Chapter 142: The Other One

Lila’s POV

I can’t feel my hand.

No—I don’t have a hand.

The pain is unbearable, but it’s not the worst part.

The worst part is the silence now that the crowd is gone. No more curses. No more stones. No more mocking children.

Just the steady drip of blood and the sound of my own breath—sharp, uneven, like my chest is trying to rip itself open.

They threw me in the old kennels. Where mutts used to sleep. Where strays were dumped. The floor is damp with piss and mold, and my blood is mixing with it like ink spreading through water.

I lie there, half-curled, the stump of my right arm wrapped tightly in rags that already reek. It pulses with agony, and each throb is a cruel reminder of what they took from me.

They stared at me like I was a monster.

But I’m not the only monster.

They forget she and I were born of the same womb.

The same face.

The same blood.

The same scream.

We were twins.

And they always, always loved her more.

I remember the way Aria used to smile when we were kids. That sickening, pure kind of smile that made people stop and coo. Her laugh was like bells—gentle, precious, a melody adults bent their knees for.

“Aria’s such a special child,” they’d whisper.

“Look at those eyes—so bright!”

“She’ll be a Luna. A queen, even.”

What was I? Just the other one. The twin who came out second. The copy.

Aria would light up a room.

I was the shadow that came crawling in behind her.

It started small—the way Mother would braid her hair but tell me I was old enough to do mine myself or that one of the pack women would help me out. How Father would pick her up when she ran to him but pat my head like a dog.

They never said it out loud, but I saw it.

I saw it everywhere.

They didn’t see me. Not really. They only saw her.

I was six when it happened.

The first time I acted on the hatred twisting in my belly.

We were in the garden. Aria had picked too many flowers—again. She always broke the rules and somehow everyone still praised her for it.

I was tired. I wanted her to stop smiling.

So I pushed her.

She fell into the rose bushes, thorns cutting into her arms and cheek.

She cried. Loudly.

And Mother came running.

But she didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t even look at me.

She ran to Aria and picked her up, rocking her as if she’d been mortally wounded. Then she turned to me with those eyes—cold and burning.

“I don’t care what happened, Lila. Go sit in the corner. No dinner for you tonight.”

“But—”

“Go.”

All because of a sister who had my face.

What was so special about her, anyway?

Why did her pain matter more than mine?

That was the day I realized I hated her more than anything in this world.

Not for what she did.

But for who she was. For the position she holds in the hearts of people. I want that position too.

I hate her for simply existing next to me.

For the way the moon goddess dared to make her look like me—and then gifted her the world anyway.

The second time… wasn’t an accident.

Oliver.

Our baby brother.

He was three and clumsy, with golden curls and a giggle that made even the hardest warriors soften.

He followed Aria everywhere. They were both loved. It grew worse with each passing day.

It was always, “Awiya!”—his baby voice trying to form her name. Not mine. Never mine.

We were near the stream, and he slipped on the rocks, scraped his knee.

He reached for me, crying.

I held my arms out, but he screamed louder. “No! Want Awiya! Where Awiya?!”

I told him I was here. That I could carry him.

But he kept screaming.

For her.

But we have the same face! Why won’t he let me carry him? Why doesn’t anybody love me the same way?

In that moment, something in me snapped.

I shoved him. Just hard enough.

He slipped. Fell.

And hit a branch.

There was a sound—wet and sharp—and when I looked down, Oliver wasn’t crying anymore.

The branch had gone clean through his chest.

Blood bubbled from his lips. His eyes wide, like he was trying to find her face one last time.

But all he had was mine.

I remember standing there.

Breathing. Trembling. Scared.

Then… I smiled. Satisfied. One is gone.

That was the moment the idea came.

I could fix this.

I could make them finally look at me the way they looked at her.

I waited in silence, crouched low behind a thick cluster of bushes, watching. My heart didn’t race. My breath didn’t hitch. This wasn’t panic—this was strategy.

And then, like clockwork, she found him.

The moment Aria’s eyes landed on the body, everything about her cracked. Her knees buckled. Her trembling hands reached for him, fumbling, desperate, as she cradled his lifeless form against her chest. Her sobs came fast, raw, helpless.

Right where I wanted her.

I sprang out from the shadows, letting out a scream so sharp it sliced the moment in two. I ran toward them, my own tears spilling—not from grief, but from rehearsed hysteria. I made sure my voice shattered as I pointed an accusing, shaking finger.

“You’re a monster! You killed him!”

She jolted. Staring at me like I’d just plunged a knife into her.

And that was the plan. The performance. The trap.

Because I wasn’t betting on evidence or logic. I was betting on Aria’s weakness—that soft, breakable thing inside her that always needed to be understood. Forgiven.

And just like that… she folded.

Her lip quivered. Her voice broke.

“Lila… it’s not what you think. I—I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she whispered, her whole body curling in on itself like guilt was already drowning her.

And right then, I knew.

The noose was already around her neck. She just didn’t realize I was the one pulling it tighter.

The pieces were set.

And Aria had just walked into her own undoing.

So I ran, screaming, crying, back toward the house.

“She pushed him!” I wailed. “She was angry and jealous and she pushed him!”

And oh, how easy it was.

How quickly they turned.

They believed me.

The gullible, stupid, worthless Aria—framed with nothing more than tears and timing.

She was lucky to have my face. Lucky to look like me.

But from that day forward, I became their favorite. I became the pack’s precious jewel.

I became my parent’s miracle.

Their only child.

Their pride.

And she—she became filth.

A disgrace.

An abomination to be cast out.

They called her “deformed.” Said something was wrong in her head. Locked her away for sometime. Watched her like a ticking bomb.

And I? I flourished.

Until now.

I stare down at my severed hand.

The bandage is soaked through. The pain is sharp, like fire licking at the bone. My face is swollen from the slaps. My body bruised from the stones.

And still, none of it burns as much as the realization:

I’m the deformed one now.

The irony is almost poetic.

I did everything right. I played them all perfectly. I wore her name better than she ever did.

I was doing so well as the new—and only—Ivy Blackwood.

So where the hell did they find her?

How?

She was supposed to be dead. Gone. Forgotten.

Yet she came back like a ghost, like some cursed reflection I couldn’t shatter.

I feel it now, boiling in my chest—the rage, the injustice, the audacity of her existence.

She took back what was mine.

But she’s not safe.

Not yet.

I may be broken. Maimed. Humiliated.

But I’m still her twin.

And twins… mirror each other.

If I’m missing a hand—then so should she.

Let her feel what it’s like to be less.

Let her wear pain on her skin the way I’ve had to wear hatred in my heart.

Let her look into a mirror and see the brokenness I carry.

Because I swear to the goddess—

If I can’t destroy her life… I’ll take her piece by piece.

Starting with her hand.