“I understand why you acted as you did, Aufelia, and after much reflection, I have chosen not to impose any punishment upon you, physical or otherwise.”

  Fermina’s voice, soft and measured, offered a calm amidst the discomfort of what had become the most awkward supper reunion I had ever witnessed. We were seated among those whose positions had been recently reasserted or reluctantly accepted—the defeated, reduced to silence, their shame weighing heavily upon the room. Those fortunate enough to dine with the Lord Duke had fought fiercely for their right, while those relegated to the second shift had been appeased with little more than tokens of consolation. Yet, this was not even the second shift, but the third, an insult draped in the guise of formality. Although the meal itself remained sumptuous and plentiful, the few of us left behind were, in essence, the last to feed—like the lowest beasts in a pack, gnawing at the remnants.

  Under such ignominious conditions, the table remained largely silent, with diners keeping to themselves, eating for mere sustenance and hastening their departure from this table of the humiliated, their gestures of courtesy reduced to mechanical rituals.

  Among the subdued company were the de Irchard sisters, their presence explained due to the prolonged time it had taken for Princess to join them in the hall. Her delay had necessitated the bandaging of her left hand, for her middle and ring knuckles bore the mark of a scrape. Wich such a reasonable excuse for their tardiness, they were spared from dwelling upon thoughts of inferiority.

  Princess, however, remained unresponsive. She stared blankly at her plate, absently stabbing at it with her fork as though she could not bring herself to engage in the act of dining.

  She had rejected every attempt at reasoning, consumed by the conviction that I would eventually seize permanent control of her body, unchecked by any potential safeguard. Her anxieties were exacerbated by the knowledge that the one person capable of aiding us, Magister Thorban, was also the individual most likely to hand us over to the Sisters of Light in a desperate attempt to shield himself from their wrath. No other soul within the estate held even a fraction of knowledge regarding theurgy, much less the intricate consequences of a ritual gone awry.

  As a demonstration of my good faith, I had been tasked with finding someone to whom I might divulge our secret. Failing that, Princess would take matters into her own hands, interpreting my reluctance as a sign that I had never intended to help her at all. My choices were limited. Few would risk the pyre for Princess, and among the possible confidants were Tirrha, Kyolhan, Riatna, and Fermina. Tirrha was not present. Kyolhan, my brother, would likely push for me to take full control of Princess’s body, merely to regain his sibling; he was, by all accounts, the worst option to prove my intentions. Riatna would expose our secret too easily, the risk was too great. And then there was Fermina—sweet, innocent Fermina—whose endangerment was repugnant to me, though she was undoubtedly our best option.

  Fermina was clever and composed. She could keep a secret. She genuinely cared for Princess and would not hesitate to sacrifice me if it ensured her sister’s safety. Moreover, she might even prove to be an invaluable ally. Yet, all this paled in comparison to the dishonor of placing her in harm’s way merely to soothe Princess’s baseless fears.

  Yet, if I did not tell her, Princess would.

  “See? You’re not in trouble!” Rascal chimed in, her cheerful voice a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere. She sat beside us, the sole source of light in an otherwise dreary room.

  “I have discussed this matter with Master Kyolhan,” Fermina added, her tone careful. “He was… sympathetic to our situation.”

  “He laughed when Fermina told him you punched the snot out of Gurrow,” Rascal whispered in clarification, containing a giggle.

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  “Nevertheless, the offending party will not face punishment for their actions,” Fermina continued, her discontent quite clear. “I do not agree with this decision, but if it will prevent further conflict, so be it. I have been assured that we won’t be troubled again. If that is not the case, you are to inform me immediately.”

  Fermina’s words were brief, and she pressed the matter no further. In the relative silence that dominated the room, it was difficult not to overhear the rare exchanges of others, even inadvertently. Murmured conversations floated across the table—barely audible, lacking clarity, and shrouded in vagueness. One such murmur stood out—a female voice, seated some three chairs to Princess’s left. She spoke of witchery, of nocturnal disturbances, claiming that her end table had inexplicably shaken during the night and that the culprit remained undiscovered. It was nonsense, of course, mere superstition born of idle minds.

  I pleaded with Princess for more opportunities to address her demand, catching glimpses of our reflection in the polished silverware, but it was futile. She had become as cold and unresponsive as the cutlery itself, nearly convincing me that she could no longer hear my voice.

  The sisters retired early that evening, but Princess found no solace in sleep. She tossed and turned beneath the covers, her restlessness manifest. Long after Fermina and Rascal’s gentle breaths indicated their descent into slumber, she slipped out of bed and wandered the halls, her thoughts swirling in the stillness of the night.

  I allowed her the silence she sought, refraining from intruding upon her inner turmoil. Eventually, she halted before a darkened window, her reflection barely visible against the darkened sky. It was she who broke the silence, her voice trembling.

  “I am scared,” she stated.

  Her words hung in the air, and I found myself at a loss for how to respond.

  “I fully understand what you are experiencing, Aufelia, but that does not justify hasty decisions.”

  “Hearing you speak like that is what scares me the most,” she confessed as our blood turned cold in our veins. It was no lie. “Dubart, I… want to believe you, I really do, but it is so hard. What if you really take over and I disappear? What if I die and… nobody ever finds out I am gone? That is so terrifying that I can’t hold it in.” Her tears flowed freely down our cheeks. “There would be no one to notice, no one to mourn me. Riatna would even be happier; I don’t think you can understand how this feels.”

  “I shall never let that come to pass, Aufelia, not on my family name. Whatever it takes, I shall leave this body and restore your life to you. That is my solemn vow.”

  “How can you even say that? How can I believe it? Y-you’re saying that you are willing to die for me? T-that can’t be true! I wouldn’t if I were in your place!”

  “Aufelia, when I prepared the theurgic ritual you saw backfire upon me, I had already accepted the likelihood of my death. I knew it was the most probable outcome, and I made peace with it then and there. My life was miserable, and I accepted its end. This is not about self-sacrifice; I am already dead, merely existing on borrowed time, striving to do what is right.”

  “And what is right exactly, Dubart?” her tone was accusatory.

  “I must readily admit to indulging, and repeatedly, while in control,” I confessed, recalling the times when our wills had clashed, as they did even now. “I realize this, and despite my intentions, I am still merely human. Your… concerns are valid, no matter what I say,” I came to discern while talking.

  “Then I’m really hoping you can understand why I can’t fully trust you. Maybe you are telling the truth, but even if you are, you can’t and shouldn’t trust yourself. It’s like you say, you’re only human. When faced with death… I would not even blame you if you were too scared to follow through. I get that I may have to force you. I am also so scared of that. Dubart, believe me, I wish there was another way so badly.”

  She was right. I could proclaim my readiness to face oblivion, but could I, in truth, confront it without fear? Would I be as fearless as to stare Death itself on its face and accept the end? Would I falter in my final moments, succumbing to cowardice? There was no veritable evidence either way.

  “Will you do what I asked you? Will you… really tell someone?” she asked tentatively, her voice a quiet prayer.

  “I shall,” I resolved. She needed an ally, someone who could hold me accountable—someone who could ensure I kept my word.

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