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The mirror showed what I never let others see—disheveled hair, shirt untucked, illusions stripped away. Echo’s scales shifted through shades of storm and twilight, betraying the tempest I’d been holding back since that afternoon.

I pressed a hand to my face, exhaling slowly, but the memories refused to fade. Her in that maid’s uniform, the fabric clinging in ways that had made my mouth go dry. The flush on her cheeks, the defiance in her eyes even as she knelt before us. The way my body had reacted traitorously—like it hadn’t gotten the message that I was supposed to ruin her, not crave her. That I was supposed to break her, not imagine what she’d feel like undone beneath my hands for entirely different reasons. I dug my nails into my palms, willing the thoughts away, but they curled through my mind like smoke, inescapable.

And then tonight at The Cauldron, pushing too far, watching her finally break and run.

I told myself it was satisfaction I felt. Another perfectly orchestrated humiliation.

But the way my magic had reacted—caught on hers like silk snagging on a sharp edge—said otherwise. The memory of last semester surfaced—Zhang’s broken expression as he packed his bags, his name already fading from whispered conversations, as if he’d never existed. I’d thought it was just another game, another victory.

But watching Marigold run tonight, I felt it again—that same sick twist in my gut. Like I had carved someone out of existence, and the space they left behind was hollow.

With Zhang, I’d told myself it was just strategy. That it didn’t matter. That the long nights, the shared laughter, the way he’d looked at me like I was more than the sum of my charm—that none of it meant anything.

I’d just been following orders then too, being Mother’s perfect puppet.

“The performance is slipping, isn’t it?” I murmured to Echo. “Just like you.” My chameleon had been presented in that ornate cage on my twelfth birthday.

“A proper familiar for a proper heir,” Mother had said, her immaculate smile never reaching her eyes. “One that will help maintain your illusions, darling. After all, appearance is everything.”

But Echo had defied expectations, her scales becoming a window into every truth I tried to hide. Just like now, as they shifted to that deep violet that only ever emerged around Marigold. Betraying how she affected me more than I wanted to admit.

That wasn’t the only dissonance haunting me tonight. Keane had been off in the tunnels, his magic bleeding darkness like ink through water. He was losing control, and I was doing nothing to help.

My violin waited in its case, patient as always. It had been there through every illusion, every deception. But tonight, even its strings felt like they belonged to someone else—just another performance I was losing control of.

I pulled the violin free, setting it beneath my chin. No sheet music tonight. Tonight wasn’t about the show. The first notes emerged raw and haunting, aching with everything I couldn’t say in words. My unwanted arousal during the maid scene. The sick satisfaction mixed with shame at The Cauldron. The way her defiance made my flawless charm feel hollow and strained.

The music built, shifting, wilder now. How she’d flushed, how she’d met my eyes with fire even on her knees. How I’d wanted to break her—and how each success left me feeling more broken instead. Just like with Zhang.

I played until my arms burned, until the ache in my chest unraveled through the notes. When the final sound faded, the room felt too still. I reached up and wiped my cheek before I even registered the dampness.

Echo let out a low trill, scales darkening to that deep violet that spoke truths I didn’t want to hear.

I wiped my face harder. No. I do not mourn a girl I was meant to break. I do not shatter over someone whose ruin should have been a victory.

I lowered the violin gently, like closing the curtain on a scene I wasn’t meant to play. Tomorrow, I’d return to the stage. I would be perfect. Flawless. Untouchable.

But for now, in this moment, I could admit that something had shifted. That maybe, for all the ways I had tried to destroy her, she had unraveled me first.

Even if it meant acknowledging that what had started as a cruel game had become something far more dangerous.

17

Marigold

Monday morning, Iwoke to sunlight streaming through the tall windows and Scout chittering urgently from my nightstand. After almost a week in the royal tower, I’d started to grow used to the dead things’ whispers, but today they felt sharper—more insistent. They picked up on the tension winding through my body, the unease coiling in my stomach.

The Cauldron hadn’t just been another fight. It had been a warning. A lesson in exactly where I stood. And I refused to let it break me.

Their words still echoed in my head—Elio’s cruel taunts, Cyrus’s burning scrutiny, the way they had stripped me down to something small and dirty and unworthy. But worst of all was Keane’s silence. His careful inaction, as if watching from the shadows absolved him of any guilt.

I sat up, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

“I know, I know,” I muttered to Scout as he clicked his skeletal feet impatiently. “Everything changes today.”

But really, everything had already changed. In my talks with Mom over the weekend, I’d been careful to be circumspect. Everything was fine, and I was adapting well. I didn’t want her to worry, but I was worried. Would I ever find my place here?

I yanked on my jeans, fingers clenching the fabric. A week of their relentless cruelty, and I was still here. Still trying. Like an idiot.