Lysandra sprawled across her throne, wearing her finest dress—a gorgeous red gown, edges lined with gold—and bedecked in her usual jewellery: a black black diamond necklace, complete with an elaborate crown of twisting strands of gold, rubies and onyx.

She was in a good mood today and it was understandable. After all, the latest search for Aaron—the most comprehensive to date—was finished and the report would be coming to her this morning. Maia was seated next to her—waiting for the news on the prince—and her dry remarks about the members of the court had also brightened her day. Not to mention that she'd found a suitable replacement for the Crimsith Duke and he—and Cobalt—were now toeing the line exceptionally well. Her vision for Lysandria was finally coming together.

"Your Imperial Majesty," the messenger began. She turned to look at him. He shivered slightly. Her unyielding obsidian gaze was something few could hold firm against.

"Yes?" She said, her voice silky and cold. Sure, the crown provided intimidation, but it was the wearer that truly struck fear into the hearts of her subjects. The icy gaze, the cold, silky voice—everything she had perfected for the past four years. People confused shouting and death threats for the meticulous art of intimidation, but it was the deadly quiet that was the real killer.

"The report has come in," he said, dipping his head. "They're just outside the door, Your Holiness.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Let them in." She leaned back into her throne, sprawling lavishly across the soft material. Let them think her unconcerned, uninterested. If they knew how much she cared—how she had been watching the time all morning, how she had held onto every word the messenger had said, how there was nothing she wanted to do more than lean forward on the edge of her seat and demand they told her everything...weakness. They would see it as weakness. And then they would strike.

The reporter gave a nervous bow. He was dressed in his finest for the occasion, which wasn't saying much. But it was the effort that counted. Lysandra read him without a second's thought: nervous, terrified of failing her but enticed the reward of success.

"We haven't been able to locate Aaron," he said carefully. Lysandra didn't so much as flinch; she wasn't surprised. If they had, she'd already know.

"We have some ideas of where he might be," the reporter continued. Lysandra smiled but her face was still unreadable. To be emotional was to be weak. To care was to be weak.

"We've also located something," he said quickly, as though trying to get it over with. Lysandra angled her head, her interest perked. "We believe he left it. For you."

"Left what for me?" She asked, her voice silky calm.

"A note," the reporter clarified, looking paler the minute. "We've located a note."

"And what does it say?" She said sharply, tired of the waiting. The reporter pulled a piece of paper out of his briefcase. It was slightly crumpled, she noticed with distaste. The fools had mishandled it, this infinitely valuable thing, the only thing of Aaron people had been able to find for four years.

Lysandra took the note with trembling fingers, shoving her excitement, her strange mixture of pain, fear and hope—such stupid and beautiful hope—down deep, into a place she could no longer feel it. Her eyes scanned over the paper.

Stop looking for me. I'm not coming back.

Eight words. Eight words to break her heart. Eight words to tear a hole inside her. Eight words he choose so, so carefully—to destroy her completely.

"What does it say?" Maia asked softly. She didn't answer.

He's alive, she told herself, trying to bring something positive in the situation. He's still alive. But it didn't help. She already knew that he was still alive. If he had died, she would known it deep inside her, would have felt his death strike her. And it would have been agony, such agony, like the ripping of her soul, like pain she had never felt before, until—

Until now. When she couldn't pretend it had been nothing but a momentary anger that had him rush through the palace, that had made him run from her, that had made her say those words to her—

I hate you. I will kill you.

No, she soundlessly screamed that word, shoving up the walls she had built up around those words, but it was too late. They crumbled, collapsed into nothing and she crumbled and was nothing and—

"You." The sound of his voice cracked through the silence. She turned to find Aaron staring at her. He had seen everything.

"You did this!" He screamed at her, hate and fury and pain in his voice. "You did this! She was our mother and you killed her!" He pushed past her, rushing to the pile of ash, all that was left of Medea.

"You killed her!" He screamed those words with such grief and pain that Lysandra could do nothing, say nothing. "She loved you and you killed her! For that stupid throne!"

"Aaron—" she cried out.

"I hate you." He yelled, and he said it with such hatred and fury that she could barely breathe. He meant it. He truly did hate her. "I will kill you!"

The sounds of the court fell away, until the world became nothing but those words: I hate you. I will kill you! She didn't care. She didn't care if he killed her, but he couldn't hate her, no, please don't let him hate her—

"Your Majesty?" Crimsith's voice cut through the words, pulling her from that endless abyss.

"Yes," she snapped.

"Is there anything of importance there?"

"No," she hissed. "No, there is not." And she crushed the note in her, turning to the reporter. He was pale and looked vaguely sick. He should be. A fool. He had been a fool to come here, to give her the note. He should have burned it. She wished he had burned it. She wished Aaron was still here, wished he was by her side, wished she could have her brother to hold close when she felt so alone and lost, she would give up anything for him to be still be there, she would give up the throne—

No. That was weakness. Regret, longing, wishing—that was weakness. And she could not show weakness.

"Unlimited funds and searching permits and this is all you come up with?" She asked, sliding back into that low, silky voice that was infinitely calm and infinitely deadly. "A note? A total of—" she pretended to scan through and count the words, as if she didn't remember each and every one by the holes they'd ripped in her heart—"eight words."

"Get out of my sight," she snapped. "You, like Hanson, will receive no fee for your 'services' and you will repay every cent I gave you for that wild goose chase."

"Your Majesty, I can't afford to—" the reporter pleaded.

"I have a nation to look after, fool. I don't have enough money to waste either." He tried to protest, but he realised that his pleading was useless and the words died on his lips.

"Lysandra," Maia warned. She brushed her aside.

"They did find a note—" the Crimson Duke objected, emboldened by Maia's interventions. She glared at him. He clamped his mouth shut, but she wasn't finished.

"Oh, of course, I forgot," she hissed. Calm down, she told herself, trying to soothe her burning anger, trying to shove down the shadows bursting to be released. But as much as she tried to slide her indifferent mask and silky calm voice back into place, she couldn't. The rage blinded her, consuming her every thoughts with its dull roar.

"Tell me, Duke, can they track the paper to my brother? Does the ink hold some code telling me his location? Is the note of any use?" Her voice was sharp, acidic. She had killed this man's father and uncle. She wouldn't mind sending him to the gallows as well.

"No, Your Majesty." Crimsith replied, fear flashing in his eyes. Good. They should be afraid of me. I killed my brothers and played my mother. I took over this country from my place as sixth-born. I am the WitchKiller's killer. I am a monster, a creature of shadow and power and they. Should. Be. Afraid.

She rose from her throne and the voices of reason within her quietened as the fury surging in her veins replaced them. Shadows danced along her arms. She walked up to the duke. He didn't flinch. It took a strong man to look her in the eye and not flinch. A strong will to hold her gaze. Well, she supposed that strong will would just have to be broken.

She allowed the shadows to concentrate on her hand. He still didn't move. Still held her gaze. She slapped him—hard. Hard enough to burn even if her magic hadn't made the sting a thousand times worse. She raised her hand again. He flinched and she hit him harder. The duke let out a whimper.

She raised her palm again, this time slowing—allowing him enough warning to turn away. He didn't dare.

Good. That meant he knew he could do nothing but stand still and take her rage. And it was that humiliation, that helplessness, that she wanted. He was nothing, nothing compared to her. And he needed to know that. So did everyone else in this room.

"Please," he said. Good. He should beg. Her shadows raced up from her palm to curl around him, taking the form of a whip. She set upon

him, even as he pleaded with her.

"Please," he whimpered. It was a hopeless, pathetic sound—a sound born of pain. His lesson was learnt. It was enough. She stood back. The court was silence, tension thick enough to choke everyone in the room. She turned to the reporter.

"You will not set foot in this country again," she hissed, stalking towards him. His will was not as strong as Crimsith's. Fear flooded his face, tears following. He avoided her eyes desperately, taking hurried steps back. She grinned, but made no move towards him.

"You are a fool," she told him. Her voice was meant to be silky and cold, but instead it was more of a shriek. Like the sound she had made when she begged Aaron to come back.

I hate you. I'll kill you.
No. She blocked out the words, but they took over her and she heard nothing but them, not even the man's pleading as her shadow struck again and again.

"Get out of my sight!" She screamed, then stalked out of the room, leaving the dukes behind. Maia followed tightly on her heels.

"What was on the note?" She demanded. "You're not the only one who cares about him, Lysandra. I have the right to know—"

"It was addressed to me." She said sharply. "Not you. And even if it wasn't, I don't owe you anything." Maia flinched and halted, shocked.

To show weakness is to be weak, the wise voice inside her said. If you show weakness, they will strike.

And she had shown plenty of weakness today.

———

"What happened?" Nala asked. Lysandra didn't reply. "They say you whipped Crimsith's duke and exiled one of the searchers. What happened?" She repeated. Lysandra still didn't speak.

"You can talk to me, Lysandra. You can tell me the truth." She had told Aaron the truth once before—when she had put a sliver in his head and forced him to destroy the ShadowBreathers. She'd told him about what she'd do to their brothers and their mother. Told him everything as he was the only person she could tell—because he wouldn't remember any of it.

He had hated her then. And he hated her now.

But Nala...she could trust Nala. Nala, who had seen the darkest parts of her and loved her still. Nala, who knew each and every one of her crimes and yet who's sea-green eyes still shined with compassion—for her. Who had come here—knowing she was a monster, knowing she was a killer—because she was worried about her. Nala, who loved every part of her, who she could never have imagined possible.

"He sent me a note." She began. "He said to stop looking for him. And that he wasn't—that he wasn't coming back." And then the pain of the day collapsed down on her all at once and her voice broke.

Tears streamed down her cheek and she allowed herself to cry, to mourn freely. To show weakness. Walls—she had built such strong, unfaltering walls around herself. Not after Aaron left her, but from long before then. When she was just a child, alone and unloved by her mother, mocked and hated by the court. Even then, she had known that she was alone. That no one was going to look after her, no one was going to save her, no one was going to care about her or protect her from the cruel whims of the world. She had to look after herself. She had to be strong. She had to be unfaltering. She had to have those walls up and unbreakable, so no one could ever get in past her defences.

The only person she'd let herself relax those walls for was Aaron. Even then, he didn't know the true her. He saw past those walls to the false girl she had created for him and slipped into like a child's dress-up costume. The true her she had never shown to anyone. That girl, who's darkness went deeper and colder than even she knew, who was so, so alone, who was constantly hurting, who needed Aaron so much, who was weaker than anyone could ever guess—she had never shown her to anyone.

But as Nala wrapped her up in her warm, strong embrace she let the walls down and peeled off the masks. And she cried. Cried and cried and cried, bearing her soul, her true self for all to see. For Nala to see. Nala, the light in her life. Nala, the impossible friend who saw good in her where all everyone else could see—including Lysandra herself—was darkness. Nala, the one person who saw the truth of her and didn't shy away or run, disgusted, from the darkest parts of her. Nala, who would always protect her, always save her, always look after her.

And as she fell into Nala's arms, she knew she would never be alone again.