"The stain fades. The silence does not."
Blood steamed against the stone, bright and wet, too real to be forgotten. The Warden's body slumped where it had fallen. A hush pressed against the hall, broken only by the uneven breaths of the crowd now present.
Sephanie stood over him, chest heaving. She searched the faces around her—for approval, for understanding, for anything. What she found instead was horror.
Melinda's hands clutched her skirts, knuckles white. Her eyes locked on Sephanie's as though she no longer knew her. Sephanie tried, weakly, to smile—a plea, not a triumph. Melinda flinched, stumbling back into the crowd.
No one spoke. No one came near. Even the sound of their retreat was silence.
Except—movement. Kris pushed forward, shoving past a taller boy, his face pale but set. His hand twitched as if to reach for her. For a heartbeat their eyes met—hers desperate, his burning with a loyalty that defied the rest. Then Gerard's grip yanked her sideways, and Kris vanished behind the press of bodies.
Melissa stood among them, rigid, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. She neither sneered nor defended—only watched, eyes flat, as though she had already decided it was safer not to feel.
The crowd shrank further back. Whispers rose like wind against stone. Monster. Murderer.
Gerard's grip on her arm was iron, hauling her forward as though she were nothing more than proof of his point. His boots clicked against the stone. Not rushed. Not afraid. Each step deliberate.
"Dangerous things," he said, voice carrying across the stunned room, "belong in cages."
The door slammed. The lock fell into place.
Time blurred. Meals delivered without words. Parchment and ink laid before her like chains. The candle burning lower each night until it was replaced. Days counted only by routine, her throat raw from pleas unanswered.
She had tried once to claw the collar away. Her skin still burned with the memory. The magic mocked her—unyielding, absolute.
Until, one evening, the lock turned.
The door creaked open, and the sight of a familiar black shoe sent Sephanie stumbling upright.
"Melinda—!" Her voice cracked, half-laughter, half-sobs spilling out. She nearly ran forward—until the scowl carved across Melinda's face stopped her cold.
"Hello, Little One," Melinda said, but her voice was stripped of warmth. Her hands folded neatly at her apron, shoulders rigid.
Sephanie froze, waiting for some sign of kindness, some smile. None came.
"I didn't come here to comfort you," Melinda said at last. "I came because I couldn't carry the weight of silence any longer."
Her voice faltered, then hardened. "I was like you once. Taken young. But I wasn't strong enough. Rated D-class. A failure. Maveson knew it. He told me I could serve—or be discarded. So I became a maid. Every kindness I gave you was to make you… presentable. Easier to sell. That's how he controlled me."
The words gutted Sephanie. She staggered back, shaking her head. "No…"
Melinda pressed on, harsh now, as if cutting the truth out of herself. "I did care for you. But not the way you thought. That's the truth of it."
Tears burned down Sephanie's cheeks.
For a moment, Melinda's expression flickered—pain, regret—but the mask returned. She drew a folded bundle from the corner: black cloth, polished shoes, the uniform of a doll.
Her hands worked with brisk precision, smoothing fabric across Sephanie's trembling frame, combing white strands until they gleamed. Not gentle. Not cruel. Only exact.
When she was finished, she turned Sephanie toward the mirror.
The girl staring back was beautiful. Gown perfect, hair shining, collar biting at her throat. But beauty meant nothing now. The reflection showed what words had already told her: she was no longer a person. She was a weapon, polished for display.
Melinda's eyes met hers in the mirror. Something unreadable flickered there. Then, softly—barely more than thought—she whispered:
"Thank you. For killing him."
Before Sephanie could respond, Melinda's grip guided her forward, down the corridor, into the vast hall blazing with light.
At the threshold, Melinda's hand slipped away. No words. No goodbye.
And Sephanie was alone, swallowed by the roar of silence.