Elma didn’t speak. She didn't have to.

  In the crushing silence of the corridor, she watched her sister and felt a cold, jagged resentment rise like bile. While D—66 had been nailed into a coffin for fifteen years, suspended in the dark until the day they finally murdered her, D—67 had been living.

  D—67’s face shifted. The indulgent, "nanny" mask disintegrated. As if the look in Elma's eyes triggered something in her.

  She reached into the collar of her armor, her fingers catching on a hidden toggle. Instantly, a foreign Aegis shimmered into existence, humming with a frequency that wasn't hers.

  Elma's eyes widened as the foreign weight materialized—the same sensation she'd felt when Nagin appeared in the willow.

  It was a borrowed shroud, a thick, artificial layer of protection. To stop a resonant from stopping her heart instantly or shredding her from the inside.

  Elma clutched her fist, her knuckles turning white. At this range, Silk could tear Elma’s four-year-old body into seven distinct pieces before Elma could even complete a thought.

  "What are you doing, Silk?" Lucien stepped forward, placing a hand on the armored woman’s shoulder.

  Silk. They call her Silk now.

  "She’s... creeping me out," Silk said, her eyes never leaving Elma’s.

  "Heyy, Elma," Lucien said, trying to soften his voice. He looked down at his niece with a pained, gentle expression. "What are you doing here? Are you lost?"

  He reached out, his long, thin fingers wrapping around Elma’s hand to guide her back toward the nursery. The touch was warm, human, and entirely unwelcome.

  Elma pulled her hand back with a sharp, violent jerk.

  Silk’s gaze sharpened instantly, her hand hovering near the hilt of her blade, ready to intercept a strike that hadn't come yet.

  "I'm not lost," Elma said at last.

  She looked at Lucien, then shifted her gaze one last time to the woman with the ruined cheek.

  "You were loud," Elma added, her words a blunt accusation of their "playing."

  Without waiting for a response, she turned and began the long walk back to the nursery, the weight of the Kresnik Treatise heavy in her arms. She could feel Silk’s stare burning into the back of her neck until she turned the corner.

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  The walk back was a blur of stone and shadow.

  Inside, a white-hot rage was simmering, threatening to boil over. The humiliation of being at Silk’s mercy was unbearable.

  Internal Reinforcement. That's the key.

  In the coliseum her claws had shattered against Fenric. Now she has the same output, if she could do it, D—67 wouldn't be able to scratch her. She would be unbreakable.

  I’ll show her.

  I’m not the mistake.

  Elma came to a sudden, jarring stop. The silence of the hallway rushed in to meet her.

  The fury that had carried her this far guttered out all at once.

  Her legs gave way.

  She sank onto the cold marble, the book slipping from her grasp, her body suddenly too heavy to hold upright. It felt as though the standoff had burned through every reserve she had.

  She sat there, breath shallow, staring at nothing.

  The rage flickered and died, replaced by a hollow, sickening realization. What had Silk actually done? She had survived. She had found a name, a life. And Elma was bitter for it.

  Silk was living, while Elma was still trapped in the "coffin" of her own mind.

  No. She had left me. Why would she?

  The answer was on her face. In the blood at Christa's lips. Everyone who got close ended up hurt.

  Why am I like this?

  Her chest began to heave. Every breath felt like inhaling liquid fire, the air scratching at her throat and searing her lungs.

  A curse.

  The thought was a jagged stone in her mind. Her eyes watered, blurring the intricate silver filigree of the book.

  She lowered her head onto her arm and bit her sleeve to muffle the sound as the pressure in her chest finally broke.

  The shadows of the hallway seemed to lean in, heavy and suffocating, until a soft scuff of leather on stone broke the silence. Elma didn’t look up, but the weight of the air changed. A presence hovered above her.

  When she finally lifted her head, Silk was standing there. The silver mouth-plate was back in place, but her eyes were wide, tracking the tremors in Elma’s small frame. Slowly, deliberately, Silk lowered herself to the floor, sitting next to her.

  “She’s not as fragile as she looks,” Silk said. “…Christa, I mean.”

  Elma remained silent, her gaze fixed on a crack in the marble.

  Silk let out a long, weary sigh. The upper part of her left foot began to rhythmically rise and hit the ground. She reached up, scratching at the short-cropped hair at the back of her head.

  Silk’s throat tightened unexpectedly. She didn’t know why. The look Elma had given her earlier unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

  It wasn’t fear.

  It was the same feeling she used to get in the white room.

  “I'm sorry. I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Silk said quietly.

  The silence stretched for a full minute, thick enough to choke on.

  Slowly, Elma lifted her gaze to meet hers.

  Silk’s jaw tightened behind the silver. Her fingers flexed once against her knee.

  Something about the look in the child’s eyes made her stomach turn.

  For a second, her scar burned.

  Silk staggered up, the rhythmic tapping of her foot finally ceasing. "Well... I have to go," she said, her voice regaining that flat, guarded edge.

  As she turned to leave, Elma reached out and caught the cold plating of her greave.

  Silk flinched.

  It wasn’t subtle. Her hand snapped halfway toward the hilt at her hip before she stilled herself.

  “Will you still be here tomorrow?” Elma asked.

  Silk was silent for a moment.

  “…Yeah,” she said at last, looking away.

  The word lingered between them, thin and uncertain.

  She turned and walked away, the soft rhythm of armored steps fading into the corridor.