The sky doesn't just change—itfractures, splitting apart like broken glass to reveal something behind it. Not another sky but a memory, playing out in dimensions that exist above and around them.
A vision that makes everything stop.
Even the shadows pause their assault, all eyes drawn upward to witness what unfolds.
It's Nikki, but younger. Maybe fourteen, fifteen at most. She stands in a room that screams Fae aesthetic—all crystal and starlight and beauty that hides cruelty. But she's not admiring the décor.
She's bleeding.
Wounds cover her visible skin—precise cuts that speak of deliberation rather than rage. Her clothing is torn, stripped away in places that make my mind rebel against what I'm seeing. Tears stream down her cheeks in rivers that seem endless, but her eyes...
Her eyes are empty.
Staring at the floor with the particular vacancy of someone who's learned that fighting back makes it worse.
A low chuckle echoes through the memory, making everyone below flinch. The sound is wrong—not just cruel butpleased, satisfaction dripping from every note.
A figure emerges from shadows in the memory, and though his face is obscured, his bearing screams authority.
Power.
Ownership.
He looks down at the broken girl with pride that makes my nonexistent hands clench into fists.
The figure kneels, one hand gripping Nikki's chin to force her to look up. His smile is visible even through the shadow—wicked in ways that transcend simple cruelty.
"There's only one good benefit of you being useful,"he whispers, and his voice carries the particular tone of someone who's said this before, who enjoys saying it.
He leans closer, and his next words damn him entirely:
"Pleasing the King how he sees fit."
Dread crashes through me like a physical wave. The implications are clear, horrifying, world-ending in their simplicity.
The first person to betray Nikki wasn't a stranger, wasn't a cruel peer, wasn't even an enemy.
It was her father.
The King of the Fae Court, who should have protected his child above all else, had instead?—
I can't even finish the thought. Rage burns through me with intensity that threatens to make me fully manifest despite the impossibility. My fists clench hard enough that if I were physical, my palms would be bleeding.
This is why Nikki chose to become Nikolai.
Not just because the prophecy demanded it, not just because male was safer in their court, but because her father?—
The memory shatters as applause rings through the air.
Slow, mocking, theatrical clapping that draws every eye to the platform where Nikki and Nikolai hang. A figure stands between them now, having appeared while we were distracted by the horrific vision.
I recognize her immediately despite the changes.
Elena.
She's sickly in ways that go beyond simple illness.
Her skin is pale as parchment, shot through with dark veins that pulse with their own rhythm. Dark bags under her eyes speak of sleeplessness that might be measured in years rather than days. Her once-beautiful hair hangs limp, lifeless, more suggestion than substance.
