Irene's laboratory was a cluttered sanctuary of glass and brass. Wetala apparatus bubbled and hissed on wooden tables, their contents shifting between shades of emerald and sapphire. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling like forgotten dreams, and books were stacked in precarious towers against every wall.
Sapphire sat on a worn leather chair, wincing as Irene dabbed a cool salve on the bruises around her neck. The coachman had been rough—rougher than necessary—and the purple marks were still fresh.
"Hold still," Irene murmured, her dark fingers gentle against Sapphire's cream skin. "You're lucky nothing was broken."
"I've had worse," Sapphire said, her voice hoarse.
Irene's sharp eyes flicked to the door, where the crimson-eyed man stood waiting outside, his severed arm now properly bandaged. She said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes.
Minutes passed in quiet tension. Finally, Irene broke the stillness.
"That man," she said carefully, "he did this to you, didn't he?"
Sapphire looked away. "It's complicated."
"Complicated," Irene repeated, her tone flat. "That's one word for it."
Sapphire was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a strange half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, she spoke again.
"Irene," she said, her voice light—almost joking—but with an undercurrent of seriousness that made the healer pause, "if anyone ever starts telling you that I'm a demon, you should run as far away as you can. Don't look back. Don't ask questions. Just run."
Irene's hands stilled. She stared at Sapphire with an unreadable expression.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly. "Sapphire, what happened to you?"
Sapphire opened her mouth, then closed it. The words were right there, sitting on her tongue like stones—I'm not who you think I am. I'm from another world. I died once before. I don't belong here. But she swallowed them down.
Not yet. Not now. Not to someone who might—
She forced a smile. "Nothing. I'm just being dramatic."
Irene saw the lie. She always did. But instead of pressing, she reached for the collar of her own tunic and pulled it aside, revealing a small tattoo on her clavicle—a crescent moon intertwined with a delicate chain.
"Look at this, Sapphire."
Sapphire's eyes widened. "What are you doing?"
"It's a slave mark," Irene said calmly. "Something you've long forgotten you own, but you do. I belong to your family, Sapphire. To you. So whatever you're hiding—whatever you're afraid to tell me—you can trust me."
Sapphire stared at the mark, her throat tightening. She reached out and gently touched Irene's clavicle, then closed her own hand over it.
"Irene," she said slowly, "I know I don't have the strength to free you—or any of the others. And honestly? I don't want to think of any of you as slaves. Not you. Not anyone."
Her voice grew steadier, almost hopeful. "You're worth more than that. You're worth ten of any noble who calls themselves 'master.' You have a voice, Irene. A mind. A will. And no one—no one—has the right to take that from you."
The speech hung in the air, earnest and raw. Sapphire looked at Irene with wide, hopeful eyes.
Irene was silent for a long moment. Then, without a word, she took Sapphire's hand—so different from her own, one pale and unblemished, the other dark and callused—and held it up.
"Sapphire," she said quietly, "look at our hands."
Sapphire did.
"They're different," Irene continued. "Your skin is light. Mine is dark. You were born to silk and servants. I was born to chains and hunger. You think differently. I think differently. We are not the same."
Her voice was gentle, but there was steel beneath it.
"You're a kind master, Sapphire. The kindest I've ever known. But you are still my master. And a slaver and a slave cannot be equal. Not because I don't want it—but because the world won't allow it. And giving me delusions of equality is crueler than any whip could ever be."
Sapphire's face crumpled. She pulled her hand back like she'd been burned.
"I'm not—" she started, but the words died in her throat.
Irene's eyes glistened. "I know you don't mean to be cruel. But that's the cruelty of your position, Sapphire. You don't even see it. Accept the creulty and simpl..."
Sapphire stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone floor. She reached into her pocket and pulled out three small crystals—pale blue, glimmering faintly in the lamplight—and set them on the table.
"These are for you," she said, her voice tight. "For your work. For your time. For—" She paused, her jaw clenched. "For everything."
She walked toward the door without looking back.
"Sapphire—" Irene called after her.
But Sapphire was already gone.
Irene stared at the crystals, then at the empty doorway. She touched the slave mark on her clavicle, her fingers trembling.
Did I push her away? she wondered. Was that the right thing to say?
A single tear slid down her dark cheek.
Or was it just the truth?
Two weeks passed.
The estate fell into a strange rhythm, quiet vigils by Viola's bedside, and the slow, suffocating weight of uncertainty.
Henry never left the room.
A servant brought food three times a day. A maid changed the water in the basin. But Henry stayed, slumped in the chair, his body wrapped in blankets that Marie had insisted on bringing.
He had barely slept. His beard had grown wild. His eyes were sunken.
But he waited.
And on the fourteenth night, in the brisk wind of the evening, Viola's eyes opened.
Her chest heaved massively as she jerked upright, her gaze wild and manic. She scanned the room with the instinct of a warrior—searching for threats, for enemies, for anything that might mean she was still in danger.
Then her eyes landed on Henry.
He was asleep in the chair, his face slack, his breathing deep and even. Viola's manic expression softened, replaced by something tender and warm.
She took a breath. Then another.
Not Regalia, she told herself. Not yet.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. She tested her balance—wobbly, but standing. Then she picked up a quill from the bedside table and let it fall.
It landed on the floor with a soft clatter.
Normal, everything is still normal. I'm alive.
She allowed herself a small, relieved smile.
I'm not dead. I'm not in Regalia.
She walked to the window, tearing off the bandages that still clung to her arms. The cloth fell away, revealing angry red scars that were already beginning to heal. She paid them no mind.
The window groaned as she pushed it open, and a cool night breeze rushed in, filling the room with the scent of damp earth and distant pine.
Viola stood at the window, gazing at the moon. It hung low and full, casting silver light across the secluded estate. The castle was far from the town—so far that she could see no lights, no signs of life beyond the stone walls.
Why did I ask for such a secluded place? she wondered. Was I always this afraid of people? Or did I just not want to be seen?
She held her arm up to the moonlight, letting the silver glow trace the scars that marked her skin. A soft smile touched her lips.
"Ars," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Leon. And all the rest."
The names hung in the air, carried by the wind.
"It seems I could not find the guts to come to Regalia to be with you all," she continued. "Maybe another day. Maybe when I'm ready. Maybe when I've—"
"Who are you talking to?"
The voice was sleepy, playful, and unmistakably Henry's.
Viola turned. Henry was sitting up in the chair, blinking owlishly at her, a grin spreading across his tired face.
"Vio," he said, his voice cracking. "You're awake."
Viola didn't answer. She crossed the room in three swift strides and wrapped her arms around him, lifting him from the chair like he was a child. She spun him in the air, laughing—a sound that was rusty and raw from disuse.
"Look at you!" she exclaimed, setting him down but still holding his shoulders. "You've grown so much! You even have a beard!"
Henry laughed, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm forty-five, you idiot. Of course I have a beard."
"Forty-five?" Viola's eyes widened. "Already? How long was I—"
"Two weeks," Henry said, his voice thick with emotion. "You've been out for two weeks."
Viola pulled him into another hug. "I missed you so much."
Henry held her tight, his body shaking with silent sobs. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red but his smile was bright.
"You're an idiot," he said. "You know that? An absolute idiot."
Viola grinned. "I know."
The next morning, the breakfast table was quieter than usual.
Marie had been pacing the hall for hours, her chestnut hair pinned up in a hasty bun. When she finally sat down, she looked at Henry with wide, worried eyes.
"Henry," she said, reaching across the table to take his hand. "Dear, you look terrible. We missed you so much."
Henry squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry, Marie. I couldn't leave her. I couldn't—" He paused, swallowing hard. "I couldn't leave the legend alone."
Marie's eyes softened. "Is she stable? Is she going to—"
Henry smiled—a genuine, warm smile that Marie hadn't seen in weeks. "You can ask her yourself. She's on her way."
Marie blinked. "What?"
As if on cue, the doors to the dining hall swung open.
Viola Irwin stood in the doorway, dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, her azure hair brushed back from her face. She looked tired, scarred, and thinner than she should have been—but she was standing. She was walking. She was alive.
The room went dead silent.
Sapphire froze mid-bite, her fork hovering between her plate and her open mouth. Her eyes darted to Viola, then to the door, then back to Viola.
That's her, Sapphire thought, her heart pounding. That's the woman the coachman's boss. That's the reason I'm—
She looked down at her plate, suddenly losing her appetite.
That's the woman who ruined everything. That's the woman whose subordinate almost killed me. That's the woman who made this whole mess—
She gripped her fork tighter.
And she doesn't even know what happened.
Viola stepped into the room, her eyes scanning the gathered faces. She saw Marie, and her expression softened. She saw Sapphire, and her brow furrowed—a flicker of recognition, of confusion—but she said nothing.
Then her gaze met Henry's.
And the two twins smiled at each other across the table, a reunion that was months overdue and yet somehow right on time.