Gloria dragged herself up the dungeon stairs, Helga's dismissal "Go upstairs, get ready for bed"—a blade in her gut, sharper than the gash crusted on her scalp. The castle's stone walls pressed close, their cracks hissing with the tunnels' pull, but she was too raw to run. At 14, she was a stain on the Eldeholt name, her mother's "nothing" echoing louder than the blood pulsing in her ears. The sapphire weighed heavily in her sleeve, its crystal void and the lady in black's warning—consume you—coiling in her chest. She'd heard Tristan's hope, seen Rebecca's sneer, felt Helga's ice, and known Julius's shadow, always soaring where she sank. The castle wasn't home; it was a cage, and she was its broken beast.
Her room waited at the tower's edge, a cell of cracked mirror, bare bed, a candlestick teetering on a warped table. No rats followed; Victor, Nubs, Scratch, and Laura stayed in the tunnels, their absence a hollow ache. She bolted the door, the iron grinding, and collapsed onto the bed, the coarse blanket biting her skin. Her breath hitched, a sob clawing up, not just grief but a venom she couldn't name. She saw Tristan's green eyes, his sailor's ease, roaming free while she choked on stone. Julius, nine, his laugh bright, his place secure, her mother's pride, she'd never be that. Rebecca's "husk" cut deeper, her brazen confidence a mirror to Gloria's shame. Helga's voice was nothing, dirt, rats wove it all, her father's fists the thread, a life she'd never escape.
Tears fell, sharp and wrong, and the blanket hissed, threads melting where they touched. Gloria froze, her sob catching her tears burned, acidic, eating fabric into blackened holes, a sour stink rising. Her hands shook, clutching the blanket as more tears spilled, the bedframe groaning, wood blistering under the Poison's bite. Her heart raced, a tangle of loathing for Tristan's freedom, Julius's favor, Rebecca's ease, Helga's scorn fueling the acid, her skin tingling with spite. She pressed her face into the pillow, screaming, the sound raw, a wound torn open. The pillow darkened, shadows bleeding from her voice, not grief but a shape black, writhing, alive.
The Shadow surged, a mass of claws and hunger, and the room exploded. The candlestick flew, shattering the mirror into jagged teeth; the chair skidded, splintering against the wall; the table rocked, wax splattering. Her despair, her rage, fed it, a storm of broken things her father's fists, her mother's sneer, the weight of nothing. The Shadow hurled a cracked pitcher, shards raining, and Gloria curled tighter, her acidic tears pooling on the floor, hissing stone. Fear choked her—fear of herself, anxiety for what she'd become, anger at the castle's chains. The lady's warning—ravenous—screamed in her skull, but the Shadow grew, a growl shaking the walls.
A knock—sharp, trembling—cut through. "Miss Gloria?" Lina's voice, the pinched servant, quavered outside. "Are you… all right?" The Shadow roared, slamming the door, wood creaking, bolts rattling. Gloria lifted her head, tears searing her cheeks, and screamed, "Leave me alone!" Her voice broke, raw with fury, and the Shadow pulsed, a low hum rattling the shards. Lina's footsteps fled, her gasp swallowed by the stairs, whispers of "cursed" trailing like smoke.
Gloria sank to the floor, the room a graveyard—blanket dissolved, mirror in pieces, chair a ruin. She couldn't cry, couldn't feel—her tears burned, her screams birthed monsters. Every sting of envy, every pulse of spite, every bitter thought of her place—Poison ate what she touched, Shadow wrecked what she hid. The sapphire slipped from her sleeve, dull, its purple gone, but the lady's scream echoed—fight them. She curled into herself, the gash on her head throbbing, and drifted into sleep, too shattered to move, the castle's hum a cruel dirge.
In her dream, the crystal's void caged her, purple facets pulsing, shadows clawing beyond. The lady in black stood, cloak swirling, her veiled eyes burning, sorrow and iron. Gloria's throat locked, silent, her hands shaking. "Your heart feeds them," the lady said, her voice a blade through mist. "Poison and Shadow—envy, despair, they're yours, but they'll claim you if you don't." She stepped closer, her cold fingers grazing Gloria's wrist. "Control them, or they consume you."
The void softened, the crystal dimming, and the lady moved, her arms flowing, precise, like a serpent striking. "Viper Flow," she named it, teaching three stances:
- **Coil Stance:** Knees bent, arms curved, weight low—channeling envy's sharpness into balance, a slow turn to steady the heart.
- **Strike Stance:** One leg forward, hands snapping out, wrists sharp—guiding spite's edge into focus, a pivot to release its heat.
- **Shed Stance:** Arms rising, body swaying, feet sliding—easing bitterness's weight, a fluid step to let it fall.
With each, she chanted—"So, La, Ko"—her voice low, rhythmic, tying breath to movement. "So," for inhale, grounding envy; "La," for hold, taming spite; "Ko," for exhale, releasing bitterness. Gloria mirrored, her body stiff, the gash aching, but the Poison's burn dulled, a flicker of calm. "Breathe," the lady urged, repeating the chants, each "So, La, Ko" a tether against despair's pull. The Shadow's claws retreated, her mind sharpening.
"Memory weaving," the lady said, her voice softer, urgent. "Your pain—fists, sneers, chains—see them as threads." She gestured, and Gloria's mind flashed—Edgar's wine-soaked laugh, Helga's "nothing," Rebecca's "barren." "Braid them," the lady said, "into strength, not ruin." Gloria tried, her thoughts knotting—loathing for Julius's ease, fury at her cage—but the lady's eyes held her, and she wove, each memory a strand, her will tightening. The crystal pulsed, gentler, the shadows still.
"You're not ready," the lady warned, her cloak fading, "but you're enough. Master your heart, or lose it." The void shattered, and Gloria woke, gasping, in her wrecked room—blanket gone, mirror shards glinting, chair splintered. The sapphire lay dull, the gash on her head crusted. Dusk bled through the window, the castle's hum low, a new day ending. Her rats were gone, still in the tunnels, but the lady's lessons—Viper Flow's stances, So-La-Ko chants, memory weaving—clung, fragile tethers. Gloria stood, legs trembling, Poison and Shadow quiet but waiting. She was nothing, a disgrace, but she'd learn—or the castle's dark would swallow her.