Virella lay curled on her side, the silken sheets of her bed crumpled and damp beneath her. The room was cloaked in silence, save for the occasional gust of wind that stirred the sheer curtains at the open window. Moonlight spilled across the wooden floor in a pale, solemn beam — the only light in the room.
She hadn't moved in hours.
Her body ached, not from combat or spellwork, but from the tension that gripped her muscles and refused to let go. Her chest still rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. Her eyes — red, swollen, dry — stared blankly at the wall.
"Was I wrong?" she whispered into the silence, the words trembling as they left her lips.
She'd run from that room like a coward.
She had screamed.
She had failed to stand her ground.
And yet…
"But they were talking about torture. About turning people into magical husks. That's not mercy…"
Her voice cracked.
"Is it?"
Her mind replayed the faces of the officers — stern, cold, confident. Hitler's words echoed louder than the rest. "Then you will not experiment on the innocent. You will experiment on the guilty."
And the others… they agreed with him. Every single one.
"Are they right?" she asked herself aloud, a bitter chill laced in the question. "Am I too soft?"
She sat up slowly, her hair clinging to the sides of her face. Her cloak had been discarded long ago. She looked down at her trembling hands.
"Do I care too much?""Would I still feel this way if I hadn't known those who suffered?""If it saves lives… if it shortens the war… if it means fewer children starving…"
She clenched her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms.
"Does that justify it?"
A tear ran down her cheek, unnoticed.
"If they're murderers… rapists… traitors… is it really wrong?"
She buried her face into her hands.
"Would he still listen to me if I agreed?""Would he trust me again?"
There was silence.
And then — a whisper, so faint it barely felt like her own:
"Maybe… if I chose better people… maybe then it would be okay…"
She froze.
That thought — that compromise — horrified her. But part of her clung to it. Like a drowning woman clinging to driftwood in the dark.
"Is this how it starts?" she whispered.
The wind howled outside.
The wind whistled through the open window as Virella sat motionless on the edge of her bed, hands curled in her lap, heart heavy with doubt and guilt.
She was about to bury her face again when—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound snapped through the room like a spark in dry air.
Her breath caught. Her head turned sharply toward the door.
That knock… it wasn't nervous. It wasn't polite. It was precise. Commanding.
Her eyes widened.
"No…"
She stood quickly, wiping her hands against her coat, her legs stiff from lying too long. With a shaky inhale, she raised her fingers and muttered a quiet incantation. A soft shimmer of blue passed over her face — wiping away the streaks of tears, calming her complexion.
But it couldn't hide the redness in her eyes. Or the tightness in her expression.
Another knock followed, slower now.
Virella rushed to the door and pulled it open — her posture straight, hands behind her back, face composed as best she could.
Adolf Hitler stood before her.
His uniform was spotless, his gloves still on. Two guards flanked him, stone-faced, unmoving — but neither made any effort to step forward.
His eyes scanned her for a moment — sharp, perceptive.
"Mein Führer," she said quickly, voice soft but formal. "Would you… like to come in?"
Hitler gave a small nod.
She stepped aside, and he entered without a word. The guards remained outside, closing the door behind them.
Virella said nothing. She motioned quietly toward the glass-paned doors that led to the private balcony attached to her quarters.
Outside, beneath the cold blue glow of moonlight, was a small table with two wooden chairs. A faint breeze stirred the edges of the lace curtains.
She gestured silently.
He stepped through first.
She followed.
They both took their seats across from each other — the silence between them heavy, like a rope stretched to the point of snapping.
Virella kept her eyes down for a moment.
And they sat.
Said nothing.
Just… sat — with only the wind and the distant hum of the settlement as witness.
They sat beneath the moonlight, the balcony chilled by the mountain air. Below, the faint clatter of carts and footsteps echoed through the streets as the village settled into sleep.
For a long moment, Hitler said nothing. He simply watched her.
Then, quietly—
"How are you?"
Virella blinked, caught off guard by the question. She sat a little straighter in her chair, hands folded tightly in her lap.
"I'm… fine," she said, forcing the words through a weak smile.
Hitler tilted his head slightly, as if observing a curious insect under glass.
"Hmm."He leaned back in his chair. "Not a very good liar, are you?"
Virella gave a small, nervous laugh — but the sound faded quickly. She looked away, toward the edge of the balcony, her lips pressing into a faint, embarrassed line.
Hitler didn't press. He simply let the silence hang again… before continuing in a softer, more reflective tone.
"You know," he began, "when I was much younger — long before all this — I faced a dilemma not so different from yours."
Virella glanced back at him cautiously. He was staring off into the dark, not looking at her.
"There were a people," he said. "They lived among us, walked like us, dressed like us. But they were not like us. They poisoned the roots of our nation with money, subversion, and lies. They bled our people dry and called it trade. They took without guilt. And when the time came to hold them accountable..."
He paused — then turned to her with that same unreadable calm.
"Some we imprisoned. Others we marked. Some… we removed altogether."
Virella furrowed her brow, confused. "Removed?"
"Jews," he said plainly, the word landing heavy in the air."You wouldn't know them. They don't exist here."
Virella's head tilted slightly.
"Jews?" she repeated, uncertain.
Hitler's gaze didn't waver.
"No. You wouldn't know."He folded his hands on the table. "What matters is that I did what had to be done — not because I hated them, but because I loved my people more."
He let the words linger before continuing.
"You see, Virella… leadership is not about purity. It is not about peace. It is about survival. And survival demands cruelty — not because it is just, but because it is necessary."
She sat still, her throat tightening. The chill of the air no longer came from the wind.
Virella's breath trembled.
She turned her face away, but her shoulders gave her away. The effort to hold everything in finally cracked. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, glistening in the moonlight.
She covered her mouth with one hand, her other gripped the edge of the chair — knuckles white, trembling.
Hitler rose from his seat slowly, his boots clicking softly against the stone as he stepped toward the balcony door.
He paused in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame.
"The choice is yours, Virella," he said without looking back."But remember… when the time comes, only one thing will matter—your morals… or the fate of humanity."
And then he was gone.
As the door shut behind him, the cold silence returned.
But Hitler didn't stop. His footsteps echoed crisply down the corridor as he approached the two guards waiting outside.
He didn't lower his voice.
"Let the sniper on the roof know I am safe," he said firmly."Also… have him keep an eye on her."He paused."Take the shot if she seems dangerous."
One of the guards snapped to attention.
"Right away, Mein Führer."
He raised his hand in the salute of the Reich — sharp and absolute.
Hitler gave a single nod, then disappeared into the hallway's shadows.