When I wake up, the first thing I see isn't my ceiling.
No glow from my phone. No pile of empty chip packets.
Just a white canopy, silk sheets, and gold that's way too shiny for my tax bracket.
And then—
it hits me.
Not like a gentle memory montage.
More like a truck.
Flashes. Fire. Clara's face. His eyes.
The Witch. The King. Me.
I sit up, heart pounding. My hands are shaking.
I know now. I know who I am.
And I know what's about to happen.
Somewhere out there, he's about to die.
For killing Clara.
And I… I remember why.
I don't even think.
I throw on the first robe I find and bolt through the hallways.
Servants gasp, guards yell, someone calls me Your Grace —
but I don't stop.
Because I can see it in my head —
that boy, the one with the ocean-blue eyes and the calm that makes you want to scream,
being dragged toward a block of stone.
By the time I reach the courtyard, my lungs are on fire.
He's there. Kneeling. Rope cutting into his wrists.
The sword's already raised.
And I just—
scream.
> "STOP! IT WAS ME!"
Everything freezes.
Every single head turns.
> "He didn't kill her because he wanted to!" I shout, voice cracking.
"I—I blackmailed him! I told him to do it!"
Gasps. Murmurs. Someone drops a goblet.
And the boy — he just looks at me.
Those same eyes. Blue and endless.
No confusion. No panic.
Just that same maddening calm.
Like he knew I'd say it.
Like this was always supposed to happen.
And standing there, heart about to burst,
I realize something terrifying.
Maybe I didn't just play the game.
Maybe the game's been playing me.
The silence that followed my scream was so sharp, I could hear my own heartbeat trying to crawl out of my chest.
Then—
a murmur.
Then another.
And suddenly the whole courtyard buzzed like a hive of very judgmental bees.
> "Ah, a sibling quarrel, then."
"How typical of royal blood."
"The palace hasn't had one of these in decades."
They said it like it was tea gossip.
Like Clara's death was just another headline for tomorrow's banquet chatter.
The guards hesitated, looked at one another — and then at me.
No one moved to grab me.
Instead, one of them quietly cut the ropes binding him.
I just stood there.
Half-shaking. Half-laughing in disbelief.
He rose slowly, the faint sunlight catching on his golden hair.
The blood on his hands looked like ink on silk.
His calm didn't waver.
Not once.
And the people… just watched.
Not outrage. Not horror.
Just detached curiosity.
I wanted to scream again, but all that came out was a small, cracked laugh.
> "Cool," I muttered under my breath.
"Confessed to royal murder and everyone's like—'oh, sibling drama, how quaint.' Totally fine. Completely normal Tuesday."
The boy's eyes found mine then.
Blue. Cold. Still.
No anger. No confusion.
Just that same, knowing silence.
And then he turned.
Walked away.
Free.
Leaving me there—
alone, surrounded by murmurs,
wondering what kind of nightmare lets you take the blame for a murder and still somehow feel like you're the one being executed.