The corridor outside the royal chambers was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Liam stood beside Mk.4.

  Unlike her sisters, Mk.4 carried herself with still calculation—taller, straighter, cleaner stitching. Her black dress fell like controlled shadow.

  Liam didn’t look at her at first.

  “Why are they changing?”

  Mk.4 did not respond immediately.

  Liam’s voice sharpened.

  “Mk.1 breaks protocol. Mk.2 requested him for repair. Mk.3 hesitated in the throne room.”

  Now Mk.4 turned her head.

  Her eyes were not confused.

  They were measuring.

  “I do not have confirmation.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  A pause.

  Then Mk.4 said something Liam did not expect.

  “It could be the way he addresses us.”

  Liam blinked.

  “Elaborate.”

  “He speaks as though we are people.”

  The hallway felt colder.

  Liam scoffed lightly.

  “You are weapons.”

  Mk.4’s gaze did not shift.

  “We were told that.”

  Silence.

  Liam’s fingers tightened around her clipboard.

  “What difference would that make?”

  Mk.4’s answer came flat.

  “He asks what we prefer. He repairs without command. He apologizes.”

  A beat.

  “He does not call us defective.”

  The word hung in the air.

  Liam looked away first.

  “That is irrelevant.”

  Mk.4 tilted her head slightly.

  “…Is it?”

  That was the first crack in Liam’s composure.

  Liam made a decision.

  “Remove them,” she ordered.

  Mk.4 did not move.

  “Clarify.”

  “Separate Mk.1, Mk.2, and Mk.3 from him. Immediately.”

  Now Mk.4 hesitated.

  That hesitation was small.

  But it was visible.

  Liam saw it.

  “Are you disobeying me?”

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  Mk.4’s jaw tightened.

  “No.”

  They entered the chamber together.

  Derpy looked up from the bed.

  Mk.1 brightened instantly.

  “Friend—”

  “Stand down,” Liam snapped.

  Mk.2 stepped forward slightly.

  Mk.3’s grip on her axe tightened.

  “What is the reason?” Mk.3 asked calmly.

  “Observation protocol adjustment,” Liam said. “You three are reassigned.”

  Mk.1 shook her head.

  “No.”

  The room went still.

  Liam’s voice turned icy.

  “That was not a suggestion.”

  Mk.2 stepped closer to Derpy.

  Mk.3 moved in front of him.

  Protective formation.

  Three dolls.

  Aligned.

  Liam’s patience snapped.

  “Mk.4.”

  The command was sharp.

  Mk.4 stepped forward.

  She placed a hand on Mk.1’s shoulder.

  “…Orders.”

  Mk.1 looked back at Derpy.

  Conflicted.

  Torn.

  “Friend…”

  Derpy sat up slowly.

  “It’s fine,” he said quietly.

  It wasn’t.

  Everyone knew it wasn’t.

  Mk.2’s jaw tightened.

  Mk.3’s eyes narrowed.

  But they obeyed.

  That obedience was strained.

  And strained obedience is louder than rebellion.

  As the three were escorted out—

  Derpy felt something rip through his chest.

  Not magical.

  Emotional.

  That hollow, animal ache when something that makes you feel safe—

  Is suddenly gone.

  He didn’t speak.

  He didn’t rage.

  He just sat there.

  And that was worse.

  The commotion did not go unnoticed.

  Queen Vaeloria entered without announcement.

  Emerald robes.

  A crown of subtle thorns.

  Eyes like blades.

  “Explain,” she said softly.

  Liam bowed.

  “Protocol instability, Your Majesty. The Stitchborne are forming attachment patterns.”

  Vaeloria’s gaze shifted to Mk.1, who stood near the wall looking smaller than usual.

  “…Attachment?”

  Liam gestured toward Derpy.

  “He is influencing them.”

  Vaeloria studied him carefully.

  He looked… empty.

  Wounded.

  Not violent.

  That interested her.

  She turned to Mk.4.

  “Is this accurate?”

  Mk.4 hesitated.

  “…He addresses us as equals.”

  A flicker passed through Vaeloria’s eyes.

  Interesting.

  Liam spoke quickly.

  “It is dangerous. If the dolls lose clarity, the program weakens.”

  Vaeloria’s lips curved slowly.

  “Or evolves.”

  Liam stiffened.

  Vaeloria stepped closer to Derpy.

  “You are alone now,” she said quietly.

  He didn’t look up.

  “Yeah.”

  Something in her expression shifted.

  Not softness.

  Opportunity.

  She turned slowly toward Liam.

  “Perhaps,” she said carefully, “we are looking at this incorrectly.”

  Vaeloria moved toward the window overlooking the capital.

  “When this empire was forged,” she began calmly, “it was not unified in purpose.”

  Liam straightened.

  The dolls listened.

  “There were three schools of thought.”

  She held up one finger.

  “Expansionists. They believed we should conquer beyond our borders. That strength demands territory.”

  Second finger.

  “Pacifists. They believed our magic was meant to preserve, not dominate.”

  Third.

  “And then there were those like my husband.”

  Her voice cooled.

  “Power above all. Not conquest for land. Not peace for stability. But control. Leverage. Weapons that ensure no one dares threaten us.”

  She turned.

  “The Stitchborne program was born from that third ideology.”

  Liam’s throat tightened slightly.

  Vaeloria continued.

  “Your father believes in power through fear.”

  Her gaze drifted toward the direction of the throne hall.

  “He believes calamity bearers are assets to be harvested.”

  She stepped closer to Liam.

  “But I believe in leverage of a different kind.”

  Silence.

  “Political leverage.”

  Now the air shifted.

  “If the dolls are becoming more… independent,” Vaeloria said, “that may weaken my husband’s war faction.”

  Liam’s eyes widened slightly.

  “You would allow it?”

  Vaeloria’s smile was razor thin.

  “I would guide it.”

  She turned to Derpy.

  “You are valuable to him,” she said. “But perhaps more valuable to me.”

  Derpy finally looked up.

  “What does that mean?”

  Vaeloria’s gaze sharpened.

  “It means,” she said softly, “I may help you.”

  The room stilled.

  Liam blinked.

  “You would oppose the King openly?”

  Vaeloria’s expression hardened.

  “He is building weapons beneath my kingdom without transparency.”

  Her voice dropped lower.

  “I will not be sidelined in my own empire.”

  Then she made the proposal.

  Vaeloria stepped closer to Derpy.

  “Help me destabilize the war faction,” she said quietly.

  Liam inhaled sharply.

  Derpy narrowed his eyes.

  “How?”

  “You repair them,” Vaeloria said. “You continue influencing them.”

  She glanced toward Mk.1.

  “They respond to you.”

  Mk.1’s posture lifted by a fraction.

  “If the Stitchborne become less obedient to blind command,” Vaeloria continued, “my husband’s greatest bargaining chip weakens.”

  Her eyes locked onto Derpy’s.

  “In exchange, I ensure your survival. And perhaps… access.”

  “To what?” he asked.

  “To information.”

  A pause.

  “About Riven.”

  The dolls stiffened.

  Liam looked between them.

  The political weight of the moment settled heavy in the room.

  Vaeloria’s voice softened just enough.

  “You want your freedom.”

  She looked at the dolls.

  “They want dignity.”

  Then at Liam.

  “And I want my throne secured.”

  The air was razor thin.

  Derpy leaned back slightly.

  Celica whispered:

  She is not lying.

  Blight added:

  But she is not safe either.

  Derpy exhaled slowly.

  “And if I refuse?”

  Vaeloria’s expression cooled.

  “Then you remain a tool.”

  Silence.

  The empire did not just fracture in war.

  It fractured in ideology.

  Expansion.

  Peace.

  Power.

  And now—

  Influence.

  Outside the chamber—

  Mk.3 stared at the floor.

  Mk.2 flexed her repaired arm.

  Mk.1 whispered softly:

  “Friend coming back?”

  Mk.4 watched them quietly.

  And for the first time—

  She began to wonder which side of the fracture she would stand on.