The fear made her body start to shut down in response to whatever Vivienne had planned to do with that oil. Oil Sin had never seen before look like that. Yellow swirls that evaporated into a yellow aura above the pot. Magic.
Sin knew her punishment would be severe, but something told her death would be preferable to whatever torture they were about to inflict.
“You think you’re better than your mother? That you can outsmart me? No one will save you, just as no one saved her.” Vivienne’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “You think you can watch me suffer and walk away?”
She approached, raising the pot high, and with her father gripping Sin’s arms, there was nowhere for her to run.
She could feel the anger building, from behind her eyes to deep within her gut, feeding on her pain. It was no longer just fear—it was fury. A deep, roaring fury that was not only her own but something more, something ancient. As her father gripped her arms, she felt it surge—rage that could not be contained, as if her very magic was clawing to be set free, tearing at the surface, demanding release. She clenched her jaw, her muscles locking as her magic fought against the chains, defiance swelling within her despite the agony.
The boiling liquid cascaded over her. Scalding. Magical. It burned her skin instantly.
She tried to summon a single memory of peace, anything to drown out the pain. Fragmented images flashed before her eyes—her mother’s laugh, the warmth of a summer sun, herown giggling face reflected in her mother’s eyes. She wished she could remember the name her mother had given her, but it slipped away, like a whisper lost to the wind. But they vanished as quickly as they appeared, replaced by fire, pain, Vivienne’s hateful laughter, and her own screams.
The sound sizzled—like meat thrown onto a hot skillet. Her flesh blistered, bubbled. Acrid fumes filled her nose and mouth, choking her senses, the scent of burning flesh suffocating her. Pain tore through her, her screams reverberating off the walls.
Her muscles seized, locking her body into agonizing contortions, her throat raw from the relentless screams. She felt her skin melting away in unbearable waves, each layer sliding and dripping from her flesh in thick, agonizing sheets.
It wasn’t just her skin—it felt like her very essence was being seared, her magic stripped away, reduced to something powerless, broken.
This can’t be the end. I have to survive. I can’t let them win—not like this.But the pain drowned out every thought, leaving her with only the instinct to fight.
Deep inside, something snapped.
Amidst the pain, the sensation shifted—from the scalding liquid to a different kind of agony. A searing line carved itself into her flesh, a new mark of the rune branding her skin. A mark that felt like a knife cutting into her skin. With that, Sin knew, that was the last mark.
In the midst of suffering, there was an eerie silence in her head—a moment where her soul felt disconnected from her own body.
“Get ready,”a small voice, one that sounded like a young girl, warned Sin in her mind.“It’s time.”
And then, from that silence, a roar—a power so fierce it drowned out every thought, every fear.
She gasped, her breath coming in ragged, broken sobs, her lungs straining as her body fought against the magic. It felt as if her very soul was being rewritten into her bones, each line a spark of power that pushed her closer to the brink.
And then, amidst the pain, a cold fire ignited, a deep surge of magic welling up from her core. It roared within her, a primal power, dark and uncontained, surging forward as if released from a cage, like a beast was breaking through her ribs.
The cellar quaked, the floor cracking beneath her feet, as if centuries’ worth of her magic erupted outwards in a violent, unyielding wave.
Vivienne and her father—their screams were swallowed by the dark energy that tore through the room. Their faces twisted in terror, mouths open in silent agony as the force ripped into them. The energy seemed to tear them apart from the inside, their bodies convulsing before being reduced to nothing more than a spray of blood and bone fragments, painting the cellar walls in grotesque patterns.
There was no time for them to comprehend what was happening. One moment they were there, the next, they were gone.
Sin collapsed to her knees, her body convulsing, every nerve alive with excruciating pain. Her hands slammed against the cold stone, her fingers splayed as if to anchor herself. Her vision darkened at the edges, narrowing to a tunnel as her consciousness teetered. She bit down on her lip, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth as she fought to endure the agony, her body trembling uncontrollably.
Her flesh, or what remained of it, hung loosely, her hair burnt away in patches, and her vision was half-blurred—one eye a gaping, empty socket. But amidst the agony, there was something else—something powerful, dangerous—coursing through her. Her magic, untamed and dark, flooded her veins.
With great effort, she rose, her legs trembling beneath her. She stared at the cellar door, and with half a thought, it burst open. The air around her vibrated, and she moved forward, her steps uneven but filled with purpose.
Upstairs, her stepsisters screamed. They had seen her—patches of burned skin hanging loosely, raw muscle exposed beneath, her hair reduced to charred clumps, and the empty socket where her eye used to be, a dark hollow that seemed to swallow all light. She was the twisted, grotesque thing that emerged from the cellar. They fled, their terror a distant echo in Sin’s ears, their previous laughter now replaced by horror.
Sin barely paid them any mind. She stumbled through the house, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through her broken body. The glass slippers lay abandoned, and she left them where they were—they had served their purpose, and nearly gotten her killed.
She needed to get away. Magnolia—she needed Magnolia.
Outside, the night air was like ice on her scorched skin, her every breath sharp and ragged. She pushed forward, her feet raw against the ground, her vision blurring with each agonizing step. Her destination—Magnolia’s cottage—was the only thought that kept her moving, the only beacon in a world filled with pain.
When she finally arrived, she collapsed against the door, her energy spent. Magnolia’s gasp of horror was immediate, her eyes filling with tears at the sight of Sin. She moved quickly, pulling her inside, beginning to gather ointments, her hands shaking.
“Sin,” Magnolia whispered, her voice cracking, “what have they done to you?”
