The name hits me like a physical blow. Lyria—my sister, beautiful and headstrong and so certain that she could choose her own path. The woman I destroyed trying to save her from what I saw as poor choices.
"That's ancient history," I say, but the words sound hollow even to me.
"Is it?" Kieran struggles to his feet, every movement speaking of pain barely held in check. "Look at your omega, brother. Really look at her. Tell me you don't see Lyria's ghost in those empty eyes."
I turn to Elise, and for the first time in weeks, I see past the perfect submission to something underneath. A carefully buried spark of the woman she used to be, banked but not extinguished.
"She's happy," I insist. "Content. She chose this."
"The way Lyria chose her marriage?" Kieran's laugh turns into a coughing fit that leaves specks of blood on his lips. "You locked our sister in her room for weeks. Brought that Stone Court bastard to visit her daily. Told yourself you were protecting her from her own poor judgment."
"She would have been miserable with that merchant she fancied," I protest, the old arguments rising automatically. "He would have wasted her talents, hidden her away in some provincial manor?—"
"So you chose a better cage," Kieran interrupts. "A more prestigious prison. Because you always know best, don't you? Even when your certainty kills the thing you're trying to protect."
The memory surfaces despite my efforts to suppress it. Lyria, wild and brilliant and so achingly alive. How she paced her locked room like a caged wolf, her eyes burning with rage every time I brought Lord Thane to court her.
"I was protecting her?—"
"You were controlling her," Elise says quietly, and her voice carries a weight I've never heard before. "Just like you controlled me."
She knows. Kieran told her everything—how I tracked her bloodline for decades, how I engineered the debt that brought her to me, how I systematically broke down every defense until she had no choice but to surrender.
"It's not the same thing," I say, but the words taste like ash.
"Isn't it?" Kieran moves closer, and despite his illness, he still carries the presence of absolute authority. "Tell her what happened when Lyria finally escaped her room. Tell her how we found our sister three days later."
I close my eyes, but I can't block out the memory. Lyria's body in the snow, frozen solid but still walking away from the palace. Still choosing death over the life I'd tried to force on her.
"She walked into the worst blizzard in a century," I say finally. "We searched for three days before we found her."
"Still moving," Kieran adds remorselessly. "Still walking away from you even in death. She chose to freeze rather than accept the cage you built for her."
The silence that follows is deafening.
"At least Lyria could choose death," Elise says, her voice barely above a whisper. "You made sure I can't even do that."
The words hit me like physical blows. Because she's right—the bond I forged ensures she can't survive without me. I didn't just lock her in a cage; I made escape impossible.
"You killed Lyria with your control," Kieran continues, each word precisely chosen for maximum impact. "Now you're doing it slower with this one. At least our sister died free. Your omega is a walking corpse you've animated for your amusement."
"That's enough," I snap, but there's no authority in my voice. Just desperate denial.
"Is it?" He turns to Elise, and his expression softens slightly. "Tell him, child. Tell him what it feels like to be perfectly conditioned. To have every desire shaped to serve his needs."
"I'm grateful—" she begins automatically, then stops. For the first time since her transformation, she seems to struggle with words. "I was grateful. I thought I was happy."
"And now?"
She looks at me with eyes that hold too much knowledge, too much pain. "Now I understand I'm Lyria's ghost. The obedient sister who couldn't run."
The truth of it settles over me like a shroud. I didn't create a perfect omega—I created a beautiful corpse animated by magic and conditioning. The woman I fell in love with is as dead as Lyria, and I'm the one who killed her.
"You always did think you knew better than everyone, even family," Kieran wheezes, blood flecking his lips. "When will you learn that love can't be controlled into existence?"
The prophecy requires willing bonds. Hearts freely given, love that grows from choice rather than compulsion. I haven't created love—I've created elaborate prisons and called them partnerships.
The realization that I've been my own worst enemy cuts deeper than any blade. That my sister died because I couldn't let her choose her own path, and now I'm slowly killing the woman I claim to love in exactly the same way.
