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Chapter 7 - Rejecting Forgiveness and Truth

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The air wafted coldly and sourly through the room. Despite the colorful lights bouncing off the chamber chandelier, the atmosphere remained grim and dry.

Nothing could be heard except the sharp, rhythmic scrape of a file-knife against wood.

Melinda sat hunched over, whittling a stake with precision. It was the only thing keeping her sane. Ever since Awin's rejection and scolding, she had locked herself in her room, dreading what was to come. Over the past few days, she'd cycled through fits of panic and violent tantrums.

Now, she sighed, inspecting the stake in her hand. Satisfied with its sharpness, she set it aside and reached for the next stick. A pile of half a dozen finished stakes lay beside her.

"Someone is quite talented," a voice murmured coolly.

Melinda froze, rolling her eyes before turning toward the speaker. She instantly recognized the voice but braced herself to ignore Mahalia entirely. At least, that was her initial plan.

Standing by the doorway was Mahalia, dressed in a resplendent sapphire gown that looked fit for a celebratory ball. Her lips curled into a smug smile as she sauntered into the room, each step deliberate and confident. She took a seat at the far end of the chamber, facing Melinda.

"What...?" Melinda began, her voice dripping with irritation.

Before she could finish, Mahalia raised a document bearing the king's seal. Melinda sneered, muttering under her breath, "Why do I even bother?" She returned to her task, scraping the knife against the wood with renewed vigor.

For several minutes, silence stretched between them, save for the sound of the knife. Mahalia's eyes never left Melinda, her gaze burning into the other woman's bowed head. Slowly, she unclenched her fists, masking her discomfort with a serene facade.

"Charmlae, you wound me sometimes," Mahalia said in an exaggerated pout. "You're not even the slightest bit curious about why I'm here?"

Melinda paused, glaring at her visitor before tossing the knife and stake aside. "Why are you here, Mahalia? And why are you so obsessed with that Qaya girl, considering she hurt your family?"

Mahalia's smirk deepened.

Yes, Melinda, be angry. Be scared, she thought. You seemed so calm and unbothered while I was fighting the urge to run and hide from my murderer. It wasn't easy to stand here, pretending confidence while all I feel for you is fear and hatred. Seeing you unsettled makes me happy.

The air between them grew colder, the tension shrinking the space in the room. Mahalia's gaze briefly darted to the knife before she chuckled nervously.

"I'm here for many reasons, but I'll let you in on a secret. I know the truth, Melinda." She leaned forward slightly. "I know you killed Qaya Wright."

Melinda's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she composed herself, crossing her arms. "I have no idea what nonsense you're spewing, but—"

"Don't waste your breath," Mahalia interrupted. "You can't dissuade me from what I already know. I came here for one reason: to ask why. Why did you kill her?"

Her voice softened as her mask cracked ever so slightly. "Yes, Qaya Wright wasn't perfect. She'd done cruel things in her lifetime, but who were you to decide that her life needed to end? She didn't deserve to die."

Melinda's breath quickened. Before Mahalia could react, Melinda slammed the table and stood, her voice rising in rage. "What business is it of yours? Why come to my home just to spit vile accusations in my face? I'm not the bad guy here! And I know for certain that Qaya Wright wasn't some innocent victim. I'm so sick of everyone treating her like a saint!"

Mahalia remained silent throughout the outburst, her expression unreadable. For the first time since reincarnating as Mahalia Heris, she felt something other than hatred for the woman who had killed her. Pity.

It wasn't because she understood Melinda's twisted perspective, but because she saw the pathetic life Melinda led—a life barreling toward an inevitable, tragic end.

When Melinda finally calmed, Mahalia cleared her throat, offering a faint smile. "Do you regret it? When you sleep, do you think about her? Are you overwhelmed by guilt over the life you took?"

Melinda's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Why are you asking?"

Mahalia didn't answer immediately. Instead, her thoughts swirled. Because despite everything, I want to forgive you. I hate myself for that. I hate that I want to believe you feel guilt—that you regret it. If you do, maybe I can let go of this hatred.

She exhaled slowly, shelving her emotions. "I just want to know if I'm dealing with a human or the devil's spawn."

Melinda averted her gaze and shrugged. "I say I'm innocent, but even if I killed her... good riddance."

The silence was deafening.

Mahalia swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing a bitter smile. "I see." She stood, brushing off her gown. "Thank you for making this easier. I wanted to forgive you, but now I see you don't deserve it."

She turned and left, her footsteps echoing in the corridor.

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Mahalia solemnly walked along the corridor, her legs trembling and her breath uneven. She clutched her chest, trying desperately to remain calm, inhaling deeply. "It's okay, I'm fine now," she whispered to herself, her voice unsteady.

She moved to take a seat on one of the stairs when the sound of heavy footsteps reached her ears. Immediately, she straightened up, hastily wiping away her tears.

"What are you doing here?" The voice was tinged with surprise but carried a sharper note of irritation.

Mahalia scowled as her gaze locked onto the man speaking. He was tall, with auburn hair that fell neatly to the base of his neck. His stern grey eyes radiated cold indifference, and his impeccably tailored suit emphasized his composed demeanor.

"Ah, Zachary, the king's hound," Mahalia thought, her annoyance flaring.

Zachary's very presence irked her. As Qaya, she had only encountered him a handful of times. He was a man of few words, completing his tasks with machine-like precision. She had heard whispers about him being an exiled prince from the Occident Coast, but beyond that, his history was a mystery. What grated on her nerves the most, though, was his unflinching loyalty to King Awin—a trait she found gratingly naive.

"I asked what you were doing here," Zachary repeated as he approached.

"I came to use the toilet, happy" she replied coldly.

He let out a short, amused snicker before his expression returned to its usual frosty state. "Sarcasm may be your forte, Lady Mahalia, but I'd appreciate some honesty this time."

Mahalia groaned, holding up the king's seal for what felt like the hundredth time. "For goodness' sake, I didn't sneak in here."

Zachary studied her intently, his penetrating stare making no effort to hide his mistrust.

"What is this woman really up to? What did she tell the suspect?" His thoughts raced as he analyzed her. "Outwardly, she antagonizes one of the king's minions, yet she holds his seal. It's suspicious, but she doesn't look like she's plotting something sinister. She looks…" His gaze lingered on her face before he quickly looked away. "…Well, villains don't usually look the part."

Mahalia noticed his scrutinizing expression and waved her hand dismissively. "Now hurry along and do your job before you start throwing accusatory looks at me."

"Why are you here? What did you say to the suspect?" he pressed.

"And why must I tell you that?" she shot back.

"I'm the head of this investigation, Lady Mahalia. I need to know what was said. You openly antagonize this woman, yet here you are in her home. What was so important that you needed the king's permission to visit her? Are you in cahoots with the suspect?"

Mahalia scoffed, incredulous. "Why are you treating me like a criminal?"

"Does it feel that way? I assure you, you don't want to see how I treat actual criminals. Just tell me what you said and go about your day."

Her frustration mounted. "Who does this man think he is, acting so high and mighty?" she thought, her anger flashing in her gaze. She stared at him, a silent challenge in her eyes, and he met her glare with equal intensity.

The tension between them was palpable, and the rest of Zachary's team exchanged awkward glances. One of them cleared his throat hesitantly, breaking the moment.

Both Mahalia and Zachary looked away at the same time, their cheeks betraying a faint flush.

"We should hurry with interrogating the suspect, sir," one of the men said. "We still need to visit Sir Milton's estate."

Zachary nodded curtly and walked past Mahalia, his team following behind him.

"Damn hound," Mahalia muttered under her breath as they disappeared down the hall.

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The Palace: Zachary's Office (Evening)

The flickering light of an oil lamp cast a soft glow across Zachary's modest office. The room, adjoined to his private quarters, was utilitarian—neat but unadorned, save for a collection of documents and reports that were meticulously organized on his desk. The faint hum of evening crickets filtered in through the cracked window, mingling with the occasional murmur of voices from the palace corridors.

Zachary sat hunched over the desk, his sharp eyes scanning witness testimonies and other crucial documents. A low chuckle escaped him as pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

"Why?" he murmured to himself, biting his lip. "What are you thinking, Melinda?"

The creak of the door interrupted his thoughts. His head snapped up to see King Awin peeking in.

Zachary immediately stood, his posture rigid. "Welcome, Your Highness."

"As stiff as always, Zachary," Awin replied with a casual air, stepping into the room and taking a seat opposite him.

"My apologies," Zachary said, giving a brief bow before sitting down again.

Awin waved a hand dismissively, his brow furrowed. "So, how's the investigation progressing? What have you uncovered?"

Zachary hesitated. He weighed his words carefully, his gut telling him that the king's involvement in the case was less than innocent.

"Your Highness," Zachary began cautiously, "are you more concerned about the suspect or the victim in this case?"

Awin raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Pardon?"

"You worked closely with Qaya Wright, but you don't seem particularly… affected by her death. Am I wrong?"

Awin let out a soft laugh, though his smile didn't reach his eyes. "Leave my emotions to me, Zachary. Just tell me what you've discovered."

Zachary sighed, resigning himself. "I believe Melinda is the culprit. No, I am certain of it."

Awin leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand as he studied Zachary intently. Finally, he spoke. "How about you serve as the presiding judge for this case?"

Zachary flinched, the documents slipping from his hands. "What? But why? That undermines my role as the head of the investigation. I won't be able to uncover the full truth—I'd simply have to pass judgment on what's presented."

"Exactly," Awin said with a suspiciously cheerful tone. "What I mean is, don't overthink it. The investigation will proceed as usual. You'll just handle the verdicts. No problem… right?"

Zachary's lips tightened, his frustration barely concealed. "If that's your will, then I'll prepare accordingly."

Awin smiled in satisfaction, rising to his feet and giving Zachary a pat on the back. "Then I'll leave you to it."

As Awin left the room, he gave a knowing nod to his assistant Bertrand, who stood waiting outside.

"My work here is done," Awin said quietly, a sly grin curling his lips.

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To be continued

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