Here's a fun question:
What do you say to someone after you just relived their entire tragic childhood like a bootleg VR drama?
No really. I'm asking. Because I had no idea.
Belladonna stepped back, her hand falling from my temple, her eyes searching mine like she was bracing for me to say something profound, or comforting, or—gods forbid—emotionally literate.
"Well?" she whispered, voice tight. "Do you understand now?"
And my brain, precious disaster that it is, queued up a variety of possible responses:
"You deserved better."
"I'm sorry you went through that."
"You are not your parents' crown."
What I actually said was:
"Okay, but counterpoint: monarchy-funded therapy. Like, imagine if the crown just paid for weekly sessions where you scream into a gold pillow and slowly unpack your trauma with a licensed court mage."
…
I might have a coping problem.
Belladonna blinked.
And blinked again.
Inner Me: You idiot. You absolute buffoon. You had ONE CHANCE.
Sarcium: Start digging. Grave's right there. Hop in.
But then.
She laughed.
Not the soft, calculated laugh she usually does to cover discomfort or disarm a room. No—this was sharp and sudden and involuntary, like I'd thrown a rock at a stained-glass window and she was surprised it shattered.
"Gods above," she gasped, wiping her eyes. "You really are the worst."
"Thank you," I said, bowing slightly. "I strive for consistency."
Let's rewind. Again. I know, I know, we keep doing this, but welcome to my life now—it's one long VHS tape someone recorded over with Echo memories and masked existential crises.
Earlier that day, I woke up with someone else's memories still swirling in my chest like bad soup. Belladonna's spell hadn't just "stabilized" me. It linked us.
I knew what she felt when she put on the crown.
I knew what she feared when her father handed her a sword.
I knew what she whispered in the dark, alone:
"If I don't become what they want, I'll be nothing. If I do… I'll never be me."
So naturally, the next logical step was to avoid her completely and process my feelings in the most emotionally mature way possible: hiding behind a bookshelf and talking to Spoon.
"What do I do now?" I hissed.
"Tell her you care," Spoon said.
"Okay but like... what if I did literally anything else?"
"Kael, this is a rare moment of actual intimacy and trust."
"That sounds dangerously close to 'emotional development,' Spoon."
"Correct. I'm proud. And also concerned."
Of course, the universe hates when I try to avoid plot beats, so Belladonna found me anyway. Because of course she did.
"Stalking the library's architecture again?" she asked, arms crossed, lips twitching.
"I like dramatic alcoves. Very brooding-core."
"You okay?" she asked, and her tone was different. Softer.
I could lie. I'm good at that.
Instead, I said:
"I saw your first sword."
She stilled.
"And the day you ran. And the mask. And the part where you screamed so loud the mirrors cracked."
There was a long pause.
Then:
"You weren't supposed to see all of it," she murmured. "Just the anchor memory."
"Guess the glitch wants full context," I said.
We stood there for a moment, just... existing. In a rare pocket of honesty.
Which, if you've been following this story, is both highly uncharacteristic and probably a sign of incoming emotional doom.
Here's the thing no one tells you about watching someone else's trauma:
It doesn't make them easier to judge.
It makes them harder to hate.
And that was terrifying.
Because I'd built an entire mental fortress around not liking Belladonna. She was too cold. Too sharp. Too smug. Too—
Too much like me.
She wanted control because everything in her life had been dictated.
She wore a mask because people only loved the version of her that wasn't real.
She held power like a weapon because it was the only thing she was allowed to hold.
And when I laughed at her trauma with a monarchy therapy joke… she laughed too.
Because maybe—just maybe—she wanted someone who didn't treat her like a ticking magical nuke or a flawless heir or a living mask.
Just someone who saw the scared, brilliant, angry girl underneath.
"You're not what I expected," I told her.
"You're exactly what I expected," she replied. "And yet... not at all."
"I contain multitudes," I said solemnly. "Mostly of bad decisions and snack cravings."
"And echoes," she added.
"Those too. Wanna trade? I'll take your burdened destiny if you take my sentient Spoon."
"Tempting."
We sat.
Together.
Not arguing. Not posturing. Just... sharing space. Like two people who'd just been forcibly trauma-bonded by magical backstory exposition. As one does.
"I hated you, you know," she said at last.
"You've mentioned."
"I wanted to be you. You were everything I couldn't be. Free. Reckless. Loud. Alive."
"I'm also emotionally repressed and have been hallucinating future versions of myself all week."
"Still better than being perfectly sculpted for someone else's story."
And then she said it. Soft. Barely a whisper.
"I feared you because you became what I wasn't allowed to become."
And I?
I almost kissed her.
I didn't. Obviously. This isn't that kind of story.
(Not yet.)
Instead, I stood, walked ten feet away, tripped over a root, and said:
"Well, time to emotionally repress all this progress until it explodes later."
She laughed again.
So did I.
Inner Me:You absolute dumbass, she opened her soul and you chose FLIRT-DODGE?
Sarcium:You are a coward, a fool, and a menace to all emotional stability.
Also Me:Yes. But I'm OUR coward-fool-menace. And I contain snack cravings.
Next Time on Kaelverse:
Kael gets pseudo-crowned by the System because apparently winning over hearts and glitching your own sanity makes you monarch material. Professors riot. Students cheer. Kael just wants to nap on a rooftop.
Up next:
Chapter 64 – "Sovereign of Nothing"
Featuring: accidental popularity, magical rebellion, and Spoon updating his résumé again.