"It's too late to fix this."

Giselle's breath caught in her throat. The world seemed to slow,
every sound muffled by the deafening roar in her ears. Her body felt impossibly heavy, rooted to the spot as Icarus knelt beside her, his presence a terrifying weight. His face, usually aloof and distant, hovered just inches from the shattered remains of the jar. The ashes spilt across the cold floor like a veil of death.

      "Who..." Giselle's voice trembled, barely a whisper, her chest tightening as if an invisible hand was squeezing her lungs. "Who was this?"

Icarus's crimson eyes snapped toward her, gleaming like rubies, but there was no warmth in their depths—only an icy void. The air between them thickened with an unbearable tension. When he finally spoke, his words were as sharp as knives, cutting through her like a final verdict.

   "These were the remains of Rose FitzAlan."

The name fell like a stone into the pit of her stomach. Rose. The woman whose face had haunted her dreams, whose beauty was as ethereal as it was tragic. The woman Icarus had loved so fiercely that her memory had remained etched into his soul for centuries. And now, Giselle had destroyed the last fragment of her existence.

The tears came without warning, stinging her eyes, blurring the world before her. "I... I didn’t know," she gasped, her voice a broken plea. "I didn’t mean to—"

  "Stop." Icarus’s voice was soft, but it cut through her frantic apology with terrifying precision. His hand, cold as death, lifted her chin. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, forcing her to meet the cold, detached gaze that seemed to see right through her.

 
  "What’s done is done," he murmured, his voice devoid of emotion, as if he were speaking to a stranger. "There’s no point in apologizing for it now."

Her throat tightened, a strangled sob caught behind her lips. She had ruined everything. She had shattered the only thing he had left of Rose, the one thing he had clung to for centuries.

   "I can fix this," she stammered, desperation clawing at her. "Please, I can—"

   "There is nothing left to fix." The finality of his words hit her like a physical blow. Icarus straightened, his imposing figure casting a long, dark shadow over her. He loomed above her like a force of nature, utterly indifferent to her suffering. "You cannot undo this."

Her heart pounded wildly, each beat reverberating in the silence. The weight of her failure pressed down on her like a suffocating cloak. I’m sorry, she wanted to scream. I didn’t mean to destroy everything. But the words caught in her throat, useless.

Icarus turned away from her, his movements slow and deliberate, his voice colder than the grave. "You will have to live with the consequences of your actions, Giselle."

She could not move, could not speak. The enormity of her mistake paralyzed her, and she could only watch as he stepped into the shadows, his presence retreating from her as if she were no more than a fading memory.

     "The question is," his voice lingered, heavy with chilling finality, "will you still be of any use to me now that you’ve destroyed the one thing I valued most?"

And then he was gone.

The door closed with a soft click, sealing her in the wreckage of her failure. Giselle sank to the floor, her knees giving way beneath her. The cold stone bit into her skin, but she barely felt it. Her tears fell freely now, her body shaking with silent sobs. She had destroyed the ashes of Rose FitzAlan—and in doing so, she had doomed herself.

The room seemed to close in around her, the silence suffocating. All that remained was the broken jar, the spilt ashes, and the unbearable weight of what she had done.

Giselle awoke with a start.  The faintest rays of light shone through the cracks of the shutters, bathing the room in a warm glow. Her surroundings blurred. She tried to sit upright, the sheets tangling uncomfortably around her legs, and winced as the light
sliced through the darkened bedroom. Forcing her bleary gaze open, she glanced at the mirror on her bedside table, noting the dark circles that surrounded her eyes. Her heart ached painfully, and sleep threatened to claim her again.

    Was it real? Had she really dreamt the events of yesterday?

Icarus's harsh words had been a nightmare, but the shattered urn of ashes was not. The broken urn was very much real, all done by her own hand. Those words had not left his lips, though in her dream, no, nightmare, he did, and Giselle took it to heart.

Guilt, bitter and sour, filled Giselle's entire being, like heaps of bile she just could not vomit out. She found herself avoiding him, finishing her tasks in the day, and retiring to her room downstairs as soon as the sun set. It was a cowardly act, true, but she simply could not bring herself to look at Icarus's face.

It was not just guilt. There was also.. jealousy. The thought of Icarus's saddened face as he picked up the shards of glass, his pale hands gathering up the ashes, the loving look in his eyes, the tenderness in his voice as he uttered that name. Rose. Rose. Rose. It filled Giselle's head, repeating incessantly like the ticking of a clock.

Giselle had taken to slipping away from sight, her presence dwindling to nothing more than a shadow haunting the manor’s narrow passages. Were there a crevice, a hole, even the smallest crawlspace she could slip into and shut herself away, she would do so without hesitation. But Giselle soon learned that while she could avoid Icarus, she could never entirely escape the relentless pursuit of Atticus.

Days had passed in this manner, and in those days, Willoughby’s impatience had grown. Atticus, receiving his every letter, understood too well how desperate the older man was becoming. And so he sought Giselle with a newfound intensity, his words sharp, his demands relentless.

At first, he left her curt, scribbled notes in places he knew she would find. Then he took to stopping her in the halls with firm reminders of her obligations. But when his urgings met only with her silence and indifference, Atticus could restrain himself no longer. He came to her in the library one late evening, his expression dark as he strode toward her.

     "It has been two weeks, Giselle. Surely you have uncovered something," he said, his voice steely, the edge of contempt barely concealed. "This level of incompetence is astounding, even for one such as you."

Giselle continued scrubbing the floor, her face an unreadable mask, betraying not the slightest inclination to entertain his words.

Atticus’s tone turned a shade colder, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he leaned close, his breath hot against her ear. "Father is counting on us. If we fail in this, Giselle, then his death will be on our hands. How do you propose to live with such a weight?"

A slight smile played at the corners of her mouth, mocking, hollow. "The blood of countless men stains my hands already. I do not mind adding one more," she murmured coolly, never pausing, her gaze fixed on the stone floor.

Atticus’s patience wore thin, his fingers curling into fists as he regarded her with rising fury. "You dare speak so glibly? You are The Nightingale-- the best we have, the most trusted spy under our roof. Father’s very life depends upon your success, and here you are, trifling with games like a petulant child." His voice grew louder, harsher, each word a lash. "You will find something, Giselle, and you will do it swiftly!"

When she failed to respond, remaining as silent as stone, something broke within him. Rage surged through him, white-hot and unyielding, as he kicked the bucket by her side, sending soapy water splattering across the library floor. Droplets arced through the air, raining over the bookshelves and the dusty stone.

    "Answer me, damn you! Surely you must have uncovered something, anything!" he bellowed, his usually composed features twisted with a fury that bordered on madness.

Giselle flung the sodden rag to the floor, her voice rising to match his, her composure cracking at last. "If I had, I would have told you long ago! Do you truly believe--"

Her words were cut off as Atticus’s hand struck her across the face, the impact sudden and brutal. The room fell silent, her cheek burning, her vision blurred from the force of the blow. She stood motionless, her breath caught, fury flashing in her eyes as she stared up at him. A tremor of regret flickered in his gaze as he looked upon her, the harsh lines of his face softening almost imperceptibly. He stepped back, his hand dropping to his side, his voice lowering.

     "Giselle," he murmured, his tone a mixture of apology and insistence. "This… this was never my intent. But you must see reason. Once all is done, we shall be free of this place. Free to live as we choose. But until then… we cannot fail. Father is depending upon us."

Her eyes narrowed, her hatred for him festering anew, sharper and colder than before. She could see in his face the wavering weakness, the regret that came too late, the empty promises that had long lost their power to move her. And she knew that, whatever apologies he might offer, whatever vows he might swear, she could never forgive him.

       "Leave me," she said lowly, not bothering to meet his gaze.

       "Giselle, I... You must understand--"

       "Very well. If you shall not leave, then I shall."

Giselle stormed away from the library, her vision blurred with anger and pain. The silence of the empty corridors seemed to close in on her, amplifying the echo of her footsteps. Her cheek throbbed where Atticus’s hand had struck, the sting sharp and unforgiving. She pressed her fingers to the mark, wincing as her touch sparked fresh pain.

She had no destination in mind, only the urge to get far away from everyone—and most of all, from him.

      "Giselle?" a quiet voice called out from the shadows.

She stopped short, her body tensing at the sound. From the dim alcove, Hester stepped into view, her red hair catching faint glimmers of moonlight streaming through a high window. With skin pale as the marble floors beneath their feet, Hester’s presence was almost spectral. Her amber eyes held a calm, steady gaze, observing Giselle with a kind of detached curiosity. Giselle rarely saw Hester outside her quarters, and for a moment, she wondered what could have drawn the recluse from her solitude that evening.

     "What happened to you?" Hester’s voice was low, nearly a whisper, but it cut through Giselle’s defences with an ease that only Hester seemed to possess.

     "It’s nothing," Giselle muttered, but the defiance in her voice faltered. She tried to turn away, but Hester’s hand, cool as ice, gently caught her arm.

     "Sit," Hester said softly, gesturing to a nearby stone bench half-hidden in shadows.

Giselle hesitated, but Hester’s grip was firm. Relenting, she sat, feeling vulnerable under the vampiress’s unblinking stare. Hester moved with silent, fluid grace, retrieving a cloth from her pocket. She dipped it into a small glass flask at her side, wringing out the liquid with quick, practiced movements.

    "This will help," she murmured, pressing the cloth to Giselle’s cheek.

The coolness stung at first, and Giselle jerked, but Hester’s touch was surprisingly gentle. Her red hair cascaded over her shoulders as she leaned in, her eyes focused, the flicker of an unspoken understanding in their depths. Giselle shifted, uneasy under the vampiress’s gaze, but the urge to hide her injuries faded beneath Hester’s silent insistence.

      "Who struck you?" Hester asked finally, her voice as smooth and restrained as ever. "Do not insult me with tales of accidental falls."

Giselle forced a steady breath, averting her eyes. "It doesn’t matter."

Hester continued dabbing at the bruise in silence, her face expressionless, though there was a flash of something cold in her crimson gaze. “A shame,” she murmured, her tone distant. "I rather hoped you would be above this charade."

Giselle bit back the retort that rose to her lips. She knew Hester could likely smell the anger, the sharp edge of her frustration. There was little point in lying.

At last, Hester stepped back, examining her work. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of her lips, though Giselle couldn’t tell if it was one of satisfaction or sympathy.

     "Thank you," Giselle whispered, feeling a strange mixture of relief and shame.

Hester nodded coolly. "The next time someone hurts you," she said softly, "call for me."

And with that, Hester left, leaving Giselle alone—her cheek cool and soothed, but her thoughts a raging storm.