When the cell door groaned open again, Ira stepped inside, and her mother practically launched toward her.

“Ira! Are you okay? Did they hurt you? What did they want?”

Her father and Rik looked up from their corners, eyes wide with fear masked as curiosity.

Ira shook her head slowly, the candlelight casting shadows on her borrowed face. “I… don’t know. I really don’t. Please, let’s just wait till morning.”

She offered a tired, crooked smile, then slid down the stone wall until she sat on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. Her back pressed against the damp wall, cool and grounding.

With her eyes shut, she repeated names in her head, like a chant.

Lady Grace, Millicent Grace, Lillian, Sigrid .

Again and again.

She was terrified to forget.

Eventually, her mind wandered—unbidden—to him.

Sigrid.

Silver hair that shimmered even under torchlight. Eyes like cracked ice, too pale to be real. He looked sculpted out of a myth, not born from a mother. Like someone who'd stepped off the page of a fantasy webcomic, sword in hand, leaving tragedy in his wake.

And suddenly, like a snap, Ira remembered something else.

The story.

A young girl, a noble family, a tyrant mage, a healer’s rise.

Her stomach twisted.

Oh no.

---

In another wing of the manor, Sigrid’s room remained dim and still, lit only by the dying fire.

He hadn’t moved since the robed man left. The words still echoed in his head.

“She doesn’t know. Not yet.”

His hands clenched into fists. For the briefest moment, the weight of it all—years of vengeance, confusion, and aching hope—hit him like a blow to the chest.

He was looking at the food for long time. The aroma from the tray pulled at him, intrusive and soft, like a memory you’d spent years burying.

He stared at the soup, steam curling in elegant swirls. Then, slowly, he took a spoon and dipped it into the tomato broth.

The first bite stopped him.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t luxury.

It was warmth.

It was the kind of food his old nanny used to sneak into his room as a child, whispering, “Don’t tell your father.”

Bread soaked in buttery crunch. Cheese stringing with each bite. Basil and garlic wrapping his tongue like a lullaby.

His shoulders dropped.

For the first time in years, his body relaxed.

When he leaned back in the chair, eyes heavy, the tray was nearly empty.

Sigrid fell into sleep without realizing it.

A sleep that was not haunted.

---

At dawn, the guards came again.

This time, Ira didn’t flinch when they opened the cell door.

“Get up. The master wants you again.”

She gave her mother’s hand a small squeeze, exchanged a look with Rik, then stood and followed.

Her heart beat steady, like the ticking of a clock before something big.

She didn’t know what the morning would bring.