The Repair (Vaeloria in the Shadows)
Vaeloria did not enter.
Not yet.
She stood where the corridor’s torchlight died and the royal chambers began—half-shadow, half-crown—watching her own room be used like a workshop.
It should have offended her.
It did.
Derpy woke to the sound of thread being pulled through metal. Not loud. Just… careful.
He didn’t move at first. Didn’t open his eyes.
Because the first thing he always did when he woke up— Was listen.
Vaeloria watched his lashes shift. Watched the tiny pause where his body decided whether waking was safe.
No guards at the door. No clink of chains. No bark. No claws.
Only castle air. Cold. Still. Wrong.
He opened his eyes slowly.
Mk.2 sat across from him. One arm detached, laid on the table beside her like something borrowed. The joint had shattered clean through.
Vaeloria’s annoyance flared hot and immediate.
They were letting him touch the seams. Letting him handle rune-cores. Letting a calamity-bearer put his hands inside the Empire’s most expensive lie.
Derpy stared at the arm.
Memory hit him in flashes. Black ice. Collars. Rage. A throne room that smelled like power and fear.
His hands. Her arm breaking.
He sat up sharply.
Mk.2 didn’t flinch.
“You awake,” she said. Not a question.
Derpy looked at her shoulder where the break had been. Empty housing. Cracked seam.
He swallowed. “I did that.”
She tilted her head. “Yes.”
No accusation. No blame. Just fact.
Vaeloria expected denial. Deflection. A joke. A threat.
Instead he looked down at his hands like they belonged to someone else. Like he was afraid of them.
Celica’s embers flickered faintly along his fingers. Blight stayed quiet for once.
Derpy exhaled slowly. “I’ll fix it.”
Mk.2 didn’t answer immediately. Then:
“I requested.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I requested you repair,” she repeated, slower. Like she’d chosen the sentence and didn’t want it taken away.
Derpy looked at her. Really looked at her.
“You didn’t have to.”
She looked away. “…I wanted.”
Vaeloria’s annoyance sharpened into something else—an unease she refused to name.
Want.
That word did not belong to the Stitchborne.
Derpy swallowed hard. And for a second— he reached down with his eyes like he expected a body at his feet.
Nothing.
His throat worked. Then he rolled up his sleeves.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s fix you.”
Vaeloria stayed in the dark.
Because if she stepped in now, she would have to be Queen. And she wanted—just for a moment—to be only a witness.
Part II — Mk.3’s Silence (The Dolls Speak)
Mk.1 sat closest. Too close.
Her fingers hovered over Derpy’s sleeve like she was waiting for permission that didn’t exist.
Mk.3 stood by the window. Still. Watching.
But not watching the trees. Watching him.
“You hesitated,” Mk.1 said softly.
Mk.3 didn’t turn.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
Silence.
Mk.3’s jaw tightened.
“When he broke the collar,” Mk.1 continued, “you did not strike first.”
Mk.3’s fingers twitched near her hidden seams.
“He was not targeting us.”
“That is not the point,” Mk.1 replied.
Mk.3 turned sharply now.
“It is exactly the point.”
The air shifted.
Mk.3’s voice lowered.
“He shattered the queen’s control without killing her.”
Vaeloria’s eyes narrowed in the dark.
Control. Not collar. Not order.
A judgment.
Mk.3 paused.
“He froze the king without taking his head.”
Another pause.
“And he asked about Riven.”
Mk.1 blinked slowly.
Friend.
The word lived inside her like a command she didn’t understand.
Mk.3 stepped closer to Derpy.
“He knew the program designation.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“No one outside the War Office should know that.”
Mk.1 tilted her head.
“He angry.”
“Yes.”
Mk.3’s voice softened almost imperceptibly.
“But not mindless.”
Vaeloria felt something inside the room tilt.
Not rebellion.
Recognition.
Part III — The Stitching (Soft Hands, Sharp Power)
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Derpy worked slowly. Carefully.
Threading magic through fractured rune-cores.
Celica guided heat control. Blight stabilized rot fractures.
Metal hissed. Light flared.
Mk.2 didn’t move while he worked. But her eyes tracked him constantly.
Like she was afraid he’d vanish if she blinked.
Vaeloria told herself it was calculation.
If he could repair them, he could ruin them. If he could ruin them, he could ruin her.
It was simple.
And yet she kept watching his hands.
Halfway through the repair— Derpy’s fingers started shaking.
Not from strain.
From memory.
Ice forming. Mia barking once when he was taken. Sphinx’s claws scraping stone as he tried to leap.
He stopped.
His breath hitched.
Mk.2 noticed immediately.
“Pain?”
He shook his head. “…No.”
His voice cracked anyway.
“I just…”
His fingers tightened on the stitching thread.
“I didn’t even say goodbye.”
The room went very quiet.
Mk.2 didn’t understand fully. But she understood tone.
“You miss them,” she said.
Derpy nodded once.
And Vaeloria—still hidden—felt the moment land like a blade pressed flat.
Not dramatic. Not performative.
Real.
He pressed his forehead briefly against the table.
“I should’ve fought harder.”
Celica whispered inside him. You would have died.
Blight added, softer than usual. And then they would be alone.
Derpy’s shoulders trembled once. He swallowed it down.
Vaeloria’s annoyance had nowhere left to sit.
All that remained was the uncomfortable truth:
He was dangerous.
And he was gentle anyway.
Part IV — The Thread (Mia and Sphinx)
Far beyond the castle walls— Mia lifted her head.
No sound. Just sudden alertness.
Her ears pricked forward.
Sphinx froze mid-lick.
What? he asked inside her mind.
Mia’s chest tightened.
He’s sad.
Sphinx’s tail flicked once.
You can’t know that.
She didn’t answer.
But she did.
Not in words. In feeling.
The thread wasn’t severed.
But it was strained.
Like something pulling against distance.
Sphinx jumped down beside her. They pressed foreheads briefly.
No humans noticed.
Lenora stood watch further down the ridge. Lewd sharpened something she didn’t need to sharpen. Ace stretched her wings near the fire like she owned the night.
But Mia— Mia stared toward the capital.
And in her chest— Something tugged.
He’s trying not to cry, she thought.
Sphinx went very still.
He doesn’t cry.
Mia’s tail lowered.
He does when he thinks we don’t see.
Sphinx said nothing.
Because that was true.
Part V — The Bond (Choice)
Back inside the castle— Derpy resumed working.
Slower now. Breathing carefully.
“I used to fix things at home,” he muttered quietly. “Broken fences. Burnt pans. My hoodie…”
His hands paused.
“…My sisters gave me that.”
Mk.2 tilted her head.
“Sisters.”
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
He glanced at her broken arm.
“And I broke you.”
She looked at him steadily.
“You stopped.”
He froze.
“What?”
“You stopped,” she repeated. “Queen command. You stopped.”
His chest tightened.
He remembered. The moment rage cracked and something clearer stepped through.
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Mk.2 processed that slowly.
Then:
“…You did not break me fully.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“You could have.”
Silence hung between them.
He resumed stitching. This time steadier.
When the final rune clicked into place, light pulsed through her arm.
Flex. Rotate. Grip.
Perfect.
Mk.2 stared at her hand. Opened and closed it. Looked at him.
“…Better.”
Derpy let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“Good.”
Then, softer:
“Next time, I won’t lose control.”
Mk.2’s eyes sharpened slightly.
“…Other you.”
He stiffened.
“You saw that.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
She leaned slightly closer.
“Monster.”
Derpy flinched.
“…Yeah.”
But she shook her head.
“No.”
He blinked.
“…No?”
She searched for words like she was pulling them out of a locked drawer.
“Protector,” she said.
A pause.
“Violent protector.”
Vaeloria’s breath caught—small, controlled, private.
Because she understood violent protectors.
She had married one.
And she was watching another one sit at her table, hands shaking, trying to be careful anyway.
Worse—
she was realizing she wanted him to succeed.
Not for the Empire.
For him.
Part VI — Liam and Mk.4 (The Crack Becomes Policy)
The corridor outside the royal chambers was quiet.
Too quiet.
Liam stood beside Mk.4.
Unlike her sisters, Mk.4 carried herself with still calculation—taller, straighter, cleaner stitching. Her black dress fell like controlled shadow.
Liam didn’t look at her at first.
“Why are they changing?”
Mk.4 did not respond immediately.
Liam’s voice sharpened.
“Mk.1 breaks protocol. Mk.2 requested him for repair. Mk.3 hesitated in the throne room.”
Now Mk.4 turned her head.
Her eyes were not confused.
They were measuring.
“I do not have confirmation.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
A pause.
Then Mk.4 said something Liam did not expect.
“It could be the way he addresses us.”
Liam blinked.
“Elaborate.”
“He speaks as though we are people.”
The hallway felt colder.
Liam scoffed lightly.
“You are weapons.”
Mk.4’s gaze did not shift.
“We were told that.”
Silence.
Liam’s fingers tightened around her clipboard.
“What difference would that make?”
Mk.4’s answer came flat.
“He asks what we prefer. He repairs without command. He apologizes.”
A beat.
“He does not call us defective.”
The word hung in the air.
Liam looked away first.
“That is irrelevant.”
Mk.4 tilted her head slightly.
“…Is it?”
That was the first crack in Liam’s composure.
Part VII — Separation (Strained Obedience)
Liam made a decision.
“Remove them,” she ordered.
Mk.4 did not move.
“Clarify.”
“Separate Mk.1, Mk.2, and Mk.3 from him. Immediately.”
Now Mk.4 hesitated.
That hesitation was small.
But it was visible.
Liam saw it.
“Are you disobeying me?”
Mk.4’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
They entered the chamber together.
Derpy looked up from the bed.
Mk.1 brightened instantly.
“Friend—”
“Stand down,” Liam snapped.
Mk.2 stepped forward slightly.
Mk.3’s grip on her axe tightened.
“What is the reason?” Mk.3 asked calmly.
“Observation protocol adjustment,” Liam said. “You three are reassigned.”
Mk.1 shook her head.
“No.”
The room went still.
Liam’s voice turned icy.
“That was not a suggestion.”
Mk.2 stepped closer to Derpy.
Mk.3 moved in front of him.
Protective formation.
Three dolls.
Aligned.
Liam’s patience snapped.
“Mk.4.”
The command was sharp.
Mk.4 stepped forward.
She placed a hand on Mk.1’s shoulder.
“…Orders.”
Mk.1 looked back at Derpy.
Conflicted.
Torn.
“Friend…”
Derpy sat up slowly.
“It’s fine,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t.
Everyone knew it wasn’t.
Mk.2’s jaw tightened.
Mk.3’s eyes narrowed.
But they obeyed.
That obedience was strained.
And strained obedience is louder than rebellion.
As the three were escorted out— Derpy felt something rip through his chest.
Not magical.
Emotional.
That hollow, animal ache when something that makes you feel safe— Is suddenly gone.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t rage.
He just sat there.
And that was worse.
Part VIII — Vaeloria Enters (Annoyance Becomes Interest)
Vaeloria stepped out of the shadows at last.
Emerald robes. A crown of subtle thorns. Eyes like blades.
“Explain,” she said softly.
Liam bowed.
“Protocol instability, Your Majesty. The Stitchborne are forming attachment patterns.”
Vaeloria’s gaze shifted to the doorway where Mk.1 had been taken.
“…Attachment?”
Liam gestured toward Derpy.
“He is influencing them.”
Vaeloria studied Derpy carefully.
He looked… empty. Wounded. Not violent.
That was the problem.
Violence was easy to categorize.
This wasn’t.
She turned to Mk.4.
“Is this accurate?”
Mk.4 hesitated.
“…He addresses us as equals.”
A flicker passed through Vaeloria’s eyes.
Interesting.
Liam spoke quickly.
“It is dangerous. If the dolls lose clarity, the program weakens.”
Vaeloria’s lips curved slowly.
“Or evolves.”
Liam stiffened.
Vaeloria stepped closer to Derpy.
“You are alone now,” she said quietly.
He didn’t look up.
“Yeah.”
Vaeloria’s annoyance should have returned.
Instead, she found herself remembering his hands.
How careful they had been.
How he had apologized to a weapon.
How he had looked down at his own fingers like they were something he feared.
A violent protector.
She understood that shape of person too well.
And that understanding—against her will—softened into something dangerously close to fascination.
Part IX — The Empire Divided (Vaeloria’s Calculus)
Vaeloria moved toward the window overlooking the capital.
“When this empire was forged,” she began calmly, “it was not unified in purpose.”
Liam straightened. The dolls listened.
“There were three schools of thought.”
She held up one finger.
“Expansionists. They believed we should conquer beyond our borders. That strength demands territory.”
Second finger.
“Pacifists. They believed our magic was meant to preserve, not dominate.”
Third.
“And then there were those like my husband.”
Her voice cooled.
“Power above all. Not conquest for land. Not peace for stability. But control. Leverage. Weapons that ensure no one dares threaten us.”
She turned.
“The Stitchborne program was born from that third ideology.”
Liam’s throat tightened slightly.
Vaeloria continued.
“Your father believes in power through fear.”
Her gaze drifted toward the direction of the throne hall.
“He believes calamity bearers are assets to be harvested.”
She stepped closer to Liam.
“But I believe in leverage of a different kind.”
Silence.
“Political leverage.”
Now the air shifted.
“If the dolls are becoming more… independent,” Vaeloria said, “that may weaken my husband’s war faction.”
Liam’s eyes widened slightly.
“You would allow it?”
Vaeloria’s smile was razor thin.
“I would guide it.”
She turned to Derpy.
“You are valuable to him,” she said. “But perhaps more valuable to me.”
Derpy finally looked up.
“What does that mean?”
Vaeloria’s gaze sharpened.
“It means,” she said softly, “I may help you.”
Liam blinked.
“You would oppose the King openly?”
Vaeloria’s expression hardened.
“He is building weapons beneath my kingdom without transparency.”
Her voice dropped lower.
“I will not be sidelined in my own empire.”
And beneath the politics—beneath the crown—Vaeloria felt the first, treacherous pull of something personal.
Not softness.
Not mercy.
Something worse.
Interest.
Part X — The Proposal (Help That Is Also a Cage)
Vaeloria stepped closer to Derpy.
“Help me destabilize the war faction,” she said quietly.
Liam inhaled sharply.
Derpy narrowed his eyes.
“How?”
“You repair them,” Vaeloria said. “You continue influencing them.”
She glanced toward the door.
“They respond to you.”
“If the Stitchborne become less obedient to blind command,” Vaeloria continued, “my husband’s greatest bargaining chip weakens.”
Her eyes locked onto Derpy’s.
“In exchange, I ensure your survival. And perhaps… access.”
“To what?” he asked.
“To information.”
A pause.
“About Riven.”
The room stilled.
Derpy’s throat worked.
Celica whispered inside him: She is not lying.
Blight added: But she is not safe either.
Derpy exhaled slowly.
“And if I refuse?”
Vaeloria’s expression cooled.
“Then you remain a tool.”
Silence.
The empire did not just fracture in war.
It fractured in ideology.
Expansion. Peace. Power.
And now— Influence.
Outside the chamber— Mk.3 stared at the floor. Mk.2 flexed her repaired arm. Mk.1 whispered softly:
“Friend coming back?”
Mk.4 watched them quietly.
And for the first time—
she began to wonder which side of the fracture she would stand on.
