-- Tyche's POV --
I pushed the kitchen door open with my shoulder.
The room fell silent so quickly it was almost laughable.
One moment, there had been noise—clattering bowls, low laughter, whispered voices braided with cruelty—and the next, it was as though someone had cut the air itself. Every help froze where she stood. Hands stilled. Backs straightened. Faces turned toward me, some startled, some wary, some openly displeased.
Their eyes lingered on me longer than necessary.
I stepped inside anyway.
The basket of herbs weighed heavy in my arms, though I knew it was no heavier than it had been moments ago. I crossed the threshold slowly, deliberately, and set it down on the wide wooden island at the center of the kitchen.
The dull thud echoed louder than it should have.
Only then did I look at them.
One by one, I met their gazes.
No one spoke.
I saw it clearly now—the tightness around their mouths, the guilt poorly masked as irritation, the way a few of them avoided my eyes entirely. Others did not bother. They stared back with the same sharpness they had used in their whispers.
Behind me, the door creaked shut.
A low murmur rippled through the room.
"Did she hear?" someone breathed.
"I think she did," another whispered, barely moving her lips.
My fingers rested on the rim of
the basket. Fresh rosemary. Thyme. Mint still damp with earth. I inhaled once, steadying myself.
"You're stripping them wrong," I said.
My voice surprised even me—quiet, even, almost detached.
Several heads snapped up.
"The herbs," I continued, gesturing faintly to the basket.
"You don't wash them first. You pick the leaves from the branches, then rinse them. Otherwise, you bruise them and lose the oils."
Silence.
A few of the helps stared as though I had spoken in a foreign tongue.
I straightened, smoothing my hands against my skirt. My heart was still pounding, still aching from everything I had heard earlier, but I refused to let it show. I would not give them that satisfaction.
"If Mistress Lysandra asks," I added calmly, "that is how she
prefers it done."
No one answered.
I turned and walked away.
The murmurs resumed the moment my back was to them—soft, uneasy, threaded with something close to shame. I did not slow my steps, nor did I look back.
As I left the kitchen behind, one thought burned brighter than all the others, sharp and unyielding.
I needed to speak to Ourania.
And this time, I would not be silent.
I found myself back in the corridor.
The same stretch of stone. The same narrow windows. The same place where I had stood earlier, half-hidden, half-broken, listening to words that were never meant to reach me—and yet had lodged themselves deep beneath my skin.
I stopped.
For a moment, I only stared at the spot where my feet had been planted before, as if the stones might still remember what I had heard. My chest felt tight again, my pulse quickening with the absurd urge to convince myself that none of it had been real.
That the laughter had not echoed. That the stories had not been spoken. That the name of the fourth prince had not been twisted into something monstrous.
I exhaled sharply and shook my head.
It happened, I told myself.
Every cruel word. Every whispered fear.
Lingering here would change nothing.
I straightened my back and stepped forward.
I was going to speak with Ourania.
The corridor stretched ahead of me, long and quiet, lit by thin slants of afternoon light. My footsteps echoed softly as I walked, each one sounding louder than it should have in the stillness. I passed familiar doors, familiar shadows—places I had learned to make myself small in—but today, I did not lower my gaze.
At the far end of the hall, I turned into the parlor.
The room was empty, its curtains drawn just enough to let the light spill across polished floors and ornate furniture meant more for display than comfort. I crossed it without pause, heading for the narrow staircase tucked at the back, the one used mostly by family—and servants who knew better than to linger.
I climbed.
Each step creaked beneath my weight, winding higher and higher as the air grew warmer, heavier. I turned once. Twice. The stairwell seemed to coil around me like a thought I could not escape.
Finally, I reached the upper floor.
Ourania's door stood at the end of the passage, untouched by the wear that marked the rest of the house. I slowed as I approached it, my hand hovering just inches from the polished wood.
My heart pounded.
Whatever waited behind that door, I knew one thing for certain.
I was done keeping quiet.
I lifted my hand and knocked once.
The sound was soft, controlled—nothing like the storm brewing inside my chest.
I waited.
Silence.
No footsteps. No movement. Not even the faint rustle of fabric.
I shifted my weight and raised my hand again, preparing to knock a second time. My knuckles hovered inches from the wood—
"Who is it?"
The voice was faint. Strained. Not at all like the polished, confident tone Ourania wore so effortlessly before others.
My hand slowly lowered.
"It's me," I answered. "Tyche."
There was a pause.
A longer one this time.
I could almost imagine her standing in the center of the room, debating whether I was worth the trouble of answering.
Then the latch clicked.
The door swung open.
And there she stood.
Ourania did not look like herself.
Her hair—usually arranged with deliberate care—hung loosely around her shoulders, strands falling in uneven waves as if she had run her hands through it too many times. Her face, though still beautiful in structure, was pale and strained. The careful composure she prided herself on had slipped, revealing something frayed beneath.
Her eyes met mine.
Annoyance flashed there immediately.
She did not bother to hide it.
"What do you want?" she asked, irritation sharp in her voice, cutting and unrefined.
I studied her for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
She looked… shaken.
Good, a small part of me thought before I could stop myself.
"I need to speak with you," I said evenly.
She gave a short, humorless exhale. "About what?"
I did not answer at once. Instead, I held her gaze.
About the draw.
About the whispers in the kitchen.
About the monster they painted with horns and fire and blood.
About whether she truly understood what she might be stepping into.
"May I come in?" I asked instead.
Her jaw tightened.
For a moment, I thought she might refuse simply to spite me.
Then she stepped aside—just barely enough to allow passage.
"Make it quick," she muttered.
I crossed the threshold into her room, the door closing behind me with a soft but final click.
And suddenly, it felt as though we were no longer cousins.
Only two girls standing at the edge of something neither of us fully understood.
I remained standing near the door, hands folded lightly before me.
I had rehearsed this walk in my mind a dozen times on the way here. None of those rehearsals prepared me for the look on her face.
I swallowed.
"I… wanted to say I'm glad Uncle is back," I began carefully. My voice was steady, measured. Respectful. "The house feels different already. Lighter."
Ourania did not respond immediately.
For a fleeting second—just a second—the tightness around her eyes soften.
"My father," she said quietly.
There it was. The crack in her armor.
"I know you must be pleased," I continued gently. "It has been years."
Her gaze sharpened again.
"Yes," she said. "It has."
Silence lingered between us.
I allowed myself a small smile. "I am happy too. For all of us."
The warmth drained from her expression so quickly it was almost frightening.
"Oh, I'm sure you are," she replied coolly.
Her arms folded across her chest.
"I'm certain you are the happiest of all, Tyche. After all, my sister and I are clearly the monsters who torment you daily… and my father happens to be your noble savior."
Her lips curved—not into a smile, but into something thinner. Sharper.
"So please," she continued, her voice dipping lower, laced with unmistakable malice, "cut the false sweetness. Tell me why you are here."
The words struck harder than I expected.
Monsters.
Torment.
Savior.
The corridor. The broom. The whispered insults. The years of swallowed tears. The nights spent convincing myself I deserved patience.
For one small, dangerous moment, something bitter rose in my chest.
She is right, a voice inside me whispered.
Why should you care what happens to her?
If she ends up in misery, would it not be justice?
My fingers curled into my palms.
No.
I would not think like that.
I would not become like them.
I drew in a slow breath and lifted my chin—not in defiance, but in quiet resolve.
"You're right," I said softly. "I did not come to speak of Uncle."
Her brow arched slightly.
"I came," I continued, "because I overheard something in the kitchen."
Her posture stiffened.
"The draw," I said plainly this time. "They said you entered it."
I did not accuse. I did not judge.
I simply watched her.
"And they were speaking about… one of the princes."
I hesitated.
About the horns. The fire. The blood. The monster.
"They were saying dangerous things," I finished carefully.
"Things that frightened me."
Now my eyes met hers fully.
"If even a fraction of it is true," I asked quietly, "do you truly wish to risk becoming part of that world?"
There.
No cruelty. No mockery.
Only concern.
Even if she did not deserve it.
Even if I should have walked away.
I waited for her answer.