Chapter 6

When Nyra sobbed and curled herself into Viktor’s side, her voice breaking in just the right places as though grief had been rehearsed, she whispered for him to take her away from the sight of me.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she said between trembling breaths. “Let’s go. I can’t stay here… I can’t breathe with her like this. I don’t want Elric to see such ugliness.”

Elric hesitated only for a moment. Confused, not truly disturbed, as children often are when adults teach them what to feel. Then he rose and followed without protest, already distracted by something else in his mind.

Viktor gathered Nyra into his arms as if she were something precious forged by the Moon Goddess herself, something fragile that the world must not touch. His hand moved through her hair with practiced ease, his voice softening in a way I had not heard in what felt like lifetimes.

“Hush now,” he murmured against her temple. “You are the only one who matters here. Do not waste your tears on this.”

Then, as though I were no longer even present in the same hall, he guided her toward the stairs.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he added coldly over his shoulder. “Ignore her.”

I remained on my knees among the broken remains of what used to hold my son, gathering ash with trembling hands, trying to form a pile as if I could gather him back into existence through sheer will alone.

That was when Elric suddenly turned.

He ran back.

Before I could even understand his intent, his foot came down hard on what I had collected. The ash scattered instantly, lifted into the air like something sacred being desecrated.

“Witch!” he shouted. “You made my mommy cry!”

He stomped again, harder, scattering more of what remained until nothing could be gathered anymore. Then, with a final kick of childish rage, he sent the broken remains of the moonstone urn skidding across the hall. It struck the far wall with a dull, hollow sound before collapsing completely.

Something inside me went still.

Not silence.

Stillness.

As if even pain had stopped knowing how to move.

My throat worked soundlessly at first, then broke into something raw and uncontrollable. My body folded forward, trembling as if it no longer belonged to me.

Viktor descended slowly from the stairs until he stood before me. Then he reached down and seized my face in his hand, his fingers pressing into my cheeks with enough force that I could feel bone against pressure.

“Enough,” he said, his voice flat. “Enough of this performance.”

I blinked up at him. His expression did not change. There was no recognition there anymore, no memory of what he had once held sacred.

“I almost believed you,” he said quietly, almost thoughtfully, as though recalling a moment of weakness he regretted. “For a brief moment, I almost felt something. Almost pitied you. Almost mourned your little story.”

His grip tightened slightly.

“But the healer’s den sent word,” he continued. “They sent records. They sent visions. Evander laughing. Evander speaking. The attendants said you manipulated everything. That the child was never as ill as you claimed. That you used him. That you turned even your own son into a tool for sympathy.”

The words did not land like accusations.

They landed like execution.

I could not speak. My tongue felt foreign in my mouth.

Behind him, I saw Nyra.

She stood halfway up the staircase, one hand resting lightly on the railing, her posture composed as always. Her expression was soft, but not empty. There was something there—something faint, sharp, satisfied. A curve at the edge of her mouth that did not belong to sorrow.

A smile.

Small. Controlled.

But real enough to exist.

In that moment, I understood.

Not all lies needed force. Some only needed patience, and a man willing to believe them.

She had done it.

She had reached the healers. She had twisted the messages. The visions. The testimony. Every piece of truth bent until it no longer resembled itself.

And Viktor had believed it without question.

Again.

Just as he always did when it came from her.

Nyra descended slowly, as though nothing in the world weighed upon her. She returned to Viktor’s side, and he immediately loosened his grip on me, turning toward her as if pulled by instinct.

She leaned into him, fragile and trembling once more.

“I feel it again,” she whispered faintly. “That sickness. That pressure in the air. Ever since she brought that thing into the house… I feel like something is choking me.”

Her voice broke at just the right moment.

“I think she cursed me.”

Viktor’s jaw tightened. A low curse left him.

He looked at me again, and there was nothing left in his eyes but disgust.

Nyra continued, softer now, almost weeping into her sleeve.

“I heard the servants speaking… they said she brought something unnatural into the estate. Something tied to death. Maybe she meant to use it on me. Maybe she wanted me gone because I carry your child now…”

A pause.

Then, with a fragile inhale—

“I don’t want to die.”

I did not move.

I did not defend myself.

Because there was nothing left in me that believed words could still matter.

Viktor grabbed my wrist again and dragged me forward as though I were no more than a misbehaving servant.

The hall blurred as I was pulled into Nyra’s chamber. The door struck the wall behind us hard enough to shake the wood.

“On your knees,” he commanded.

I stood still.

“On your knees and beg for forgiveness.”

“No,” I said quietly.

The word cost everything I had left.

His hand struck my face again. The impact forced my vision to scatter in brief, flashing fragments of light.

“On your knees,” he repeated, harsher.

I still did not move.

That hesitation was enough.

He kicked the back of my legs.

Pain tore through me as I collapsed onto the stone floor. The wound from earlier split open again, warm blood soaking into fabric, spreading beneath me like something slow and final.

Nyra sat upon the couch like a queen in her court, perfectly arranged, a light blanket draped over her lap despite the warmth of the room. Her eyes shone with wetness, but not grief. Not truly.

Only anticipation.

“I don’t believe her,” she said softly. “She doesn’t mean any of it. I cannot even hear sincerity in her voice.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“Make her speak louder, Viktor. I want to hear it properly.”

Viktor stood behind me like a judge behind a condemned soul, his shadow stretching across the floor until it swallowed me entirely.

“Apologize,” he hissed. “Say it until she is satisfied.”

My throat trembled when I spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

My voice barely existed.

“I’m sorry.”

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each repetition scraped something raw inside me until sound itself felt like bleeding.

Then Nyra rose slowly.

Her hand pressed against her abdomen, her body swaying just enough to draw attention. A careful instability. A perfect timing.

Her breath hitched.

“Viktor…” she whispered. “Something is wrong… I think I’m bleeding.”