Chapter III

Ash and breath.

The past runs with her.

A child selling matches.

A sister coughing at dawn.

Two corpses in a kitchen.

A voice that whispered:

Burn.

She did.

Now she runs again.

Neve in another's arms.

A stranger. A shadow.

But not an enemy.

Memories ache like old wounds.

Regret stings like smoke.

And then—

A whisper:

I want to live.

Not for anyone.

For herself.

A choice.

A promise.

A kiss on a fevered brow.

The wolf appears.

Fangs cloaked in charm.

A deal offered.

Freedom bought with fire.

Enya bleeds suspicion.

But she accepts.

The snowflake clings.

The witch burns.

The shadow vows.

Footsteps chase.

But they don't look back.

Undercity swallows them whole.

And the war,

already,

has begun.

Tac. Tac. Tac.

The sound of her heels on the marble is the only thing bold enough to break the silence.

The corridor is long. Too long. And she knows every inch of it by heart.

The walls drip with gold, stucco, portraits of past Emperors.

Henry—the Emperor burned alive by the Fire Witch four years ago—isn't there yet.

They haven't found the courage to add him to the ancestral line.

Or perhaps—they don't know how to do it without setting the portrait ablaze.

The Empress walks.

Back straight. Chin high.

Her ash-colored gown brushes the floor.

A thin crown adorns blonde hair arranged with the precision of a verdict.

Along the corridor, imperial guards stiffen at her passage.

One by one.

Hand to chest. Formal salute.

But their eyes... their eyes betray them.

Pity.

Barely masked. Subtle. But present.

They no longer fear her.

Not since Henry died, the hyenas have raised their heads.

Three factions. Three hungry serpents.

The Generals of the Army.

The Oligarchs of Industry.

The Guild Merchants.

All circling. All sharp. All demanding, pushing, invading.

But she does not yield.

Not yet.

Every step is a restrained blade.

Every breath, venom swallowed.

Ahead of her, the great doors to the Council Chamber draw near.

Beyond them—her daily humiliation.

The farce of power.

The Empress pauses for a moment.

Closes her steel-grey eyes.

And for one breath—just one—feels nothing.

Not the weight of the crown.

Not the silence of the walls.

Not the distant voice of Henry that still bites at her memories.

Then she opens them.

And walks.

Again.

Tac. Tac. Tac.

As if nothing could bend her.

As if the Empire itself hung from every step she takes.

Two guards throw open the doors.

The sound rings out like a gunshot in the padded silence of the Council Chamber.

Cinderella enters.

There is no hesitation in her step.

She cannot afford it.

Her eyes drift across the room.

Three men stand.

Three beasts in medals and suits.

General Albrecht, tall as living armor, jaw clenched, hands clasped behind his back. His stare, glass about to crack.

Lord Blackwell, draped in shadowy velvet, hair silver as ash and a soul just as pale. He speaks rarely—but each word cuts like a scalpel.

Lord Rosemond, wrapped in silks, rings catching the light like sharpened coins. The only one who smiles. But it's a shark's smile.

Behind them, small entourages: scribes, advisors, shadows.

The Emperor's throne is empty.

A burning seat.

Not physically—but in the air.

In the waiting.

As if every stone in the palace knew that emptiness was a crack destined to widen.

Cinderella stares at it.

Then turns to the men.

They bow.

Formal.

Nothing more.

Respect died with Henry.

Now, in their eyes—only venom.

And hunger.

An ancient hunger, suppressed for years beneath the long shadow of the Emperor.

Now—it emerges.

Lingers.

Devours.

How long before someone goes for her throat?

She knows.

She feels it.

But she does not tremble.

Ever.

She walks to the throne.

And sits.

Straight.

Elegant.

An ice widow in a sea of beasts.

Only then do the others sit.

Around the great oval table, the three factions settle like orbiting moons.

The Empress doesn't look at them one by one.

She sees them all at once.

As one might look at a wound that hasn't begun to bleed.

Then, in a clear voice:

"Let the meeting begin."

The silence shatters like glass beneath the first step of the one who speaks.

Albrecht.

His voice is rough, angular. Forged in the clash of battlefields, never softened by the velvet of courts.

"The Empire cannot afford further hesitation, Your Majesty. The Resistance is gaining ground, strength, numbers. It's time to act."

Cinderella watches him.

She doesn't blink. Doesn't move.

"By 'act'… you mean launching an invasion of the Undercity, General?"

Albrecht clenches his jaw.

"I mean removing the cancer before it metastasizes."

"Even if that means burning the patient along with the disease?"

A dense silence follows. Poisonous.

Albrecht doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.

Blackwell speaks next.

His voice is flat, precise.

Hands clasped, nails immaculate. Every word delivered as though carved in stone.

"The efficiency of the Empire must be preserved. Security. The new automatons designed by the Chief Engineer are... impressive. If approved for mass production, they could ensure order in every district."

Cinderella turns slightly toward him. Her eyes like tempered glass.

"Order… or control?"

Blackwell smiles. Just a hint. Says nothing.

"You ask to flood the Capital with metal soldiers—silent and obedient. Not to protect the people. But to surveil them."

Another pause.

The tension in the room becomes palpable—like electricity between shattered mirrors.

Rosemond chuckles softly.

A greasy laugh, thick with implications.

He strokes a ring with his fingertip like it's a tame beast.

"War… spoils commerce. Fear tightens coin purses. Bayonets don't buy food."

"And yet," he adds with feigned innocence, "some trade routes seem to flourish down in the Undercity."

Cinderella pierces him with a look.

"You want official access to what is currently smuggling."

"We want certainty, Your Majesty," he replies with a viper's grin. "Transparency. And a modest… return."

The room falls into silence.

Three voices.

Three masks.

Three blades to the Empire's throat.

And in the center—a woman who, just four years ago, was a doll.

Now, she sits on the throne.

Alone.

But still there.

Cinderella studies their faces.

One by one.

Then rises.

Not slowly. Not hastily.

With the precision of a blade being unsheathed.

"No."

One word.

Sharp.

Unexpected.

The silence cracks.

Albrecht growls first.

"How can you deny a military operation? Do you know how many lives we'll lose if we do nothing?"

Blackwell rises slightly, hands still clasped.

"An autocrat who rejects efficiency is not a leader, but a liability."

Rosemond slams his fist on the table, his ring chimes like a warning.

"Goods are rotting in storage! The Guild demands access. Now."

Cinderella doesn't move.

Lets them bark.

Expose themselves.

Then, calmly:

"General, invading the Undercity without distinguishing between civilians and rebels would lead to civil war. You want steel. Lord Blackwell, your automatons haven't been tested in urban environments: sending them among crowds is a risk, not security. And Lord Rosemond… if we legalize the smuggling routes, the criminal lords will demand their share of the spoils, or take them by force."

She looks at them.

Three faces.

Three furies.

Three beasts caged.

"And then what? Shall we carve up the Empire like a piece of meat? One slice for you. One for you. One for you?"

She lets them stew.

Then:

"No. If you want your private wars, do it openly. So I can choose who to execute first for high treason."

Silence.

Long.

Lethal.

But Cinderella doesn't flinch. She sits again, with glacial grace.

"Or… you can keep tearing each other apart. And I, as Empress, will keep stopping you from destroying the Empire while you do."

The three men glance at each other.

Distrust.

Resentment.

Old scars and new grudges.

Her trap worked.

Cinderella hasn't won.

But she's bought time.

One more day to keep blood from spilling.

One more day to stay alive.

A guard crosses the threshold of the Meeting Room.

He doesn't run.

He doesn't speak.

He doesn't dare.

He stops just beyond the doors.

Hands rigid along his sides.

Gaze lowered.

But it's already too late.

Three pairs of eyes pierce him like blades.

Albrecht growls.

Blackwell raises an eyebrow slightly.

Rosemond chuckles, poorly concealing his annoyance with a sharp smile.

The soldier swallows.

He stiffens.

He can't speak.

Cinderella observes him.

Then, with a cold, precise voice:

"Speak. Quickly."

The soldier stammers.

"Your Majesty... there has... there's been a... a situation. Involving the Princess."

"Lady Sophia."

Cinderella closes her eyes for a moment.

Inhales slowly.

Sighs.

Another one, Sophia? Really?

But her face betrays nothing.

No emotion.

Just a gesture.

Simple.

Sovereign.

She raises her hand.

"The meeting is adjourned."

The advisors remain motionless.

But not silent.

Murmurs.

Whispered venom.

Words slithering behind her back.

"The daughter, of course..."

"Bad apple..."

"A girl who dishonors even her mother..."

Cinderella walks.

Doesn't respond.

Doesn't slow down.

But a shiver—

down her spine.

Cold.

Sharp.

Uneasy.

Because those words aren't just insults.

They're arrows.

And Sophia is vulnerable.

The guard leads her in silence.

Cinderella doesn't ask questions.

No need.

She already knows.

Another scene.

Another disaster.

Another day when her daughter refused to be the obedient jewel of the Empire.

They traverse the eastern corridor, embroidered with stuccoes and forgotten frescoes.

Same wing of the palace. But they seem worlds apart.

Where the Meeting Room reeks of war, this area retains the scent of ancient perfumes and buried dreams.

Sophia was born in these rooms.

Under the artificial light of chandeliers too precious for a cradle.

Henry wasn't even present that day.

"A female," he said later, without any inflection in his voice. "What a waste."

Since then, Sophia has been a mistake to him.

A silent disappointment, never mentioned.

Never heard.

And Cinderella?

Cinderella watched.

For too long.

Smiled in public.

And remained silent in the dark.

In the face of indifference to workers dying in preventable accidents, to the poor begging for food for their children, to the inhabitants of the lower levels who never saw sunlight. In the face of arrests, torture, summary executions of dissidents. In the face of power that destroyed and chewed up people like stale bread.

And Sophia...

Sophia hasn't forgiven.

Neither the father nor the mother. Neither the silences. Nor the clean hands that could have stopped it all. And didn't.

When the door opens, the Empress's breath catches mid-air.

The room is intact. Luxurious. Silent.

But the disorder is all human.

Sophia is seated on a blue velvet sofa.

Curled into herself.

Knees to her chest.

Blonde hair like her mother's, disheveled, a strand falling over her eyes like a battle veil.

Hands clenched into fists.

Gaze, black eyes like her father's, incandescent.

On the armchair opposite, a boy with a rich and fragile appearance.

Young. Spoiled.

Holds a hand pressed to his right cheek.

Trembling fingers. Fierce eyes. A barely contained snarl.

Sophia hit him.

Perhaps more than once.

Behind him, a nobleman with a flushed face, cloak decorated with family crests too ancient to truly matter.

Finger already raised to accuse.

But it halts as soon as the Empress enters.

Two maids stand immobile against the walls.

Pale. Eyes lowered.

Tense as violin strings.

The door closes behind Cinderella.

Everyone rises.

A hurried bow.

Voices choked with forced respect.

Everyone.

Except her.

Sophia.

The princess doesn't move.

Doesn't lift her gaze.

Doesn't speak.

"This is unacceptable!"

The nobleman's voice explodes in the room like a whip.

The curtains tremble. The maids startle.

"Your Majesty, your daughter has assaulted my son. A prince of noble blood! A diplomat in training! A future ally!"

The boy stands abruptly, the bruise already blooming under his fingers.

"She struck me without reason! In front of witnesses! Humiliated in the very palace!"

Cinderella raises a hand slightly.

Not for authority.

To attempt silence.

"Lord Herent," she says calmly. "I ask you to take a breath. Just one."

But he doesn't relent.

"I demand justice, Your Majesty! Public! Is she not the leader of this Empire? Or is the princess above the law?"

Silence.

The atmosphere thickens.

Sophia doesn't speak.

Doesn't defend herself.

Doesn't move a muscle.

Cinderella observes her daughter as one looks at a field after a fire.

Then turns to the maids.

The two girls tremble. One clasps her hands on her lap as if to hold back words.

"Speak," orders the Empress, without raising her voice.

One of them swallows.

The other stammers.

"The... the young Lord... invited Her Highness to the garden... after lunch... for a private walk..."

A heavy silence.

The phrase hangs like a corpse teetering on a wire.

Cinderella closes her eyes.

Sighs.

Understands.

Then, with a regal, icy tone:

"Leave us alone."

The maids flee without waiting for a reply.

The nobleman, Lord Herent, stiffens.

"Your Majesty, I haven't finished—"

"Out," Cinderella reiterates. "Now."

The guard gestures slightly.

Lord Herent turns with a hiss of anger.

"This affront will not go unpunished. Whether it comes from a capricious girl or from the one who wears the crown."

The son follows.

Growls.

A growl masking shame.

The door closes.

With a dull sound.

Final.

Two remain.

Mother and daughter.

Two silences.

Cinderella stood for a long moment.

Then sat.

Not on the nearby armchair.

But beside her.

On the same couch.

A gesture without sound—but heavy as iron.

Sophia didn't turn.

Sixteen years old. But her eyes—older than her mother's.

A girl becoming a woman.

She'd taken the best of both her parents.

Cinderella's impossible beauty,

but none of her submission.

Henry's brute strength,

but none of his cruelty.

An impossible balance,

and yet—real.

Like a lotus blooming from the palace swamp.

Black boots to the knee.

Leather pants.

Wrinkled white shirt.

A military jacket stolen from some aide.

And, always,

a blade at her side.

No jewelry.

No ornaments.

Only steel.

Cinderella looked at her.

Then spoke, carefully.

"Sophia…"

No reply.

Only the girl's ragged breathing.

"Sophia, I just want—"

"He knew."

The voice was sharp.

So young, yet already sharpened like a dagger.

Cinderella stiffened.

Sophia turned.

Slowly.

Eyes black as pitch.

"That little rat. Lord Nobody. He's tried before. Invitations. Implications. Greasy smiles. Today he wanted me in the garden."

She paused.

Not for emotion—but to choose her words like choosing where to strike.

"And this time, I answered with my fists."

Cinderella lowered her gaze.

Not in shame.

In weariness.

"You can't hit people, Sophia," she murmured.

"Violence is never a solution."

Sophia scoffed.

She stood.

Hands on hips.

Shoulders tense like bowstrings.

"Funny," she hissed.

"Because when he did it—when dad ordered mass arrests, tortures in the dungeons, executions in the squares—you always found a way to justify him."

Cinderella froze.

"That's not true."

"Silence justifies," Sophia growled.

"Doing nothing—consents. And you never did anything. Not even when he—"

"What did you want me to do?!"

Cinderella exploded, standing, eyes glistening.

"Stab him in his sleep?! Leave you an orphan for the sake of justice?!"

Sophia turned on her heel.

Pupils like blades.

"The Fire Witch took care of it," she spat.

"Since you didn't have the guts."

A crack.

The slap broke the air like thunder.

Sophia didn't flinch.

Her cheek red.

Her gaze—wounded.

Killed.

Cinderella covered her mouth, hands already trembling.

"I… I didn't mean to…"

Too late.

Sophia didn't wait.

She darted to the door.

Opened it.

Screamed:

"I hate you!"

And vanished.

The door slammed shut—a sound like a body dropping.

Cinderella stayed behind.

Alone.

Her legs gave out.

She sank onto the couch.

Hands over her face.

Sobs.

Heavy.

Ragged.

Not for the tyrant she once called husband.

Not for the blood-stained throne,

melted by a demon's fire.

But for the daughter

she could no longer even look at

without breaking.

Cinderella remains still.

The silence of the room pulses in her ears like a broken heart.

Tears streak her cheeks.

She no longer has the strength to wipe them away.

Her hands tremble on her knees.

The crown still rests on her head, heavy as chains.

Once, it was the symbol of a dream.

Now, it's just the mark of a guilt that never stops burning.

She closes her eyes.

Breathes.

But the air is not enough.

Then, in a voice barely audible, cracked, like a lost child among the ruins of a world that betrayed her, she whispers: "Fairy Godmother… if you still hear me… if you still exist, somewhere… please. Help me."

A pause.

An infinite moment.

"Not for me. For her. For Sophia."

Silence.

Only the ticking of a distant clock.

And the echo of her own words, fading into nothing.

No light.

No magic.

No answer.

Only a golden room full of ghosts.

And a woman who no longer knows whether she prays to a god or a fairy tale.

What Cinderella doesn't know—what she cannot see—is that far away, beyond the veils of steel, of immortal stone, beyond the metal cables and artificial lights of the Iron Spire, something stirs.

A heartbeat.

A breath.

The Fairy Godmother has not forgotten.

And though she cannot answer, every day she torments herself.

Every day, she regrets.

She did not save Cinderella to throw her into another nightmare.

She did not light that hope just to watch it fade into darkness.

But now—destiny is moving.

And no wand can stop it.