Margarett sat before the fireplace, her trembling hands clutching the ancient spellbook that had been at the center of all her actions until now. The firelight cast flickering shadows across her weary face, its warmth unable to reach the cold emptiness growing inside her. Each page she turned whispered to her, beckoning her into the abyss. But this time, the voice was weaker, more distant. As if it were fading.
She took a deep breath, letting the silence of the room engulf her. The doubt she had long avoided now crept in without warning. *"What have I done?"* she whispered to herself. Her free hand touched her forehead, as if trying to comprehend the weight of the burden she now carried. The image of the hero—the fiancé she had once admired and loved—haunted her thoughts.
Her fingers moved unconsciously, tightening around the pages of the book. Then, in a single sharp motion, she began tearing them out, one by one. The sound of ripping paper shattered the stillness, each tear feeling like she was stripping away pieces of herself. A symbol of the choices she could no longer take back.
When the last page was torn, Margarett rose slowly. Her body felt heavier, but she knew what had to be done. She gathered the torn pages and threw them into the crackling fire. The flames flared brightly for a moment, devouring the ancient texts with an almost insatiable hunger. Wisps of smoke curled into the air, carrying the scent of burning parchment—strangely reminiscent of farewell.
Margarett stared into the fire, unblinking, her dull eyes reflecting the turmoil within. As the last fragments of the pages turned to ash, she felt empty, as though part of her had been consumed along with them. Yet beneath the emptiness, there was a faint, fleeting relief—a small step away from the chaos she had created.
But her work was not yet finished. Her gaze shifted toward the cloth-draped shape in the corner of the room. Beneath that fabric lay the hero's body—a corpse she had never buried.
Margarett moved toward it, each step heavier than the last. Kneeling, she pulled back the cloth and stared at the face she once knew so well. Pale, lifeless, yet still carrying echoes of memories she refused to acknowledge.
Carefully, she lifted the body and carried it outside, to the small forest behind the castle. The night was eerily silent, accompanied only by the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. She dug with her bare hands, her frail fingers scraping against roots and rocks buried deep in the soil.
When the grave was finally deep enough, she lowered the hero's body into the earth, then slowly covered him once more. She did not speak, did not weep—just stared blankly at the fresh mound of dirt before her. But somewhere within, she felt a strange sense of quiet, though it was not enough to erase the rage simmering in her heart.
As she turned to leave, something called her back. A strange pull she could not ignore. That night, she returned to her chamber. Her exhausted body craved rest, but something else—something stronger—urged her to dig through the remnants of her past.
Her trembling hands sifted through the ashes of the burned pages. Among the charred remains, something stood out—an untouched scrap of paper. The writing on it was clear, unscathed by the fire, as if it had been waiting for her to find it:
*"Forgive me, Margarett."*
She froze, her breath hitching as tears welled up in her eyes. Her fingers brushed against the paper, hesitant, as though disbelieving its existence. The first tear fell, darkening the parchment. But with it, something else stirred inside her. A vengeance that refused to die.
With hands still damp from her tears, Margarett reached for the small shovel resting in the corner of the room. She returned to the hero's grave, but this time, she did not stop at his.
One by one, she unearthed other graves—ones hidden in the dark history of this castle. Secrets buried beneath years of silence, waiting to be exposed. And with each grave she opened, the truth clawed its way closer to the surface.
But everything felt the same—drenched in suffering and betrayal. Margarett did not know what she sought beneath the dirt, yet every handful of earth she pulled away seemed to draw her closer to the truth. Perhaps the truth of this world. Perhaps the truth of herself.
By the time she unearthed the final grave, dawn had begun to break over the horizon. Soft morning light filtered through the trees, illuminating her dirt-streaked face and tear-stained cheeks. She collapsed among the opened graves, her body heavy, her soul exhausted.
Margarett gazed up at the sky, as if searching for an answer that would never come. Yet, beneath all the fatigue, her anger still burned—deeper, stronger than before.
*"I won't stop,"* she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if swearing an oath to herself. *"I won't stop until this world pays for everything it has done."*