The door clicked shut.

  Silence closed over the room like a lid pressed onto a coffin. Leon’s footsteps softened into nothing, swallowed by the marble corridor outside. The circular waiting chamber was too clean, too polished, too still — a place designed for judgment. The chandelier above them hummed with trapped heat, its orange glow reflecting in the polished black floor like fire caught beneath ice.

  Roland sat rigid in a velvet chair that felt like it was trying to smother him. Across from him, Anastasia swung her legs slowly, boots brushing the air with an absent rhythm — not carefree, just trying to fill a silence that refused to move.

  Minutes passed.

  The quiet stretched so long that time seemed to warp. It became a living thing, crowding his lungs, clawing at his ribs.

  Somewhere in the hall, steel boots struck stone. Then nothing.

  Roland’s fingers tightened against his knees.

  Carmilla had walked away without looking back. Her last words cut too cleanly.

  “Leon, brief them.”

  The air in the room turned heavier with every breath.

  He couldn’t tell if this was punishment or mercy.

  Anastasia’s voice broke the tension like glass shattering.

  “Are you waiting for a verdict?”

  Roland flinched before he could stop himself. He kept his eyes on the floor, voice low and numb.

  “…Maybe I am.”

  A beat of quiet.

  A soft exhale.

  “You have that look,” she said. “Like someone bracing for execution. Like you’re already somewhere too far away to touch.”

  Roland swallowed. The words scraped on the way down.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “…It doesn’t matter.”

  “Then why do you look like it’s killing you?”

  He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The silence returned, tighter, sharper.

  She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, watching him with a gaze that wasn’t challenging — just unbearably sincere.

  “What are you afraid of?” she asked. “Me?”

  Roland lifted his eyes, startled.

  The chandelier light fractured inside her irises — bright, steady, unafraid.

  She waited.

  He breathed once, twice, the sound trembling despite himself.

  “…I don’t want you to hate me.”

  Anastasia blinked. Not mockery, not pity — confusion.

  “Why would I ever hate you?”

  His voice cracked softly. “Because I’m not a good person.”

  She didn’t laugh. Didn’t argue.

  She simply asked, quietly:

  “What makes you think that?”

  Roland’s fingers dug into his palms.

  “If you had to choose,” he said, barely more than a whisper, “between sparing someone… or killing them to protect the people you love — what would you do?”

  “Spare them,” she answered instantly.

  Roland stared at her, stunned. “Even if mercy puts others in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if people died?”

  “Yes.”

  Her answer landed like a blade sliding between ribs.

  “Why?”

  “Because if I kill someone to protect what I love,” she said softly, “then I’ve already destroyed the thing I’m trying to save.”

  Silence again. But this time, it trembled.

  Roland lowered his head. His voice fell to ash.

  “Flora was taken because I hesitated. Carmilla almost died because I couldn’t be cruel. Inferna watched me choose mercy and called it betrayal. And they’re right. Because weakness has a price.”

  His breath shook.

  “I spared him. The criminal in the square. I let him live. And because I did… everything fell apart.”

  The words hung between them like smoke refusing to disperse.

  Anastasia didn’t speak. She didn’t move.

  Then — slowly — she stood, palms flat against her skirt, eyes steady.

  “Stand up,” she said.

  Roland frowned. “What?”

  “Stand up,” she repeated. “Trust me.”

  He hesitated, then pushed himself to his feet. His body felt heavier than armor.

  Anastasia reached into her pocket, fingers brushing glass. She pulled out a small marble — clear, glowing faintly as though holding a captured sun.

  “It records a single sound,” she said. “Forever. We use them in Reina for the Adventurer’s Welcome.”

  Roland stared, breath caught.

  “It’s what we do for people who come back from something dark,” she said. “It means: you survived. You’re still here. You’re not alone anymore.”

  She pressed the marble into his hand. Her fingers were warm. Solid. Real.

  “And right now,” she whispered, “you look like someone who needs to be welcomed back.”

  The marble pulsed, warming his palm — like a heartbeat trying to restart.

  She stepped back, feet poised lightly on the polished floor, shoulders straightening.

  “I’m going to show you how it works.”

  Her smile wasn’t bright. It wasn’t childish. It was determined — the soft defiance of someone who refuses to let another person drown.

  “No matter what Inferna thinks of you,” she said, voice steady, “I don’t.”

  The marble glowed brighter.

  “Ready?”

  The room held its breath.

  Music, faint and distant, stirred alive inside the glass — the first trembling notes rising like a dawn that refused to die.