Chapter 121 CHAPTER 121
MUM!
The voice refused to fade away from Helena’s mind.
The pot bubbled in slow, uneven breaths, thick and gray, clinging to the sides as Helena stirred it with a wooden spoon that had long ago lost its smoothness. The smell was bitter, burnt grain and something metallic beneath it, the kind of smell that settled into clothes and never quite left. She had learned not to wrinkle her nose. She had learned many things in seventeen years.
This was food only by name. It was meant to keep bodies alive, not to comfort them. The boys in the dungeons would eat it because hunger made everything tolerable. Helena stirred because she was told to stir. Because this was what her hands were for now.
The kitchen was carved into stone, low-ceilinged and dim, with moisture clinging to the walls. Water dripped somewhere behind her, steady and patient. The rhythm of it had become a companion, as familiar as her own breathing. As familiar as the weight that lived in her chest.
Her thoughts drifted, as they often did when her hands were busy and her body was still.
The voice came back to her then, uninvited.
Mum….
Her fingers tightened around the spoon.
It had been soft. Not loud. Not desperate. That was what unsettled her most. It had sounded so close. Not echoing down the corridor the way shouts sometimes did. Not distant the way memories were.
Close enough that she had turned instinctively, certain someone was standing right behind her.
She remembered the way her heart had leapt, sharp and foolish, the way she had spun around with her breath caught in her throat.
And there had been no one.
The corridor had been empty. The shadows unmoved. The boys had not said anything.
At the time, she had told herself the truth she always used to survive.
You are tired.
You are broken.
This is what seventeen years does to a mind.
She stirred harder now, scraping the bottom of the pot. Steam rose, stinging her eyes.
Seventeen years.
Seventeen years since the forest. Since fire and screams and blood staining the hem of her gown. Seventeen years since she had run with her heart tearing itself apart, clutching a bundle to her chest, knowing she could not outrun them forever.
Seventeen years since she had made the choice that still woke her in the dark.
She swallowed and kept stirring.
Everyone must think I am dead, she thought dully. Perhaps that would have been kinder. Death would have been cleaner than this slow erasing. Kinder than waking each day to be called servant by the woman who had once smiled at her across a table and called her friend.
Seraphine.
The name still tasted strange in her mind. Once, it had meant laughter and shared secrets. Once, Helena had trusted her enough to bring her into the heart of her kingdom. She had not seen the hunger beneath the kindness. She had not recognized bitterness when it wore silk and spoke softly.
I should have seen it, Helena thought, the familiar guilt pressing down on her. I should have known.
The kingdom had burned because of her. Her husband had died because of her. Innocent people had died because she had opened the gates to the wrong kind of magic. She deserved everything she was going through and more.
And her daughter…
Her hand faltered, the spoon slipping slightly.
Lisa.
Her chest tightened painfully. She still remembered her smile, her bubbly laughter and the first time she called out her name – mama.
The Goddess must be punishing me, Helena thought. There was a strange comfort in that idea. Punishment meant order. Punishment meant there was still meaning in suffering.
When she had fled the witches that night, when she had known she would be caught, she had done the only thing she could think of. She had laid her baby down among the roots and leaves, kissed her once, and walked away with blood on her hands and her heart splintering apart.
Better abandoned than captured, she had told herself. Better alone than raised in darkness.
But some nights, the doubts crept in like insects.
What if wild animals had found her?
What if the forest had swallowed her whole?
What if that voice…
Her breath hitched.
What if the voice had been Lisa’s ghost haunting her?
The thought made her dizzy. She shook her head sharply, as if she could dislodge it. No. That way lay madness.
The pot began to smoke.
Helena blinked, pulled back into the present too late. The mixture had thickened and burned at the bottom. Smoke curled upward in angry gray ribbons.
“By the Goddess…” she hissed.
She grabbed the pot with her bare hands, meaning only to move it, but pain exploded through her fingers. She cried out, dropping it with a clang that echoed off the stone walls. The burn throbbed instantly, fierce and unforgiving.
She stumbled to the basin and plunged her hands into cold water, gasping as the shock bit into her skin. Tears sprang to her eyes, not only from the pain.
“Careful,” a voice said behind her.
Helena startled, spinning around. A servant stood in the doorway, eyes lowered respectfully.
“You are needed in the chambers,” the woman said quietly.
Helena’s stomach sank.
The chambers meant only one thing.
Seraphine.
She nodded once, pressing her burned fingers together as she followed. The walk felt longer than usual. Each step tightened the knot in her chest. As they passed through the narrow corridors, Helena caught sight of Sarah approaching from the opposite direction, but she did not recognize her.
Their eyes met briefly.
Sarah’s gaze was sharp, curious, calculating in a way that made Helena’s skin prickle. There was something in the girl’s eyes that reminded her too much of Seraphine.
They did not speak.
Helena lowered her head and continued on.
The chambers were brighter than the dungeons, filled with tapestries and polished stone, but they never felt welcoming. Helena stood just inside the doorway, hands folded, eyes lowered, as Seraphine turned toward her.
The witch’s expression was cold, anger simmering just beneath the surface.
“Who was in the dungeons the other day?” Seraphine demanded.
Helena’s heart lurched.
“I… I don’t understand, what are you talking about? What day?” she said honestly. Her voice sounded small even to her own ears.
Seraphine took a step closer. “Do not insult me by pretending ignorance. Someone was there. The boys said she called out to you – mum.”
Helena’s breath caught. “Wait, was it real what I heard? Did the boys hear the voice too?” she said, fear creeping into her tone.
Seraphine snapped. “Do you think I called you here for you to interrogate me? Is that what you think this is?”
Helena flinched. The air felt heavier, charged, as if the room itself were holding its breath.
“Tell me who it was,” Seraphine said. “Stop pretending to be ignorant.”
Helena’s mind raced. And suddenly, with startling clarity, she understood.
If Seraphine knew, then it had not been imagination. It had not been guilt conjuring ghosts.
Someone had been there.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
“She was real.” Helena whispered before she could stop herself. “The one who called out…I did not imagine her.”
Seraphine’s eyes narrowed. “So now you admit it.”
“I didn’t see her,” Helena said quickly, panic rising. “I swear it. I heard the voice, and when I turned, there was no one. You can ask the boys. I did not hide anything.”
Seraphine’s lips curled. “I do not believe you.”
Helena dropped to her knees, the stone cold beneath them. “You must,” she pleaded. “I would not dare lie to you. I have nothing to gain.”
For a long moment, Seraphine stared down at her, eyes searching, measuring.
“Get out of my sight,” Seraphine said at last. “You are useless to me like this.”
Helena did not need to be told twice. She rose shakily and retreated, her heart hammering.
As she left the chambers, her thoughts spun wildly.
Someone had been there.
She had not imagined it. She had not dreamed it. The voice had been real.
And somehow, impossibly, hope crept into the cracks of her despair.
It terrified her more than fear ever had.
Because if someone had reached the dungeons once…
Then perhaps, one day, she would get to see the outside of the witch village.