i get back to the room.
i don't remember how. Servants, maybe. Ghosts with pale faces and trembling hands who half-carried, half-dragged me through the cold, echoing hallways of my own home. i didn't feel their hands on my skin. i didn't feel anything but a distant, buzzing numbness. A protective shell.
Not until the door closes.
The heavy oak clicks shut, and the sound is a gunshot in the sudden silence.
And the silence hits me. It's a physical thing. A weight.
The adrenaline, the rage, the hot, vicious triumph from the courtyard… it all drains away in a rush, leaving a hollow, ringing vacuum behind. And the pain, the real pain i'd been holding back, rushes in to fill it.
Gods. The pain.
My legs give out. No warning. They just turn to water. i slide down the door, my back scraping against the polished wood, leaving a smear of ash and grime from the pyre. i land in a heap on the floor. A broken doll in a dirty white dress. Every single inch of me is screaming. My burned hand is a universe of agony, a sun of pain radiating up my arm. My body is a roadmap of bruises and broken things, a testament to a fight i barely survived.
i won.
i'm alive.
So why does this feel so much like dying?
i press my forehead against the cold wood of the door, the grain digging into my skin. My breath comes in ragged, wet sobs that i can't control. i hate it. i hate the sound. Weak. Small. Pathetic. The assassin in me, the cold, hard thing that lived in the shadows, is curled up in a corner of my mind, disgusted. Crying is for victims. Crying is for the people i used to make.
But the tears come anyway. Hot and angry. Not tears of sadness. Tears of rage. For the girl who died in an alley for nothing. For the girl who was supposed to burn on a pyre for a sin she didn't commit. For this new girl, this Eve, this stranger who has to live with both of their ghosts inside her.
My bandaged hand throbs against my leg. The feather. It's still there. A hot, angry coal pressed into my palm. A constant, pulsing reminder. Even now, with miles between us, i can feel him. Azeriel. Not his thoughts. Not his words. Just… the echo of him. A low, humming frequency of confusion and pain and… something else. Something that feels like horrified fascination. He's out there, somewhere in this strange new world, and he's thinking of me. i know it. The thought is a chain, pulling tight around my neck. A leash.
The air in the room changes.
It gets cold. Colder than the stone floor. A deep, unnatural cold that sinks right into my bones and makes my teeth ache. The faint scent of incense and dust in the room is smothered, replaced by something else. Something ancient and cloyingly sweet. Like flowers rotting in a sealed tomb.
i'm not alone anymore.
My head snaps up. The room is empty. The bed is neatly made. The shadows are just shadows. But the feeling… the feeling of being watched is so strong it's a physical weight on my shoulders.
…that was a fine performance, my little sinner…
The voice is not in my head this time. It's in the room. It's everywhere and nowhere at once. A soft, feminine whisper that sounds like silk and smoke and a mother's cruel disappointment. It makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
A shadow in the far corner of the room deepens. It detaches from the wall, pooling on the floor and then rising. It isn't a person. It's just… a shape. A tall, elegant silhouette of a woman, made of deeper darkness, a hole in the world. She has no face, no features, no details. Just a form. A presence that sucks all the warmth and all the hope from the air.
She glides toward me, silent and smooth. A queen of nothing. i try to move, to get up, to scramble away, but my body is a lead weight. A useless sack of meat and bone. i can only watch as she drifts closer.
…you see?… she whispers, her voice a caress that feels like spiders crawling on my skin. …fear is a kind of worship. and today, my dear, you made them all pray to you…
She kneels in front of me. The shadow has no substance, but i can feel a phantom pressure, a chilling coldness, as if she's right there, her knees inches from mine.
"What are you?" i rasp, my voice a broken thing. "The system?"
A sound that might be a chuckle echoes in the room. It's a cold, brittle sound.
…i am the architect of your ascension, my dear… she says, her voice dripping with a possessive sweetness that makes me sick. …i am the hunger you feel. the ambition you crave. i am the part of you that knows you are better than all of them. i am the voice that tells you to burn it all down…
Her formless hand reaches out. It's made of shadow and starlight, a shifting, impossible thing. i flinch as it gets closer, but i can't pull away. i'm pinned by her presence. By her truth.
…you have been a very good girl… she hums, a predator praising her prey. …and good girls get rewards…
Her fingers, cold and intangible, touch my lips.
The world dissolves.
The room, the shadows, the pain… it all melts away into a swirl of black and deep violet. i feel a phantom touch, a cold, dry kiss against my mouth that isn't real but is more real than anything i've ever felt. It's not sexual. It's… existential. A violation that goes deeper than skin, deeper than bone. It feels like she's rewriting my soul. Like she's branding my very essence from the inside out.
The whispers are a torrent now, a flood of information and power pouring directly into me, a dark sacrament.
…they gave you a doll's body, a whore's name, and a martyr's fire… she whispers against my phantom lips, her voice laced with a cold, ancient fury. …they expect you to be a temptation. a gentle, seductive poison. but we will not be a poison. we will be a plague…
A new power blooms inside me. It feels… disgusting. And beautiful. It coils in my gut, a living thing made of darkness and desire. It's a power that doesn't build. It breaks.
…your touch was a question… she purrs, the phantom kiss deepening. …now, your kiss will be the only answer they ever need…
[NEW TRAIT UNLOCKED: KISS OF THE VOID]
EFFECT: Your lips are now a conduit for sin. A single kiss can infuse a target with a taste of the Void, shattering their divine resistance, amplifying their darkest desires, and making their soul… pliable. Susceptible to your will.
The vision fades. i'm back in the room. On the floor. Shaking. Gasping for air that feels too thin. My lips are tingling, numb and cold, as if they've been kissed by a corpse.
She's still there. The shadow woman. The System. My god. My jailer. My architect.
She leans in, her faceless head close to mine. i can feel the absolute cold of her presence, the void where a soul should be.
…go on… she urges, her voice a seductive promise, a command disguised as a choice. …find another pretty soul to break. show them what a real monster looks like…
And then she's gone.
The room is just a room again. The unnatural coldness fades, leaving behind the normal chill of a stone manor. The scent of rotting flowers is gone, replaced by the faint smell of my own burned skin.
i'm alone.
Truly alone, with this new, terrible power humming under my skin like a disease. My lips feel… stained. Unclean. A weapon i never asked for, a violation i can never wash away.
i push myself up, my whole body trembling. The high of my victory is gone. The pleasure from the sin points is a faded, sick-sweet memory. All that's left is the pain. And this new, horrifying intimacy with the thing that owns me.
i am a weapon. But i am not the one holding me.
A dry, ragged sob escapes my throat.
No.
i will not cry. i will not be their victim. i will not be their doll. i will not be her good little sinner.
i will be the monster they created.
i look down at my bandaged hand. i can still feel him. Azeriel. His fear. His confusion. A distant, wounded hum across the bond of the feather. He is a wound in the world, and i am the salt.
The system wants me to corrupt him. Wants me to break him.
And i will.
But i will do it my way. On my terms.
This power they gave me… this curse…
i'm going to burn their whole world down with it.