp and clean. Snow crunched softly under her bare feet. She walked until the cottage became a distant shape behind her, until she stood in a clearing where moonlight pooled like spilled milk.
Then she stopped and closed her eyes.
Mana.
She'd felt it before—threads of heat and light woven through everything, through air and blood and bone. In her first life, the curse had choked it, twisted every spell into agony.
But now…
She raised one small hand, palm open, and whispered words Mr. Raven had taught her in another world, another life.
(FIREBALL)
The air shimmered. Heat bloomed in her palm—bright, fierce, *hers*. A sphere of flame materialized, crackling with raw power that made her fingers tingle.
Violet's eyes snapped open, wide with shock and something fiercer.
It worked.
She threw her hand forward. The fireball shot through the air like a tiny comet and struck a dead tree at the clearing's edge.
The explosion was deafening.
The trunk shattered in a burst of fire and flying splinters. Flames roared high before settling into hungry embers. Smoke curled into the black sky like a ghost ascending.
Violet stood frozen, staring at the destruction her small hand had wrought.
I did that. Me.
Her breath came fast and shallow. She looked down at her trembling hands—hands that had once been chained, beaten, made to beg.
I have power. Real power.
For the first time since waking in this cursed second chance, she felt something other than fear or grief.
She turned back toward the cottage, the firelight from the ruined tree casting her shadow long and dark across the snow.
The Winterbeast comes in winter. It cripples Papa. It starts everything falling apart.
Her small fists clenched until her nails drew blood.
Not this time. This time I'll kill it first.
She started walking back, her steps light but purposeful. The cold didn't bite anymore. The darkness felt like an ally now.
I'll train. I'll learn every spell. I'll hunt every monster in these woods if that's what it takes.
And when that beast comes, I'll tear it apart myself.
She reached the cottage and paused at the threshold, looking back at the distant glow of dying embers.
You wanted me weak, Calla. You wanted me dead and forgotten.
Her lips curved into something sharp and cold—not quite a smile, more like a blade being drawn.
But I'm still here. And this time, I know how the story ends.
So I'll write a different one.
She slipped back inside. The door closed without a sound.
In the darkness of her small room, Violet lay down, her mind still racing with plans and possibilities.
For the first time since the loop began, she didn't dream of chains or scaffolds or Velanor's blade falling.
She dreamed of fire consuming snow.
She dreamed of hunting.