Valerlanta exhaled slowly, squinting up as a shadow swallowed the sun. The commander loomed over her, arms crossed, his expression cool but sharp—like a man watching an insect that was soon to be beneath his boot.

  "Good morning," she murmured, voice honeyed despite the iron tang of blood in her mouth. "Or evening? Hard to tell after blacking out one too many times."

  Jerstain’s brow lifted, a smirk ghosting his lips. He pulled up a stool and sat, his presence pressing in like a weight against her ribs.

  "Time for answers. Tell me about your father."

  She gave a lazy shrug. "He's a thief."

  Silence. Heavy. Waiting.

  "And…" she sighed, "he likes apple-spiced stew."

  His eye twitched. "Do you think you're in a position to play games?"

  Valerlanta tilted her head, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel. "You’ll kill me anyway, won’t you? Might as well have some fun first."

  "Not yet, little rat. You and I still have days of... quality time ahead."

  He raised a hand. Snapped his fingers.

  A figure stepped forward, placing something long and glowing into his grip.

  A branding iron.

  Its tip bore a twisted insignia she knew too well—the mark of a thief. Her father’s hand bore the same scar.

  Jerstain spun the iron between his fingers, slow, deliberate. The heat of it licked at her skin, a phantom promise of pain. "We brand petty thieves so they can never hide what they are. But a thief condemned to die?" He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "You might wonder why bother." A pause, then softer, more insidious—"Pain breaks people in ways you wouldn't believe."

  Fear coiled tight in her chest, a sick, writhing thing. She swallowed it down, forced a reckless grin. "Do your worst."

  His jaw tightened. A flick of his fingers, and two hulking guards seized her, wrenching her forward.

  Her arms yanked taut, muscles screaming.

  She thrashed, breath ragged, pulse hammering.

  "Where's your father?" Jerstain asked, his voice smooth, patient. "Where's his hideout?"

  Heat pulsed from the iron, a sickening warmth that kissed too close.

  Panic clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it down.

  Valerlanta wet her lips, let her voice rasp with mock sympathy. "I know you're obsessed, so I hate to be the one to tell you—he’s just not your type. But I’m sure he’d be flattered."

  Jerstain’s expression darkened.

  No smirk this time. Just the weight of his boot grinding down on her clenched fist, crushing until her fingers splayed open.

  The iron hovered.

  Then it touched.

  Agony exploded. A raw, blistering burn that stole her breath before she could scream.

  Then sound ripped from her throat, the stench of charred flesh thick in the air, bile rising with it.

  A harsh white light swallowed her vision.

  When it faded, she was standing inside it.

  The last time she had been here, the ghost had shown her the Magic Purge. But now, there were no memories, no echoes of the world she’d left behind—only an endless expanse of white. Seamless. Suffocating. Empty.

  A figure stood across from her. Queen Dallylyn...who was supposed to be dead.

  For a dead woman, though, she looked great. Her petal-pink skin was flawless, ageless—beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal. And yet, her eyes held only sorrow, a weight deeper than time.

  Valerlanta swallowed against the dryness in her throat. "Am I..." Her voice cracked, forcing her to try again. "Am I dead?"

  The queen’s lips parted, her voice a breath against the void. "No," she murmured. "But you are in great pain, and for that I am sorry."

  Valerlanta looked down. Bruises bloomed across her skin, dried blood crusted her arms, and her fingers throbbed—swollen, raw from the brand. And yet, in this strange void, she felt none of it.

  Not dead, then. That was something, at least.

  "So, what now?" she asked. "Here to drag me through the past again?"

  Dallylyn’s gaze softened, sorrow pooling deep in her eyes. "No," she said, voice heavy with regret. "I am here to make a plea."

  Valerlanta huffed a tired laugh. "A ghost wants my help. Of course a ghost wants my help. At this point, I might as well start charging for all the weirdness I attract."

  "I am not a ghost," Dallylyn said. "Not even a queen. Not really. When the queen cast her spell, she gave everything—her life’s energy, her very essence—sealing it within a tree to sustain the magic. What remains of her is only a fragment. A sliver of what she once was. I am that sliver."

  "Understood. Not a ghost. Well then, Lady Sliver, how are you doing this? How are we talking right now?"

  "When you touched my music box in Hyllpeak Castle, your magic resonated with mine. A part of my essence became a part of you. Since then, I’ve seen glimpses of your life—through your eyes."

  Valerlanta went rigid. "You’ve been watching me?" Her voice sharpened. "You saw everything that happened?"

  Lady Sliver nodded. "More or less."

  A sharp exhale. Valerlanta raked a hand through her tangled hair. "So let me get this straight. I touch some old trinket, and suddenly I have you haunting me? And your idea of a haunting is watching me suffer, dragging me through the past, and now—when that became boring—you yank me into this?"

  Lady Sliver sighed. "I couldn’t reach you before. Not like this. But as you draw closer to where I am, our connection strengthens."

  "Meaning you can pester me more? Goodie."

  The not-queen’s voice dropped, heavy with finality. "I am not here for my entertainment. I am here to ask you to kill the king."

  Silence.

  The void itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Finally, Valerlanta arched a brow. "Wait—you were serious just now? That was no jest?"

  Lady Sliver shook her head.

  ""Um. Well, I’m…flattered you think I’m capable of such a feat, but let’s set aside the small problem of me being a battered, half-dead prisoner for a moment. Why me?" She crossed her arms. "Yes, we might be very, very, distantly related, but let’s not forget—you’re the one who stripped magic from this world, leaving it in the hands of one bloodline. And guess what? That little decision led to a king who discovered drinking blood could make him stronger."

  The Lady Sliver lifted her chin, her expression unreadable. "I did what I had to do to bring peace."

  Valerlanta huffed a bitter laugh. "That may have been your intention, but power-hungry men will always find reasons to fight. All you did was take away a tool and drain the very life from the land."

  The not-queen’s eyes darkened. "I… I do understand my mistake now, please trust me. That is why I am here—to beg you to set this right."

  'She really thinks I could do it.'

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  There was so much hope in those large eyes that a pang of pity and guilt pulled at the thief.

  Valerlanta shook her head. "When I set out on this adventure, I wanted treasure. Glory. To prove myself." Her voice turned raw. "Instead, all I’ve done is fail. Over and over again."

  "Sweet child," the queen murmured, reaching for her.

  Valerlanta stepped back. "No. You already know the answer. If you’ve been in my head, then you know—even if I wanted to help, I’m in no position to save anyone."

  "There is still hope! If you could just—"

  "No!" The word tore from her throat, hoarse, almost desperate. "Enough. Find someone else." Valerlanta swallowed hard, then added, softer, "I’m no help to anyone. Just… let me go. Please."

  They stood in silence, the weight of it pressing down.

  A single tear traced its way down Lady Sliver’s cheek. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if cradling some unseen weight, then stepped back—retreating into the white. Even as she faded, her gaze lingered, brimming with quiet, impossible chance that Valerlanta would change her mind.

  But Valerlanta didn’t. She couldn’t.

  She wasn’t sure she deserved to have hope again.

  The white space shattered.

  When Valerlanta opened her eyes, her mind was clearer than it had been in days.

  Too clear.

  Cold rain pattered as Valerlanta blinked, waiting for the fog of pain to settle back over her—but it didn’t.

  A gift, she realized. A final mercy from Lady Sliver, even though Valerlanta had refused to help.

  Then the pain returned.

  It crashed over her in waves.

  Agony flared through every limb.

  Her hands were pinned beneath her, her ribs screaming with every breath.

  Yet her mind remained blissfully clear.

  Gritting her teeth, she summoned magic. Healing came slow—too slow. Every rib snapped painfully back into place, wounds knitting shut with deliberate, excruciating precision.

  Then—

  A voice rang out, shattering her focus.

  "Murder!" someone shrieked. "His throat’s been slit!"

  Valerlanta froze. Had she misheard?

  No.

  Figures crowded together, their shadows shifting in the rain. Men circled someone on the ground—someone who wasn’t getting up.

  Her pulse hammered.

  'Well.' She exhaled, tasting blood. 'That’s interesting.'