❝ i can go anywhere i want,
just not home ❞

32. home, the first grave

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄, the golden glow pressing against her eyelids. Sunlight.

For a fleeting, fragile moment, she convinced herself it was another nightmare. Another grotesque, twisting dream that blurred the edges of reality until she woke up drenched in sweat, heart hammering, but safe.

But nightmares weren’t supposed to feel this real.

A dull ache pulsed at the base of her skull, spreading outwards in jagged waves. Her limbs were heavy, weighed down as if she were sinking into the mattress beneath her. She forced herself to blink past the thick, misty light veiling her vision, but it refused to yield. The only things she could grasp onto were the hushed voices murmuring nearby and the feeling of crisp linen sheets tangled around her fingers.

Slowly, she shifted, pushing herself upright. The voices sharpened — too loud yet impossibly distant, like whispers pressed against her skin and carried away before she could grasp them. Her pulse stuttered. She knew those voices.

Her stomach twisted as the realization set in like cold iron around her ribs.

This wasn’t a dream.

The room sharpened into focus, and Ingrid wished it hadn’t.

Standing in the center, clad in a flowing gown the same shade as freshly spilled blood, was her mother. Fiery red hair cascaded over her shoulders, her expression poised in careful, eerie anticipation, like a lion watching its prey stir. Ingrid had seen that look before. It was the same one that preceded pain.

In the farthest corner of the room, her brother lingered in the shadows. Dark curls obscured his face, but she could feel his stare, heavy and unreadable. He didn’t speak. He never did, not when it mattered.

A shudder traced the length of her spine. She clenched the sheets, grounding herself in the texture, the sensation — anything to remind herself that she was still here. Still real.

The walls were gilded, the bed soft, the air thick with perfumed incense. But a cage was still a cage.

Her mother’s voice cut through the silence, smooth as silk but laced with quiet amusement.

"Finally awake, I see."

Ingrid's vision was still blurred around the edges, but she could picture the expression that went with those words — the too-perfect smile, stretched just wide enough to seem unnatural.

She exhaled sharply, forcing her sluggish mind into motion. "Damn," she muttered, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off a phantom weight. "Thought I’d died."

Her mother chuckled, as if genuinely entertained. "You always did have a sharp tongue, my dear." She tilted her head slightly, studying Ingrid like one might a stray animal. "I was beginning to wonder if your time away had dulled it."

Ingrid swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was ice against her bare feet, grounding in a way that made her want to press harder, to anchor herself. To fight.

"Oh, don’t worry," she said, her voice light, dripping with mockery. "Hospitality like yours only makes me more talkative."

The tension in the room thickened, pressing in from all sides.

Her mother sighed, a feigned disappointment shadowing her features. "I kept you there for your own good, Ingrid. I needed you to understand your place. And now that you do—"

"I don’t."

Her mother barely acknowledged the interruption, continuing in a tone one might use when explaining something simple to a stubborn child. "Now that you do, I see no reason to keep you locked away. You were never a prisoner, Ingrid. You were… in training."

Ingrid tried to stand, but her legs betrayed her. The weakness was humiliating, burning beneath her skin like an unseen brand. She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Training?" she echoed, the word tasting like ash on her tongue. "Is that what you call it?"

Her mother sighed, her patience fraying at the edges. "I call it necessary."

She stepped forward, the silk of her gown whispering against the floor. The glow of the torches flickered in her eyes — too bright, too sharp, as if they burned hotter in her presence.

"You are my daughter. A goddess. But you have been raised among mortals, playing their little games, pretending to be one of them. That was my mistake, one I intend to correct."

Ingrid’s spine went rigid.

Her fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them like they were the only thing tethering her to herself. Her heart pounded, the weight of her mother’s words settling over her like chains.

"And letting me go," she said, voice tight, "is part of your master plan?"

Her mother didn’t answer.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly, as if considering something unspoken. Then, with the same eerie calm, she said, "I was beginning to think you’d never learn. But perhaps your brother was right about you after all."

A chill slithered down Ingrid’s spine. Her breath caught in her throat.

Her sharp glare snapped toward Igor, who stood in the shadows, unreadable. "What?"

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, he shook his head to himself, almost absentmindedly, before lifting his gaze to hers.

"I told her you finally understand, Ingrid," he murmured. "That you’ve accepted your place."

The smile that followed was small, almost innocent. But it sent ice lancing through Ingrid’s veins.

She couldn’t move. Her mouth parted slightly, words failing her as she flicked her gaze between them — her mother’s poised amusement, her brother’s quiet certainty.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

"He said you’ve let go of all that foolish rebellion," her mother continued, watching Ingrid with something too controlled to be satisfaction. "That you’re ready to embrace your destiny."

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

There was something lurking beneath her expression — something waiting, anticipating. She wanted Ingrid to break. To lash out. To give her a reason.

"After all," she added, her voice deceptively light, "it would be such a shame if you were as stubborn as before. But you’ll prove it to me soon enough."

Ingrid forced herself to breathe.

Her voice was flat when she spoke. "Or what? Back to that room?"

Her mother’s smile stretched. It was wrong — too wide, too knowing, like something wearing human skin but not quite understanding how to use it.

She took a step closer.

"No, my dear," she murmured, voice dipping into something almost affectionate. "If you disappoint me this time, there won’t be a dungeon." She reached out, brushing her fingers along Ingrid’s jaw with a featherlight touch, as if savoring the moment. "There won’t be anything at all."

The room pulsed with silence.

For a long, stretched-out beat, Ingrid just stared at her. Her ears were ringing, her own pulse thundering in her skull.

Then, barely above a whisper, she said, "Then kill me now."

The words were bitter, raw — an offering wrapped in defiance.

Her mother only laughed. A soft, almost indulgent sound. "Not yet," she said, shaking her head. "Not when you have such a role to play."

Then, without another glance, she turned to Igor, red hair cascading like liquid fire with the movement.

"Take her," she ordered. "She needs to be fitted for the coronation."

Igor nodded, his face betraying nothing. "Of course, Mother."

He stepped toward Ingrid, extending a hand. A polite gesture. A mockery of kindness.

Ingrid ignored it.

Her legs trembled beneath her, muscles weak from disuse, but she forced herself upright anyway. She steadied herself against the cold stone wall, her fingers curling into fists.

"Touch me," she said, voice razor-sharp, "and I’ll break your arm."

For a moment, silence stretched between them.

Then, her mother smirked, eyes glinting with something Ingrid didn’t like. Something too pleased.

"Good girl."

Ingrid didn’t react, didn’t acknowledge the words, but the weight of them settled in her gut like lead. She pushed forward, each step a battle against the weakness in her limbs. Igor fell into step beside her, his presence a constant, unwanted shadow.

As she passed her mother, their gazes met. Neither flinched. Neither faltered.

Then the heavy wooden door shut behind them with a resounding thud.

And just like that, Ingrid felt as if she’d stepped into a world of its own.

The hallway stretched before her, gilded in gold, its walls painted a deep, arterial red. The colors bled together beneath the flickering torchlight, too rich, too warm — like something alive. Like something breathing.

People moved in a hurried blur. Guards, attendants, figures draped in fine silks and armor alike. No one paid her any mind. No one stopped.

She might as well have been invisible.

Or worse — nothing at all.

Her gaze flickered to Igor.

That was when she saw it.

The faintest twitch of his lips, the curve of something too small to be called a smile—but it was there, lurking at the edges of his expression.

A chill slithered down Ingrid’s spine.

Then, without a word, Igor started walking, his pace quick and unbothered, matching the restless energy of the palace.

And what choice did Ingrid have but to follow?

"So, that was your chamber," Igor said after a moment, voice light, as if discussing something inconsequential. "Mine is just down the hall, to the left. Not far."

He gestured absently over his shoulder.

Ingrid's hand shot out, fingers latching onto his arm.

He halted mid-step.

Her nails dug into the fabric of his linen shirt, pressing against the ice-cold skin beneath.

Igor turned his head slowly, his expression unreadable.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

He blinked. "Showing you around the castle. Then I’ll take you to the fitting room." He said it like it was obvious.

"Not that, idiot." Ingrid scowled, rolling her eyes at the flicker of offense on his face. "I mean, what’s your plan here? What did you tell her?" Her grip on his arm tightened. "You told me to think about it. I thought you’d wait."

Her voice climbed with each word, too loud, drawing passing glances.

Igor only shrugged.

"You were taking too long."

Then, just like that, he pulled from her grasp and continued walking.

Ingrid clenched her jaw, heat rising under her skin as she hurried after him.

The silence between them was thick, stretching into something suffocating, heavy with unspoken things.

And yet, as they walked, Igor broke it only to murmur quiet, indifferent comments—pointing out rooms, hallways, places he deemed worth mentioning.

His voice was calm. Casual.

It made Ingrid feel sick.

Because the quiet between those words was worse.

Because it made the anger under her skin burn hotter.

Because it made the fear sink deeper.

Finally, Ingrid exhaled sharply, breaking the silence.

"How’d you do it?"

She didn’t look at him right away. They kept walking, their footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the palace, but she could feel his gaze flick toward her.

Igor’s tone was almost amused. "Do what?"

"You know what," Ingrid scoffed, throwing him a glance before staring straight ahead. "Get me out of that… place." The word tasted foul in her mouth.

Igor’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk appearing — just for a second.

"Oh, well, it was simple, really. First, we unlocked the chains—"

Ingrid groaned, rolling her eyes. "Igor."

"Fine," he sighed, as if she were ruining his fun. "I told her you’ve accepted your place."

Ingrid’s hands curled into fists. "So you lied."

"Yes," he admitted easily. Then, more casually than he had any right to, he added, "And I told her you were dying."

Ingrid froze mid-step.

For a second, she didn’t know if she’d heard him right.

Then, after a beat, she swallowed, forcing herself to keep walking. "I don’t think she cares about that." She tried to inject bitterness into her voice, but it came out wrong — thinner, sadder than she wanted.

Igor glanced at her, and something in his expression shifted. Softer. Barely.

"Come on, Ingrid. She’s your mother," he said lightly, as if the word didn’t make Ingrid’s stomach twist. "You two may have gotten off on the wrong foot, but she wouldn’t wish you dead."

Ingrid didn’t answer. Because she didn’t believe that. Not for a second.

Igor didn’t seem to care. "Speaking of my plan," he added, his words slipping into something quieter, something calculated, "I have some news for you."

That got her attention.

Ingrid narrowed her eyes. "What news?"

"No time for that now." He waved her off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, halting mid-step. "We’re here."

Ingrid followed his gaze.

The doors in front of them loomed, massive wooden slabs carved with intricate, twisting symbols she didn’t recognize. They rose above her, impossibly tall, impossibly heavy, impossibly final.

Something in her gut twisted.

She hated them.

Not just because they made her feel small — like she was standing at the threshold of something she couldn’t control. But because she had no idea what was waiting for her on the other side.

Igor took a step back, nodding toward the doors with an almost lazy gesture.

"Good luck."

Then he turned and walked away.

.ೃ࿔*:･

Ingrid felt like a ghost in someone else’s life.

Golden light streamed through the high windows, casting long, soft beams across the vast chamber. The air was thick with incense, sweet and heady, curling around towering stone pillars and mingling with the scent of fresh flowers arranged in elaborate displays along the marble floor. It was a picture of grandeur — warm, regal, breathtaking.

It made her skin crawl.

She stood at the center of it all, draped in crimson and gold, the gown’s intricate embroidery a whisper of a history she didn’t know, yet was expected to embody. The fabric clung to her, heavy and foreign, a physical weight pressing down on her shoulders. She had never worn anything like this before — never had the luxury, nor the desire. And yet, here she was, dressed as a princess, her hair woven into intricate braids adorned with delicate golden chains. She was painted, polished, and poised, a vision of royalty reborn.

A symbol. A spectacle. A lie.

The hall was overflowing with people — nobles wrapped in silk, warriors in ceremonial armor, and beyond them, the sea of commoners stretching into the city square. Their voices were deafening, a tidal wave of cheers and chants, their eyes bright with hope. They looked at her as if she were something holy.

As if she had come to save them.

Her hands curled into fists beneath her sleeves. The distant roar of the crowd blurred into static in her ears, drowned beneath the thudding of her own pulse. There were too many eyes, too many expectations, pressing in on her like an iron cage.

She wanted to run. She wanted to disappear.

A priest stepped forward, his voice low and solemn as he recited the rites, but the words barely registered. Before her, resting upon a velvet cushion, was the crown. Gold and gleaming, deceptively delicate. Ingrid knew better. She knew the weight it would carry. The shackles it would place upon her.

The crowd outside roared again. She turned her head slightly, taking in the thousands of raised hands, the tear-streaked faces, the rapture in their voices. Did they not see? Did they not understand?

She was not their salvation.

She wanted to tell them that.

She wanted to scream.

But she didn’t.

She stood silent, unmoving, as the priest lifted the crown. The cold metal met her skin, pressing against her skull with an unnatural finality. The weight settled. The choice was gone.

It was done.

A crown. A title. A future she had never wanted.

The hall erupted into cheers. Outside, the people wept with joy. Fireworks exploded into the blood-red sky, bursting into dazzling lights of gold and white.

It felt like a funeral.

She swallowed hard, keeping her expression neutral, her shoulders squared. She did not flinch when the priest turned to her and spoke in the old tongue, his voice carrying across the chamber. She did not waver when the nobles bowed before her, pledging their loyalty.

But inside, she was unraveling.

She did not belong here.

She did not know these people, did not know their struggles, their history. They cheered for her because they believed she was something she was not — because they thought she would fix what had been broken.

She had spent her life fighting battles, but she did not know how to rule a kingdom.

And she did not want to learn.

The ceremony continued, a blur of traditions she did not understand, words spoken in a language she was still struggling to grasp. Her mind drifted in and out of focus, the sound of the crowd dulling into a distant hum.

Then, finally, it was over.

The celebration stretched on, though.

Laughter, music, the rhythmic pounding of drums — it all blended into an unrelenting tide of sound that chased Ingrid through the grand halls. The scent of burning oils and spiced wine clung to the air, mingling with the warmth of too many bodies pressed together in revelry. The nobles laughed, their goblets sloshing over as they toasted their new princess. Servants whispered as they hurried past, their eyes flickering toward her with something that might have been reverence, might have been fear.

Ingrid didn’t care enough to decipher it.

She felt the weight of the crown like an iron brand against her skull, the cool metal biting against her skin. She wanted it off. She wanted all of it off.

She moved through the crowd, her breath tight in her chest, looking for an escape.

Then, a hand caught her wrist.

“Ingrid.”

Igor’s voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the noise like a blade through silk. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was unyielding. When she turned to look at him, his dark eyes were sharp, searching hers with an intensity that sent a slow coil of unease through her ribs.

“Come,” he said, tugging her gently. “Now.”

Ingrid hesitated for only a second before following him. She wasn’t sure why — maybe it was the fact that he’d never looked at her quite like that before. Or maybe she was just desperate to be anywhere but here.

He led her swiftly through the corridors, moving with purpose, with familiarity. He belonged here. Every step he took, every turn down a darkened passage, it all felt natural to him. Ingrid, on the other hand, felt like a trespasser in her own palace.

Her stomach twisted at the thought.

They stopped in a secluded alcove, away from the watching eyes of the court. The candlelight flickered, throwing uneasy shadows across the stone. Igor exhaled sharply, then turned to her.

“I couldn’t tell you before,” he murmured, his voice just above a whisper. “But, what I wanted to tell ypu earlier— I’ve heard something— something important.”

Ingrid folded her arms, more out of defense than anything else. “Well?”

Igor hesitated. Finally, he exhaled, glancing briefly over his shoulder before locking eyes with her.

“There’s a sword,” he said. “One that can help with our plan.”

A strange stillness settled over Ingrid. The words should have struck her like lightning, should have burned through her like a wildfire. Instead, they simply… sat there. Heavy. Cold.

A sword.

A way to end this.

Her fingers curled slightly against her arms. “Where?”

“I don’t know.” His jaw tightened, frustration flickering beneath his careful expression. “All I have are whispers, rumors from people too afraid to speak in full sentences. But if it’s real — if it’s truly capable of killing her — we have to find it.”

The candlelight flickered between them, casting him half in shadow. For the first time, Ingrid allowed herself to really look at him.

Igor was her half-brother. But what did that mean, really?

He wasn’t family in the way she understood it — not like her dad, not like Nat. She had met Igor not long ago, a stranger bound to her by blood and history she had never been part of. Their mother’s son.

And yet, here he was. Pulling her into dark corridors. Whispering secrets about the mother he had once called queen.

Igor’s gaze didn’t waver. “That is the only way for ypu to get home.”

She clenched her jaw.

“And you know,” he continued, his voice quieter now, more deliberate, “that you won’t be able to do that while she’s alive.”

The words settled in the space between them like a stone sinking into deep water. Ingrid didn’t move.

She hated that he was right.

He must have seen it, because he didn’t push further. Instead, he let the moment stretch, waiting.

Finally, Ingrid exhaled sharply. “You said all you have are whispers. That’s not enough.”

“I know.” He straightened slightly. “That’s why we need the library.”

“The library?”

He nodded. “This kingdom has existed for centuries. If there’s a weapon powerful enough to kill a god, there will be records of it. Old texts, myths, something. We just have to look through it.”

A long silence stretched between them. Ingrid glanced toward the corridor, toward the sounds of celebration still echoing from the grand hall. The people were waiting for their new princess to step forward, to smile, to be everything they wanted her to be.

But she wasn’t their princess.

She wasn’t their savior.

She was a daughter with unfinished business.

She turned back to Igor. “We'll go to the library, then.”

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐀 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒 !!!

i am, once again, in the phase where i feel like my writing is cringe and unoriginal and corny and stupid and ajshxhwkak but then again, maybe i'm just sleep deprived. it's probably that tbh

so, for those reasons, i have nothing nice to say about this chapter (😭) so i won't say anything at all lol