Lady Ori crossed her arms over the balcony railing of her bedroom. It was another beautiful spring day at the Foix estate. She closed her eyes and let the warmth of the sun hug her skin.

A butterfly flitted by. Without a thought, she reached her hand out as if to let it rest on her fingers. Instead, it fluttered away towards the gardens.

Lady Ori chuckled. Today she would get in a carriage and visit Jonathon in his cell. She would make sure his send-off was well worth her trouble.

There was a soft knock at the door. “My Lady, a letter arrived for you.”

Lady Ori narrowed her eyes. She called in the servant and took the letter, then went to the large desk by the corner window. With a swift hand, she sliced open the top and pulled out the contents.

The letter was from her fiancé, Vellim de Broglie. The man who had not contacted her in half a week while she was tried for her mother’s murder.

Her heart thumped in her chest as she unfolded his stationery. She felt disgusted as feelings of love, yearning, and desperation washed over her.

These were Baby Ori’s leftover feelings.

“Gross.” Lady Ori muttered.

She closed her eyes and opened herself up to memories of him, cringing. She was scared of what she might see.

Memories drifted into her mind’s eye, foggy and dreamlike.

There were not that many memories to speak of.

The Vellim she saw had an average build. He was easy to smile, handsome, and bookish.

The kind, soft-spoken Vellim read under oak trees and enjoyed picnics near quiet lakes.

Much to Lady Ori’s relief, the moments he’d had with Baby Ori seemed more like platonic friends on an outing. Nothing suggested they were lovers.

Lady Ori opened her eyes.

Still, what a freak. Who would court a person who acted like a seven-year-old child?

She read his letter.

My Dearest Ori,

I am traveling from Kelksville with haste upon receiving word from my father. I am beside myself with worry and have received no news. Ori, why have you not written me?

Sweet Ori, I shall see you soon. Please expect me at noon on Thursday at the Foix estate.

Yours always,

Vellim de Broglie

Lady Ori huffed and put his letter to the side. She blushed from the tip of her toes to the crown of her head at the thought of him, but the man was suspicious. She called a servant and told them to prepare to receive her fiancé tomorrow at lunch.

They bowed, “My lady, the carriage has been prepared.”

―-

Lady Ori was elated. Each bump of the wheels and nicker of the horses meant she was closer and closer to seeing Jonathon again.

A Knight de Foix held out his hand to escort her out. He looked at her, worried. “My lady, allow me to come with you.”

An attendant led them through several heavily secured halls, and finally to a reinforced wooden door.

Lady Ori stopped the Knight de Foix from following her in. “This is too personal, Sir Knight. I want to see Jonathon alone.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

He was torn, but could not disobey her.

Lady Ori bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing as the heavy, barred door was opened.

She was escorted down the stairs.

Jonathan, in his cell, made a startled, garbled noise.

Lady Ori sent the attendant away.

He bowed, then left.

Jonathon was at the bars of his cell, furious. “ORI YOU FUCKING BITCH!!! HOW DARE YOU SHOW YOUR FACE! I HATE YOU, I LOATHE YOU!”

The door slammed shut. It was just she and Jonathon now.

She couldn’t hold it in anymore.

He was wearing rags, and his eyes and face were bloated from crying. He winced in pain from the injury in his groin.

Lady Ori threw back her head and laughed. She laughed so hard she cried. She cried so hard she began coughing, and when she had caught her breath, she wheezed.

“Oh my, I can’t breathe,” she said, wiping away her tears as Jonathon frothed at the mouth and cursed her.

“Did you think I cracked your balls because I like you, elder brother?”

Jonathon howled in frustration and attempted to shake the bars of his cell. Instead, he flailed around. The bars were made well and did not move. “My life has been HELL ever since you were BORN, Ori de Rohan!” he screamed.

“Hey, Bastard,” Lady Ori chuckled. “Does your brain even work? Has your life really been hell ever since I was born? It was hell before that.”

“YOU DEMON! YOU TORTUROUS BITCH!”

Lady Ori giggled, wiping away another tear. At this rate, she’d have no makeup by the end of this visit. “Are you talking to mother right now? Is she in here~?”

Jonathon went silent.

Lady Ori’s face had gone mirthless. Her powerful glare burned him.

He didn’t remember, but she did.

It was Jonathon who had found Baby Ori in the halls and stalked her while she ran.

“Jonathon, do you think I believe that our mother never hit you? That she never starved you? That she never abandoned you?”

It was Jonathon who slammed open the door Baby Ori was so desperate to lock.

Jonathon was taken aback, “The late Contessa―“

“Jonathon, your life got worse when I was born? Really? Isn’t it actually that the moment I was born, your life got better?”

Jonathon’s mouth went dry.

It was Jonathon who stepped aside and watched as their mother murdered Baby Ori―beaten to death, eyes open, crying in the arms of a Reaper.

“Your baby sister became mother’s little whipping girl.” Lady Ori’s face curled into a snarl. “What a blessing for you, elder brother!”

Jonathon began to tremble. The look in his Ori’s eyes was unfathomable. The depth of hatred she held for him was unknowable. She looked, for a terrible moment, like their mother.

Lady Ori took a deep breath and eked out a small smirk, “I’ll tell you something, Jonathon, because you’re a fucking idiot and you’d never figure this out on your own.”

Jonathon could not break his eyes away from hers. It was as if she was gripping him by the collar.

“Your baby sister was never the source of your problems. Never. You grew up to have power and reputation and you still chose to lick mother’s feet.”

Jonathon began to shake his head. The pain in his groin was worse now. “That’s not true,” he whined. “I―“

“And you dare swear at me? Blame me?” Lady Ori’s eyes grew more and more fierce. “Jonathon, everyone called you mother’s Bastard son. Then they called you a Knight de Rohan.”

She seethed. “Isn’t it funny? Why all the titles? Someone spineless like you doesn’t need a name. You are a coward.”

Jonathon began to cry. He put his head in his hands and wept loudly like a child. “You’re selfish, Ori. Mother hurt me, you hurt me. Everyone hurts me.”

Lady Ori watched him cry, disgusted. “Maybe the two of us are filled with children who cry like this.”

Jonathan's keening sobs were too loud. He was unable to hear her.

Lady Ori would show him the same mercy he had shown Baby Ori: none at all.

She lowered her voice to a whisper and walked closer to him. Her heels hit the cold stone floor like a blade hitting ice. “I’m talking to all the adults inside of you, Jonathon.”

She barred her teeth at him and itched to grab him. “Once you and your worthless fucking soul are gone from this world; hanging from the public gallows like the absolute sack of rotten shit that you are,” she smiled and chuckled, “I’m going to snuggle into my big soft bed, close my little eyes, and never once think about you or mother ever again.”

Jonathon continued to cry and curse her.

She watched him until she was satisfied. “Well,” she sighed, feeling tired, “Enjoy your very last pity party. When you see the Reaper in an hour or so, tell him I sent you.”

“Do you not pity me?!” He shrieked. “I pitied you!”

Lady Ori clicked open an ornate compact mirror and checked her face. It was a mess. She took her hand and gently rubbed the mascara downwards. She snapped the compact closed. “Jonathon,” she scoffed, “Boo hoo.”

She smirked at him, then took her time heading back up the stairway.

Jonathon screamed in agony and frustration.

The door closed behind Lady Ori with a BOOM, and the board that locked it thumped into place.

Lady Ori did not attend his hanging; she had watched him struggle to live for long enough.