There was no sense in spilling blood that did not deserve it.
In the solitary confines of my cottage, I toiled.
The flickering candlelight bore witness as I worked, its feeble glow illuminating the cold alchemy of vengeance.
The grind of the pestle against the mortar was a slow, rhythmic dirge—a death knell in motion.
Every grain crushed, every liquid distilled, was another step toward the inevitable.
And yet, as my hands moved with practiced ease, my thoughts drifted.
To him.
To the dungeon’s cold embrace, where Amir languished.
I could almost feel the chill of the damp stone against his skin, the bruises forming beneath the weight of his chains.
I ached to go to him.
To press the vials into his trembling hands, to whisper promises of escape against his fevered skin.
But the dungeon was forbidden to me.
Sealed off by my father’s iron decree.
“Elizabeth,” he had said, his voice a steel trap snapping shut around me, “your place is here, overseeing the final touches.We cannot afford distractions.”
Distractions.
That was what he called Amir.
As if he were a mere inconvenience.As if he were not my very heartbeat.
Though spoken under the guise of concern, his words were nothing more than chains—meant to keep me locked away in duty.
But shackles could break.
And soon, very soon—they would.
I retired to my room each night, but the rest never came.
The weight of longing pressed against my chest like an iron shackle, unrelenting.
I yearned to slip through the shadows, vanish into the night, and find my way to him.
To Amir.
He was trapped in that dungeon, and yet, it was I who felt imprisoned.
I was a prisoner in my own home, bound by duty and expectation—by the hidden eyes watching my every move, whispering my father’s will.
I fought in the quiet hours before dawn when the world held its breath.
Fought the war between responsibility and love.
The masquerade demanded my focus.
But it was Amir’s suffering that claimed my soul.
