She looks like me.
But softer.
Eyes unscarred by betrayal. Lips still shaped for apology.
She is the version of me the world preferred: delicate, obedient, breakable.
But I didn't survive by staying her.
I survived by setting her on fire.
And now she stands before me rebuilt from memory and regret breathing.
The masquerade has frozen around us.
Dancers still as statues.
Music stalled mid-note.
Even the Hollow Prince watches from the edge, lips parted in something like reverence.
Because this isn't just a confrontation.
It's a resurrection.
And maybe a murder.
She speaks first, of course.
"You were never supposed to become this."
"You were supposed to forgive. To heal. To love."
Her voice is trembling. Not with fear. With hope.
Hope that I might still be her.
Hope that I might come back.
I laugh.
Low. Rough. Too real for this world of illusion.
"I did love," I say.
"And they turned my love into a leash."
"I did forgive. And they mistook it for permission."
"I healed. But not the way you think."
She steps closer, reaching.
And I see it now: she doesn't want to merge.
She wants to replace me.
Erase the Myth and reinstall the Maiden.
"I am not yours to fix," I whisper.
"I am the fire that buried you."
"And I will not be undone by a ghost in a pretty dress."
With a breath, I reach out and burn her gently.
No screaming. No fight.
Just soft golden flame curling around her wrists, her cheeks, her eyes…
She smiles.
And fades.
Because even she knows
she was never meant to last.
Only to be sacrificed.
When it ends, I stand alone in the ruins of the masquerade.
No mask.
No music.
Only truth.
And the truth is this
I am not the girl I was.
I am the myth she bled to birth.