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The infirmary was no longer a place of healing but a theater of misery. The air hung thick with the all too familiar metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of burnt flesh, remnants of a battle I had not seen but whose aftermath now surrounded me. Cots lined the walls, each burdened with bodies—some groaning in pain, others unnervingly still. The wounded soldier's last command, run, still rang in my ears, yet I had turned back, driven by duty or desperation, though I could scarcely tell which.

It was there that I saw her: The Head Mage stood at the far end of the hall, her silver-gray robes unblemished despite the carnage around her. Yet it was not her presence that unsettled me, nor even the cruel smile that twisted Martha's lips as she stood before me, seated behind a desk, letter in hand.

The letter. My letter. My carefully guarded hope for escape.

Her fingers drummed idly against the parchment as her lips curled into a predator's grin. The wax seal was broken, the contents undoubtedly read. She studied the letter, her expression unreadable, her silence heavier than any lecture. I braced myself for the cutting remarks, for her inevitable dismissal of what I'd done. Instead, when she finally spoke, her voice was calm—too calm.

"You sent it yourself," she said, her tone flat, as if she were merely stating the hour.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet her eyes. "I did."

Her quill hovered over the inkwell, a single drop of ink clinging to its tip, suspended as if time itself had frozen. She raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into the faintest curve—a shadow of amusement or disbelief, I couldn't tell. "Without my permission. Without approval, after I warned you." Her quill clattered softly as she set it down. I stiffened, anticipating her rebuke, but to my surprise, her expression shifted—barely noticeable, but there. A flicker of something unfamiliar. Approval? Respect? I didn't dare name it.

My throat tightened, a dry ache where words refused to form.

"Well, I must give you credit, Aster. This is bold—even for you," Martha said, waving the letter as if it were a relic of unparalleled foolishness. "Stealing my seal, forging my authority, and petitioning the king himself? Truly, a masterpiece of desperation."

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. It wasn't praise—Martha didn't give praise—but her words carried a weight I wasn't accustomed to. I felt the barest ember of pride stir within me, but I smothered it before it could flare too brightly. What was to come next would wash any pride left away.

Martha chuckled, a sound devoid of mirth, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "And yet," she continued, circling like a hawk around its prey, "for all your cunning, you forgot one simple detail. You left the candle burning." She stopped abruptly, her tone hardening. "It took but a moment for me to piece everything together. Do you take me for a fool?"

"It was a mistake," I managed, my voice trembling with a fear I despised myself for.

Martha's laughter rang out, sharp and hollow, echoing in the stone hall. "Mistake? No, child. A mistake is a slip of the hand or tongue. This—" she held the letter higher, her eyes gleaming— "is treason against the hand that feeds you."

"I feed myself," I hissed, the heat of anger rising to mask my helplessness. "You've done nothing but claim to step in father's shoes."

"You've always been as foolish as your father—bold, yet blind to the consequences of your actions. Is this the legacy you want your father to remember you by? A troublemaker. A thief. A girl so blinded by her fantasies of freedom that she would stoop to this?"

My mouth opened, a retort burning on my tongue, sharp and defiant. How dare Martha speak of father, twist his memory as if I were a wayward child unworthy of his name? The injustice of it clawed, and for a fleeting moment, I nearly let my fury spill over. But I saw the glint in Martha's eye, a cruel satisfaction that dared me to snap.

I swallowed the words like bitter medicine, my heart hammering in her chest. To fight back now would only tighten the noose.

My hands clenched into fists at my sides. "He trusted you. He believed you would protect me."

"And I have," she snapped. "Do not mistake cruelty for neglect. Everything I have done has been for your survival, though you are too short-sighted to see it."

"Survival?" I spat the word like venom. "You've done nothing but break me, keep me beneath your heel, treat me like a slave; a burden to the kingdom."

Her gaze darkened, the flicker of torchlight casting jagged shadows across her face. "You will learn," she said softly, dangerously, "that survival often requires bending before breaking. It demands sacrifice—of pride, of comfort, of naivety. Your father understood that, even if you refuse to."

I flinched at the mention of father, the words striking deeper than I cared to admit. "Please," I whispered, my resolve crumbling. "I only wanted to prove myself. To prove that I can be more."

Martha's face darkened, and she slammed the letter down onto the desk. "Enough of your empty words." she snapped. "I warned you, time and again, of the dangers your ambition would bring. I gave you every opportunity to succeed under my guidance, yet you spit on my efforts with this charade."

Martha leaned closer, her voice dropping to a cold whisper. "Do you know what I miss, Aster? The girl you once were. Compliant. Grateful. Willing to work toward my favor without question. But this—" she gestured to the letter— "this wild defiance? The idea of freedom has poisoned your mind, and I will not tolerate it any longer."

My heart sank as Martha straightened, her expression carved from stone. "You are banished from the Westshores. You will leave at dawn to live with a crofter family in the Eastshore villages. There, you will learn the value of labor, far from the safety and indulgence of these walls."

"No," I breathed, my voice barely audible in my own ears. "Please, I can't—"

"You will," Martha interrupted sharply. "You will go, and until you learn the weight of your punishment, you will not set foot in the Westshores again."

"But—"

"Go. Pack your things. Juniper will accompany you on your journey. Her own failure in securing the keys has earned her the same punishment."

She rose then, moving to the hearth where the embers glowed faintly. Her fingers stirred the ash with practiced precision, coaxing a few sparks to life. I lingered at the edge of the room, unsure whether I was dismissed or if something more lingered in the air.

"Respect," she said, her back to me, "is not given. It is taken. Seized, often with claw and nail. If you mean to carve out a place in this world, you will need more than boldness. You will need cunning and resolve to see it through." She turned, her sharp eyes fixing on me once more. "Do you understand?"

"I understand," I said again, though her words settled over me like a weight. Heavy. Inescapable.

She gave a curt nod, and I turned to leave. My hand rested lightly on the doorframe when her voice stopped me one last time.

"See that you do."

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I felt the ground beneath shift, my world crumbling into jagged pieces. I had been so careful, so certain of my plan, and yet here I was, dismissed like a misbehaving child.

My legs carried me to the door, though I hardly felt them move. The shame, the helplessness, it wrapped around my throat, suffocating me. I hesitated for a moment, my hand resting on the doorframe.

The urge to lash out lingered like a coiled spring, and yet I knew it would only make things worse. Martha thrived on defiance—it was the fuel for her cruelty. Silence was the only armor I had left, and even that felt like a flimsy shield.

I bowed my head, my shoulders slumping under the burden of failure. How had it all unraveled so quickly? My vision blurred by tears I refused to let fall.

The Eastshores, I thought bitterly. Among the crofters, of all places. A life of labor and anonymity, as far from magic as she could be cast. This is who I've become—a fool, a failure.

Yet beneath the despair, a spark of anger burned.

As I steadied herself, a murmur from the chamber pricked her ears. Martha's voice, low and measured, though there was no one else in the room when I left. Curiosity flickered amidst the grief. I hesitated, then stepped closer, pressing my ear against the door's edge.

"She must be sent away," Martha was saying, her tone devoid of its earlier venom. "The attacks are growing more frequent, more coordinated. It's not safe here."

I frowned, confusion mingling with hurt. Attacks? What attacks?

Martha continued, her voice carrying a rare edge of concern. "The Eastshores are remote enough to shield her. The beasts won't sense her there, not with the salt and the sea to mask her."

My stomach twisted. The beasts? What did they have to do with me?

Before I could piece the fragments together, a voice brushed against my ear, low and rich, carrying the faintest tease of amusement. Warm breath trailed along my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. "Eavesdropping, are we?"

I froze, my pulse leaping, startled out of rhythm. The voice, smooth as velvet, wrapped around me before I could turn to face him. When I did, my breath hitched at the familiar and more nearer sight of Cyrus Arkwythe Eldrinson standing far too close, his blue eyes glinting with mischief under the faint torchlight.

"Must you creep about like some specter?" I hissed, clutching my chest to steady my heart.

"I could say the same of you," he countered, smirking. "Though I must admit, you do it rather poorly. You might as well announce yourself with a fanfare."

"Do you always haunt the shadows, Your Highness?" I quipped back.

He tilted his head, the faint curve of his lips as infuriating as it was distracting. "Only when there's something worth haunting." His gaze lingered on me, a deliberate study, as though he could read every thought I was trying to conceal.

My instincts warred within—to step back or hold my ground. I chose the latter, though my knees felt anything but steady. "You've a talent for skulking where you're least expected. Does that amuse you?"

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling between them. "Not as much as your attempt to deflect," he murmured. "But do go on. I find your indignation quite... engaging."

The words, laced with an undercurrent of something I dared not name, left me both infuriated and unnerved. I crossed my arms, ignoring the way my skin prickled under his gaze. "If you've come to taunt me, I suggest you find another victim. I've neither the time nor the inclination for your games." I said, my voice sharper than I intended, though the warmth rising to my cheeks betrayed me. This was the second time the second born prince of Hamelin caught me snooping.

"Oh, I think you've more time than you let on," he countered smoothly, his voice dipping lower. "And as for inclination... Well, I'll let you decide."

I glared at him, but the heat of my anger faltered, replaced by the ache of despair. "You wouldn't understand," I muttered, turning away.

"Try me," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

The sincerity in his tone caught me off guard, slipping past my defenses. Against my better judgment, the words tumbled from my lips. "She's sending me away," I admitted, "I tried—tried everything to prove myself. I stole her seal, I wrote the letter, I..." My throat tightened, and I shook my head. "It wasn't enough."

Cyrus regarded me for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. Then, with a tilt of his head, he said, "Perhaps it isn't about being enough. Perhaps it's about becoming."

I scoffed, the sound bitter as acid. "And what would you know of it?"

His smirk returned, though it carried a softness that disarmed me ever so slightly. "More than you might think."

I blinked, torn between irritation and curiosity. This was no ordinary exchange of quips; there was something deliberate in his words, a gravity I couldn't ignore. The memory of his visit the day before surfaced unbidden, and I wondered, for the first time, if it was more than coincidence.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, his presence both imposing and oddly comforting. "I want you to see beyond this moment," he said. "To understand that what feels like the end is only the beginning."

I stared at him, my mind dazed with the weight of my confusion. "And how would you know?" I murmured, defeated.

His blue eyes held mine. "Because I know what it's like to be cast aside, to be told you are nothing more than a shadow of others' expectations. And I know what it means to defy that."

My breath hitched, my anger and grief momentarily forgotten. Before I could respond, Martha's voice cut through the door once more, drawing both their gazes.

"Take heart, Aster. Your story is far from over." Cyrus leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper as he spoke near my ear. "Abd take care of that hand of yours." I looked down at my palms, yesterday's dried scars stabbed and drenched with fresh blood.

And with that, he straightened, his smirk returning as if he hadn't just unraveled my world with a few simple words. I watched him go, my thoughts a tangled mess of doubt, hope, and something I couldn't quite name.

What does he know? I wondered, unease prickling at the edges of my mind. His gaze, his tone—there had been something in them, something far too knowing. And why does it feel like he knows more about me than I do myself?

As the sound of his footsteps faded, I remained rooted to the spot, my pulse still unsteady from their encounter. I stared at the door, my fingers curling and uncurling at my sides as my mind raced. His words replayed in my head, their weight sinking into my thoughts like stones into deep water.

Take heart, Aster. Your story is far from over.

My breath caught as a sudden, jarring thought struck. I hadn't told him my name

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When I returned to my chamber, my steps hesitant and my heart heavy, the sight awaiting drove a fresh pang through my chest. My small cot, stripped bare of its meager comforts, bore the weight of my travel bags, neatly tied and placed with a precision that felt coldly impersonal. The walls, once adorned with the faded remnants of my life, now stood barren, as if erasing every trace of my existence.

My gaze faltered when it landed on the empty space where father's portrait had hung. I swallowed hard, a bitter lump rising in my throat. That portrait, once my anchor, was gone, leaving only a faint shadow where its frame had shielded the stone from time. It felt as though I had been erased, my life here rendered insignificant.

I crossed the room with faltering steps, my fingers brushing over the barren desk and the empty shelves. My eyes caught on the small vine beside the bathroom window, where the once-bright celosia plant now stood, its leaves withered and curled in death. Its fiery crimson blooms had long since faded to ashen brown, and the sight seemed to mock me.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the plant. I cradled the brittle stalks as though they might yet hold some remnant of life. A symbol of resilience, my father had called it. Now, it was nothing more than a husk, a cruel echo of my own waning hope.

The sound of the door opening startled me out of my thoughts. Elka entered without ceremony, her steps brisk and her expression devoid of warmth. She carried herself with the kind of authority that left no room for dissent.

"One of the junior mages will take this room," she announced, her tone clipped. "You are to take your bags and wait in the hall with Juniper. He's already there."

I glanced back at the cot, at the meager remains of my life now reduced to bundles of fabric and straps. My throat tightened, and I forced myself to nod, unwilling to let her see the tears threatening to brim.

"Understood," I murmured, my voice steadier than I felt.

Elka paused, her gaze sweeping over the room. "Be quick about it," she added before turning and leaving as unceremoniously as she had arrived.

I bent to lift my bags, my fingers brushing against the worn leather. The effort of picking them up seemed monumental, the weight of my failure had seeped into the very fabric. My gaze returned to the celosia. I had tried so hard to keep it alive, pouring what little magic I dared into its roots. But it, like everything else, had slipped from my grasp.

My breath hitched as I remembered something—a single celosia leaf, pressed and preserved in my satchel. My hand flew to my chest, but the satchel wasn't there. Panic surged through me. The infirmary. I left it at the infirmary. The satchel contained the last of the herbs I could use to practice my affinities on.

I rushed through the halls, my heart hammering in my chest. The infirmary loomed ahead, its stone walls bathed in the dim light of the hour. My breath came in uneven bursts, my legs burning from the hurried pace I'd kept. I pushed the heavy oak door open, and a faint creak echoed through the quiet chamber. The familiar scent of herbs and salves greeted me, mingled with the faint metallic tang of blood.

My eyes darted across the rows of empty cots, searching for the satchel I had left behind. The room was eerily silent, as if the very air held its breath. Shadows pooled in the corners, darker than they ought to be, the flickering candlelight failing to dispel them.

There—on the far table. Relief surged through me as I spotted the worn leather satchel, its straps tangled from where I'd carelessly discarded it earlier. I crossed the room quickly, my footsteps muffled on the flagstones.

I grabbed the satchel, clutching it tightly to my chest. My fingers fumbled as I opened it, rifling through until they closed around the fragile celosia leaf. A trembling, uneven breath escaped me. I pressed the satchel shut and slung it over my shoulder.

It was then that the silence deepened, growing thick and oppressive, as though the infirmary itself were holding its breath. I froze, every sense prickling.

The candle flames flickered violently, casting jagged shadows that danced along the walls. A faint rustling sound reached my ears, like the scrape of claws against stone. My pulse quickened as I turned slowly, my eyes darting to every corner, every shadow.

And then, the silence shattered.

A scream tore through the infirmary, piercing and inhuman.

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