The Heroes Who Turned Against Me

Cold water clung to my hair and my mouth tasted like coins. Emilia’s hands were still on the edge of the broken carriage door in my memory, but my fingers—my fingers—were different now. I tried to breathe and the world snapped into focus like a spell that finally landed.

Emilia’s accident site was real: twisted iron rails, a smashed wheel half-buried in gravel, and the smell of wet smoke. Above it all, guards in gray and gold moved with practiced speed, boots crunching on stones. Someone shouted, “Stay back. Her breathing is irregular.”

I pushed myself up on shaking elbows. My skin felt too smooth, too clean, like I had never been bruised by yesterday’s life. Ash-brown hair fell forward, pinned neatly at the crown. When I touched my own right thumb, a faint mark smeared under my nail, dark like dried ink.