Chapter 6
1246 Words
The only thing I could do was...
End her suffering, end her pain, end her.
I knew what I was about to do at that time was cruel.
I knew that it'll only make me look like a murderer and also make people view me as the child who bit the hand that fed her.
But all that was meaningless compared to what was before me.
Zareth, The strongest woman.
Unable to move, unable to breathe properly.
So I did the unthinkable...
I reached for the dagger at my waist.
My hands trembled. Not from fear—but from the unbearable weight of what I was about to do.
The sharp edge gleamed under the dim candlelight, reflecting the only thing that mattered in this moment—her suffering.
This wasn’t mercy.
This wasn’t justice.
It was cruelty.
And yet…
She deserved better than this slow, agonizing end.
I pressed my forehead against hers, shutting my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice breaking.
Her lips curved into the softest smile. There was no fear in her expression, no regret. Only warmth.
She knows.
She already knew what I was about to do.
And she accepted it.
Tears traced silent paths down my cheeks as I raised the dagger, steadying my grip.
With a final breath, I plunged it into her heart.
A sharp gasp left her lips—then silence.
The life in her eyes faded as she exhaled one last, shuddering breath.
And then, she was gone.
I stayed like that for a long time, the dagger still buried in her chest, my body frozen, my mind empty.
And then, I laughed.
A hollow, broken laugh.
I had finally done it.
I had finally proven them all right.
I was cursed.
Minutes later, the door creaked open.
The doctor stepped in, expecting to check on Zareth’s condition.
Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks.
His breath hitched. His hands trembled.
A lifeless body lay on the bed.
A dagger buried deep in her chest.
And me—the cursed child—sitting beside her, drenched in her blood.
Silence.
Then, the sound of metal crashing against the floor. The tray he held slipped from his hands, the sharp clang cutting through the air.
His eyes, wide with horror, met mine.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t move.
There was no point.
The whispers spread like wildfire.
"She killed her."
"The cursed child murdered the woman who raised her."
"What did you expect from someone born from sin?"
I was dragged from the room, my hands bound behind my back. Their voices swarmed around me.
"Monster."
"Murderer."
"The King will decide her fate."
But I already knew.
No one would listen.
No one would care.
I had lost the only people who ever did.
________________________________
And that was how I was held captive for years in prison, branded like a criminal.
The searing pain of the iron against my skin had long faded, but the mark remained—a scar of their judgment, their hatred.
All prisoners were branded. A sign of disgrace, a warning to the world. But mine… mine was different.
A crimson flower.
Deep red, like blood.
Like a curse carved into my very flesh.
They whispered that it was proof of my sins. That the gods themselves had marked me for my betrayal.
But I knew the truth.
It wasn’t a curse.
It was the last gift Zareth had given me.
___________________________________
Back to the present
The guard beside me shifted impatiently, his grip on the spear tightening.
"The Queen asked you a question," he hissed, his tone laced with warning.
I said nothing.
I couldn't.
Not because I was afraid—but because I knew better.
Kind words, warm gestures… they meant nothing. I'd seen them before. I'd believed in them before. And in the end, they had crumbled like brittle glass in my hands, leaving nothing but scars.
I can't let history repeat itself.
Isabella sighed, stepping closer. "You poor thing," she murmured, reaching out as if to touch my cheek.
My body stiffened before I could stop it, a frown tugging at my lips.
Her hand hovered midair, hesitation flickering across her face before she slowly withdrew it. Her eyes softened, yet there was something else beneath the surface—something unreadable.
Then, she smiled. A gentle, practiced smile. "No need to be frightened," she said softly. "I am not your enemy."
But weren't they always?
The same words, the same warmth, the same feigned concern—I had seen it all before. And I knew how easily it could crumble into something cruel.
I lowered my gaze, unwilling to meet hers. I didn't see sympathy in her eyes.
Or perhaps... I refused to.
"You must be tired," Isabella continued, voice smooth as silk. "The dungeons are no place for someone like you. Come, let me offer you a proper room."
I almost scoffed. A proper room? A bed instead of cold stone? Was she offering me kindness or a different kind of cage?
The guards exchanged glances, waiting for my response. But I remained silent.
And so, Isabella made the choice for me.
"Take her," she said, turning on her heel. "Make sure she is well cared for."
The guards obeyed without hesitation, their grip firm—just enough to remind me of my place. A prisoner. A stain upon the kingdom.
At the head of the grand hall, the King remained silent, his presence overshadowed by the woman standing beside him. It was almost laughable. A ruler reduced to a mere shadow, as if Isabella had him wrapped around her delicate fingers.
She was a beauty, that much was undeniable. Golden hair cascading like silk, eyes shimmering with the same gilded hue—like molten gold. The kind of beauty that men, especially weak ones, would ruin themselves for.
The King was no exception. His thirst for beautiful women was well-known, his harem ever-growing. And among them… was my mother.
Zareth had once told me, in hushed tones, that my mother had been one of the rarest beauties on the entire continent of Azerith. Long, flowing white hair that gleamed like silver under the moonlight, piercing blue eyes set against porcelain skin. An ethereal beauty—one that had captivated a king.
But beauty meant nothing in a world like this.
Not when it only brought ruin.
I didn't know if it was a blessing or not that I took after her.
And moreover, the women. Isabella Ravenshire wanted something from me. That much was clear.
But what?
What could the Queen of Morvathia possibly want from a prisoner—an outcast, a supposed cursed child?
My existence had been nothing but a stain on this kingdom’s history. They shunned me, branded me, locked me away. And yet, here she was, offering me a place outside the dungeon, speaking with a voice laced in honey but edged with something sharper.
A test, maybe. A trick.
I kept my head down as the guards escorted me through the grand hallways of the castle. It had been years since I last walked these paths, yet the walls still whispered with familiar echoes—of hushed voices, of scornful glances, of the ghost of Zareth’s presence lingering in the air.
And now, under the rule of Queen Isabella Ravenshire, everything felt… different.
Colder.
She wanted something from me. That much I knew.
The only question was—what?
- Writer
