The cottage door swung open, bringing with it a gust of winter air and the scent of citrus perfume.
Calla stepped inside, shaking snow from her white cloak with practiced grace. Her eyes swept the room—noting the fire, the table set for three, the warmth that spoke of family—and her smile never wavered.
"Maria," she said warmly, moving forward with arms outstretched. "Dear sister."
Maria rose slowly, her smile tight. "Calla. We weren't expecting you until tomorrow evening."
"I made better time than anticipated." Calla embraced her, the gesture perfect in its execution. "I couldn't bear to wait another moment. Not when my little bird is here."
She pulled back, hands on Maria's shoulders, studying her face. "You look tired. Are you well?"
"I'm fine," Maria said. "Just… surprised."
"Good surprises, I hope." Calla's gaze shifted past her, landing on Violet.
Her smile softened into something that might have fooled anyone who didn't know better.
"There you are," she murmured, crossing the room. "My precious girl."
***
Violet sat frozen at the table, eight years old and small for her age, hands curled in her lap.
She forced herself to smile. "Hello, Mother."
Calla knelt before her, bringing them eye to eye.
Her hands came up, cupping Violet's face with a tenderness that made Violet's skin crawl.
"Let me look at you." Calla's thumbs brushed her cheeks. "Have you been well? Have you missed me?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Such a good girl." Calla's fingers moved to Violet's hair, threading through the black strands near her scalp. "But your roots are showing again. We'll need to dye it soon."
Violet nodded silently.
Calla's hand moved lower, touching Violet's neck, her shoulder, checking her pulse as if she were livestock at market. "And your color… still so pale. Have you been taking your medicine?"
"Every night," Maria interjected quickly. "Just as you instructed."
Calla glanced at her, smile unwavering. "Good. But I see she's still unwell." Her fingers pressed against Violet's wrist, counting heartbeats. "Weak pulse. Cold skin. The illness progresses despite our efforts."
She sighed, standing. "Which is why I've brought a new formulation."
From her satchel, she produced a small glass vial—the liquid inside darker than before, almost black.
Maria's hands twisted in her apron. "Perhaps tomorrow would be better. She's tired from chores—"
"All the more reason to give it now," Calla said smoothly. "Her body needs strengthening after such exertion. Surely you agree, sister?"
The words were kind. The tone was steel.
Maria's jaw tightened. "Of course. But she's about to sleep. I can give it to her in the morning—"
"I want to see her take it myself." Calla's smile didn't shift, but something cold flickered in her eyes. "To ensure it's done properly. You understand."
***
Violet's heart hammered.
She could refuse. Make an excuse. Pretend to sleep right here at the table.
But Calla's gaze was sharp, calculating. If Violet resisted too much, suspicion would bloom like rot in fruit.
She'll know something's changed. She'll watch me closer. She will...
"I'll take it," Violet said quietly.
Everyone turned to look at her.
Calla's smile warmed. "Such a brave girl."
Maria's face went pale. "Violet—"
"It's okay, Mama." Violet forced her voice steady. "I want to get better."
Garrett, who had been silent until now, shifted in his chair. His hand rested on the table, knuckles white.
Calla uncorked the vial. The smell hit immediately—bitter, medicinal, with an undertone of something rotten.
"Just a small sip," Calla coaxed, bringing it to Violet's lips. "For your health."
Violet's hands trembled as she reached for the vial.
Her mind flashed—the cell, the chains, the years of slow decay as this poison ate her from within.
She tilted the vial.
The liquid touched her tongue—thick, oily, burning.
She swallowed.
***
It hit like a fist to the gut.
Violet gasped, the vial slipping from her fingers. Calla caught it smoothly.
"There," Calla murmured. "All done. You did so well, my little bird."
But Violet barely heard her.
Pain bloomed in her chest—sharp, spreading, like ice cracking beneath skin. Her vision blurred. Her hands flew to her ribs, pressing hard.
It's different...
In her first life, the poison had accumulated slowly. Small doses over years, her body adapting gradually to the agony.
But now—after months without it—the concentrated medicine hit her system like lightning striking dry wood.
Her stomach twisted. Bile rose in her throat.
"Violet?" Maria's voice, distant and frightened.
"She's fine," Calla said. "Just tired. The medicine works quickly. She needs rest."
Garrett was already moving. He scooped Violet into his arms, her small body trembling against his chest.
"I'll take her to bed," he said, voice tight.
"Of course." Calla stepped aside gracefully. "I should be going anyway. Early start tomorrow."
She moved toward the door, but Garrett's free hand shot out, gripping her wrist.
"Wait."
Calla turned, eyebrow raised. "Yes?"
Garrett stared at her—this woman who smiled while his daughter suffered in his arms.
His jaw worked. Words struggled to form.
Finally: "Thank you. Mother, thank you so much..."
The words tasted like ash.
Calla's smile was radiant. "Anything for family."
She pulled her hand free gently and left, the door closing softly behind her.
***
Garrett carried Violet to her room, Maria following close behind.
He laid her on the bed, pulling blankets over her trembling form.
Her jaw was clenched so tight he feared her teeth would crack.
Her fists gripped the sheets until her knuckles went bone-white.
But she made no sound.
Maria knelt beside the bed, tears streaming. "Baby, please, tell me where it hurts—"
"Don't," Violet gasped. "Don't… let her… know…"
"Know what?" Maria's voice broke. "Violet, what's happening?"
But Violet's eyes had already closed, her breathing shallow and quick.
Maria looked at Garrett, desperate. "What do we do?"
Garrett stared at his daughter—
Oblivious to him, this child who'd traveled alone to save strangers, who'd frozen a warrior with magic that shouldn't exist, who now suffered in silence rather than give her torturer satisfaction.
"We keep her safe," he said quietly. "And we find out what that woman is really giving her."
***
Hours passed.
Maria eventually fell asleep in the chair beside the bed, exhausted from worry.
But Garrett stayed awake, sitting on the floor, holding Violet's small hand in his massive one.
Her jaw remained clenched. Her fists never loosened. Even in sleep, she fought.
He watched the firelight play across her pale face and saw something he'd seen in soldiers after
battle—
the kind of pain that carved itself into bone, that taught you to suffer quietly because screaming changed nothing.
Where did you learn this, little bird?
He began to hum—low, rough, the melody old as the mountains.
The song his own mother had sung when winter was cruel and food was scarce.
"There once flew a bird with feathers of flame,
Cursed by the gods for forgetting their name,
If ever she soared, if ever she rose,
The fire would consume her from wingtip to toes.
So she lived in her nest of stone and of thorn,
Watching the sky from dusk until morn,
She dreamed of the clouds, of the wind, of the moon,
But the curse held her down like a chain and a tomb.
Until one dark day came a wider wings of night,
Vulture feathers like shadows and eyes burning bright,
He said, 'Little flame, if you wish to fly free,
Then climb on my back and put faith into me.'
She trembled and wept, saying, 'I'll burn, I'll fall,'
But the vulture just smiled and said, 'Better than never at all..."
Garrett's voice cracked on the last line.
He squeezed Violet's hand gently.
Violet's eyes opened—just a sliver, violet irises catching firelight.
Her lips moved, voice barely a whisper. "I'll fly on my own, Papa. Even if it burns me."
Garrett's throat tightened. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers. "I know you will."
Then, softer: "But you don't have to burn alone."
Violet's hand squeezed his—weak, trembling, but deliberate.
"You didn't hear the end, did you?" Garrett murmured, a sad smile tugging his lips. "Restless little bird."
He kissed her forehead.
Violet's eyes closed again.
But this time, her jaw loosened slightly.
Her breathing deepened.
And for the first time since drinking the poison, her fists unclenched.
***
Outside, snow began to fall.
In the village, Calla sat in the small inn, writing a letter by candlelight.
She shows continued dependence on medication. Dosage increased as planned. No signs of resistance or suspicion.
I'll keep my eyes on her, maintaining current schedule.
She signed it with a flourish and sealed it with wax.
Tomorrow, she would return to the capital.
And Violet would continue her slow, silent dying—exactly as intended.
***
But in the cottage, Garrett sat guard through the night.
And when dawn broke, Violet woke with fire in her eyes and steel in her spine.
The poison had hurt.
But it hadn't broken her.
And that made all the difference...