What a beautiful day it was—deceptively so. Birds chirped outside the open window, their melodies carefree, dancing atop the breeze that carried the scent of blooming summer flowers. The sky shimmered in shades of warm amber and deep coral, as if the heavens themselves had been painted in honey and fire. It was the kind of evening that beckoned one into the garden, to rest on a sun-warmed bench and forget the world entirely, however briefly.

  Even better, it was Sunday. The mansion was quiet, devoid of workers or footfalls echoing through its halls. The silence should have been peaceful. But instead, it sat heavily on my chest like a weight I couldn’t shrug off. I was still in bed, sprawled beneath a mess of rumpled sheets, staring at the ceiling as though it might provide answers to the one question that had consumed me all day.

  To stab, or not to stab. That was the question.

  A noblewoman contemplating murder. What a lovely contradiction. Who would’ve thought? Me—polished, proper, endlessly courteous—poised with a dagger, ready to drive it into someone’s heart. And not just anyone’s.

  Lucinda’s.

  The entire day, I had turned the thought over in my mind, again and again, like a coin between my fingers. To grant her the death she sought so obsessively, or to deny her that satisfaction, to force her to live and answer for everything she had done? The idea of ending her was intoxicatingly simple. Just a few centimetres of steel through the silk of her dress and into the soft flesh beneath—then stillness. Final, irreversible stillness.

  But I couldn’t do it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  Because despite everything I knew about Lucinda—her cruelty, her grotesque joy in chaos, her unnerving affection for violence—there was so much I didn’t know. Who she really was beneath that mask of sadism. What had turned her into this creature I feared and admired in equal measure. Why she wanted to be mine—a part of my family—in that warped, obsessive way of hers.

  The letter she had presented me made it clearer. A Way to Stop the Elven-Human War, it was titled. Not exactly subtle, but then again, neither was she. And it was more than a proposal; it was a confession. A roadmap. A sacrifice. Her logic was unsettling, cold-blooded, and yet… terrifyingly plausible. It could work—with or without her help. But if I chose the path alone, I would lose nearly everything I held dear.

  And she knew that.

  All I had to do was to let the blade do the talking. End this nightmare. Snuff out the heart that had caused so much pain and left so much blood in its wake. But when I pictured her sleeping, her chest rising and falling in a rare moment of peace, something twisted inside me. A shadow of guilt. A flicker of doubt.

  Because the truth was, she hadn’t just corrupted others—she had corrupted me.

  I couldn’t forget the way I’d felt watching her murder the maid. The sick satisfaction. The release. Years of silent suffering under Arthur had begun to unravel in that moment. But when she left for war, when I saw the aftermath of what she could really do, something in me shifted. I was no longer an observer. I was implicated.

  Now, I stood at a crossroads: either condemn her and fall to that same darkness by killing her… or accept her. Accept what she was, and by extension, what I was inching towards.

  A soft, unexpected voice broke my spiral.

  “Yo.”

  I yelped, nearly falling off the bed. The voice was male, casual, far too close. My eyes darted to the door, which I knew I’d closed earlier. I must’ve been so deep in thought I hadn’t noticed—

  “Tom?!” I gasped.

  He leaned casually against the wall, as if he’d always belonged in my private chamber. The audacity was infuriating. The timing, unnerving.

  “Can I have that?” he asked, gesturing toward the letter beside me with a look of faint amusement and academic interest—as though it were nothing more than a recipe or a shopping list.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Are you not at all concerned that I might… stab her?”

  He tilted his head, pretending to ponder the question for a moment, then shrugged and scratched at his cheek.

  “Nah. She deserves it if she lets her emotions get the better of her.” His tone was breezy, as if we were discussing spilled wine rather than someone’s life. “Now, the letter?”

  I frowned and instinctively pulled the parchment closer to me, shielding it from his casually intrusive gaze. There was something about the way he ignored the seriousness of the situation that unsettled me more than if he’d screamed or panicked.

  “What do you mean, ‘let her emotions get the better of her’?” I asked sharply, my eyes flicking toward the window. The orange glow had deepened into crimson, and the shadows in the garden grew long and strange. His appearance wasn’t random. It couldn’t be.

  He knew something.

  And whatever little time we had left to speak freely, it was fleeting.

  “Uh… how should I put it?” Tom exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck like a man trying to explain a storm to someone who had only ever seen clouds. “Whatever she did before she met that girl in the army, she probably never had to deal with these… stupid emotions. Stuff like familial love. Friendship. Connection.” His voice was casual, but there was a thin layer of discomfort beneath it—too thin to touch directly. “And you’ve noticed, haven’t you? She’s not exactly great at controlling her positive emotions unless she’s in real danger.”

  His eyes flicked toward the letter beside me, still burning with that same hungry curiosity.

  “Can I have that letter now, or not?”

  He was persistent—too persistent. I had assumed all along that he and Lucinda were two pieces of the same game. That he knew the rules as well as she did. But now? He seemed just as in the dark as I was, fumbling for understanding in the same disjointed way. That unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

  “Tom…” I began, my tone sharpened with suspicion. “What do you really know about her?”

  He gave a short laugh—dry, humorless—and leaned lazily against the window frame, as if my question bored him. “Not much, now that you ask. Only that she’s completely, irredeemably fucked up. That’s about it. There, happy?” He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, the letter. Please. I want to know what she planned.”

  His disinterest in her past didn’t sit right with me. It wasn’t detachment—it was too deliberate for that. Like someone pretending not to care so they wouldn’t have to feel.

  “She told me a psychopath raised her,” I said quietly, my voice measured. His reaction was… almost nonexistent. A small shrug. A look out the window.

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  “That sounds incredible.” Still monotone. Still unaffected. “The letter?”

  “She said she was whipped.” I watched him like a hawk, waiting for something—anything—to register. Pain. Sympathy. Anger. But all I got was silence.

  He blinked once, slowly. “Where are we going with this?” he asked, now visibly annoyed. “L.E.T.T.E.R?”

  My lips pressed together. I wasn’t done. “Tom… what do you think she’ll do to this world once she has real power?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted back toward the garden, now brushed with the shadows of the descending evening. When he finally spoke, it was with quiet certainty.

  “Well, considering she’s already saved the world once, I doubt she wants to destroy it. If that’s what you’re implying.”

  I stared at him. The words sounded like a joke, or worse, propaganda. “She what? Lucinda saved the world?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief out of my voice.

  Tom gave an exaggerated sigh, as if tired of having to explain something so obvious. “Yeah. There was this parasitic worm thing spreading through the army. No one knew how to stop it. She dealt with it … or she helped someone else to deal with it.” He leaned forward slightly. “It wasn’t pretty. But it worked.”

  I blinked. My thoughts raced. If what he said was true, then her slaughter of the army wasn’t just a bloodthirsty tantrum—it was strategic. Ruthless, yes. But not meaningless.

  And if she wanted to preserve the kingdom—as her letter suggested—then obliterating its military made no sense… unless she had to. Unless the alternative was worse.

  “She… isn’t evil?” I whispered, uncertain even as the words left my mouth. They felt wrong somehow, too soft to describe the creature who had curled into my arms with a smile on her lips.

  Tom’s eyes lit up with something like alarmed disbelief.

  “What? Are you insane?” He gave a short, barking laugh. “A good person would try to save everyone. Lucinda didn’t even hesitate. She sent them all to die.” He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “It was the most efficient, brutal solution—and she liked it, Mary. Don’t get that twisted. She was probably drooling over the chaos. She always is.”

  The room fell quiet again. The weight of his words sank into me like ice. I had hoped for clarity. But instead, I found contradiction, a storm of incompatible truths.

  “You told me she’s pure evil,” I said, my voice low. “Do you think that’s true?”

  Tom tilted his head, considering. For once, he seemed to drop the mask of apathy. His voice was quiet, almost philosophical when he replied.

  “She’s not good by any measure we use for normal people. She enjoys bloodshed. She manipulates. She lies without shame.” He paused, then added, “But she’s also not aimless. Or stupid. Or… mindlessly destructive.”

  He looked at me then, his gaze clear and sharp.

  “She’s not a monster because she wants to watch the world burn. She’s a monster because sometimes, she saves it—and still doesn’t blink while doing the worst things imaginable. You think that makes her less dangerous?” He scoffed. “No, Mary. It makes her worse.”

  I clutched the letter tightly in my hand, heart pounding.

  Because for the first time… I truly understood what Lucinda was.

  And I still didn’t know whether I should stab her—or protect her.

  “No, not at all,” Tom said slowly, his voice like gravel under tension. “She’s a flower that blooms through bloodshed. I’ve seen her laugh—really laugh—while cutting down bandits, one after another, like she was dancing through a field of thorns. And when she sent her knights on that suicide mission? The glee in her eyes was almost… holy.” He chuckled bitterly. “She finds beauty in the carnage. But—and here’s the twist—she never kills needlessly. There’s always a reason. Always a calculation. She’s like a storm that only destroys what she needs to… for now.”

  He looked at me then, eyes hard, sharp with frustration. “So yes, you’re in a unique position. A dangerous one. Because no matter what you think you are to her, you will never be able to pull her out of that darkness. It owns her. Once you look away—just once—she’ll go right back to it. She’ll kill, she’ll drink blood, she’ll sow terror. And you? You’ll still be here, wondering if you could’ve stopped her.”

  He stepped forward, voice lowering like a whispered dare.

  “Do the world a favour, Mary. Throw her away. Watch it burn without her.”

  Tom wasn’t just upset. He was furious, quietly unraveling at the edges. But not because he feared Lucinda. No—he feared what she might become with me. That was the threat. He could stomach her chaos, her cruelty, her laughter soaked in blood… but not her humanity. Not hope. That was something he couldn’t control.

  They weren’t allies. Not really. He didn’t even understand her. And that scared him more than anything else.

  “There’s another option,” I said, lifting the dagger slightly. The steel caught the last flicker of sunlight. “I could kill her right now.”

  Tom’s expression twisted into something unreadable.

  “Do it,” he said, a challenge on his tongue. “Do it, and feel that darkness settle in your bones. You’ll never shake it off. It’ll follow you into every quiet night and whisper to you in dreams. You’ll lie awake wondering if you did the right thing, and you’ll never know. Because deep down, you don’t want her dead. Admit it.”

  I looked down. The dagger was cold in my hand. Familiar. Wrong.

  “She dragged you out of misery,” he continued, almost spitting the words. “You think you hate her, but you don’t. She shattered your cage, Mary. And now you’re scared of what it means to be free.”

  I swallowed hard. “A boring life is better than watching the world burn.”

  He shrugged. “Debatable. You’ve got one minute before the sun sets. After that, there’s no turning back. You think you can leave us later? You can’t. There will be consequences. Dire ones.”

  “…I…” The word tasted like ash in my mouth. No matter what I chose, something would be lost. If I killed Lucinda, the world might be safer—but I would be broken. If I let her live, she could destroy everything… or maybe, just maybe, change.

  And maybe… I didn’t want to lose her, not yet. Maybe she had already found a place in my heart.

  Then, suddenly—

  “…cookies…” Lucinda’s voice cut through the tension like sunlight through smoke. Muffled, half-asleep, and utterly ridiculous. I turned my head slowly, finding her stirring, blinking slowly like a child waking from a long nap.

  Of course she was dreaming about food.

  Even now—on the edge of catastrophe—she was unique in every maddening, charming way.

  Tom took a step toward me, maybe toward the letter. Maybe something worse.

  He didn’t get far.

  Without lifting her head, Lucinda reached out and smacked him across the skull, as if she’d been waiting for that exact moment. His head bounced into the mattress like a startled cat’s, and I couldn’t help it—my mouth twitched.

  Lucinda’s eyes met mine. Soft. Curious. Still half-dreaming.

  “I dreamt about lasagna,” she murmured, utterly serene. “Do you want some, Mary? I’m kind of hungry right now … even though it won′t taste well for me.” She glanced lazily at Tom, as if just noticing him. “Oh, hey, you too. Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

  Tom groaned, rubbing the back of his head, scowling.

  “Make lasagna for four,” he muttered. “We’ve got two guests on the way. You’ll want to meet them.”

  Lucinda stretched like a cat, completely unfazed. “Two guests, huh?” Her smile widened. “Well, then. I’ll make extra cheese.”

  And just like that, the moment passed. The knife was on the floor. The sun had vanished. The decision was made.

  Now… we’d see what kind of future I’d invited in.