I was dragged to my room like a criminal, the cold silence of the hallway like an accusation. The door slammed behind me, and the lock clicked—a final sentence.
I stared at the walls, my thoughts spiraling. I couldn't stay locked in here. Not now. Not after everything that had happened. The pieces were falling into place in the cruelest way. Rebekah was still missing, presumed dead, and every sign seemed to point to me—Iris.
But it didn't make sense. The story was never meant to go like this. Nothing like this happened in the original plot. Rebekah had always been safe, a quiet presence in the background. And Elena wouldn't have touched a minor character. She never did.
A hushed murmur stirred on the other side of the door. Footsteps. Then the lock clicked.
Lisbeth entered, calm as the sea, carrying a silver tray with a piece of bread. The scent was warm and comforting. My stomach growled.
She placed it on the table and sat down. She didn't say a word. Just waited. The food was a trap, I knew it—but I was too hungry, too tired. I sat on the sofa across from her, picked up the plate, and began to eat. The warmth seeped into my body, slightly calming my worries.
She smiled—not kindly, not innocently. A slow, knowing curve of her lips that chilled me more than any locked door could.
She poisoned the food.
No. She couldn't have. She wouldn't hurt her puppet. She loved Iris… didn't she?
I finished eating and set the plate down. "Thank you for…" I began, but a sharp pain stabbed through my temples, so strong I thought my skull would split. She did poison the food.
I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't respond. Another wave of pain shot through them—no, I couldn't feel them at all. I was a cripple again. My vision blurred. I reached for the plate and collapsed onto the carpet.
"What… have you… done?" I breathed out. My tongue was numb, my throat parched.
"You've been under stress," she said, her voice even. "Stress makes the vial's transformation stop working. So before that happened, I put some in your soup."
"You…" Another jolt of pain tore through my body, and I screamed. Were the vials this potent? Was this the pain she had to endure just to make herself look like her sister?
"The pain will pass. Try to sleep through it," she said, helping me up.
"I can't see," I said shakily. Everything was dark, and I was sure—absolutely sure—my eyes were wide open. "Please, tell… me… my… eyes… are… shut…" Even speaking was becoming difficult.
"It must be the vial that changes the color of your eyes," she answered, laying me down on something soft. How could she be this calm?
I reached for her but grasped only air.
"Hel… help," I cried out. "P… please…" The pain. The blindness. My fading voice. Was I going to die? Again?
A warm hand patted my hair. It was gentle. Comforting. But the pain was unbearable.
"Hot," I managed to breathe.
"Just bear with it. It'll pass," her voice came, distant now.
"Cold… now…" My temperature was crashing. I was burning and freezing at the same time. "Pain…killers… morph… morphine…" I begged, clawing weakly at the air until I finally grabbed onto something—someone.
This time, the hand was larger—warmer. I felt lighter, as if I were floating. Voices drifted like whispers through mist. The pain was fading... a little.
Then came the memories.
Not mine.
Not Iris'.
"You can't fix that limp! You're a cripple!" a woman shrieked. I couldn't see her face clearly, but her words were sharp as knives. A cup shattered. A pained groan followed—from whoever's memory I had slipped into.
"I... I'll prov—make it," the girl stammered, storming out in tears.
"I will prove her and Mother wrong. I'm going to find that flower."
I could hear her thoughts as if they were my own.
Another wave of pain burst through my temples. I screamed.
A warm hand pulled me close and enveloped me in a hug.
"You're okay. You are okay now," a voice murmured.
My body began to relax. The pain dimmed to a whisper. I tried to open my eyes, but everything remained dark.
"I can't see," I whispered, reaching for the stranger who had moved away. "My legs..."
I tried to stand.
They held me down.
"You're safe now," he said.
I struggled, but he was stronger.
Defeated, I lay back.
He slowly let go of my shoulders.
"Am I blind now? Can I no longer walk?" I asked, voice cracking.
"I'll have the physician remove the cloth around your eyes," he said gently.
Cloth?
There was something over my eyes?
Fear shot through me.
What about my legs?
"Help me up," I croaked, my throat dry as dust.
He lifted me gently, then lowered me again, helping me stand.
There was no pain. No limp.
"I can walk," I breathed.
The cloth around my eyes came loose and fluttered to the floor. I opened them slowly.
Faces—worried, relieved—blurred into view.
And then, the Crown Prince.
"Your Highness?" I spluttered, staring up at the man who held me. "What are you doing here?"
"How are you feeling?" the Count asked, stepping closer.
"Weak. Hungry," I admitted, settling on the edge of the bed.
"You've been unconscious for a week," Cedric said solemnly.
A week?
I had been what now?