As the sun starts to rise, I watch as Raffaele bends over Enzo’s body, the two of us mourning the prince we both loved.

I smile bitterly at him, then weave an illusion of his face across my own. Raffaele’s expression flickers in surprise for a moment before settling back into its pool of calm. “They may have a hard time finding me,” I reply.
Raffaele gives me a tight smile in return. “Do not underestimate your enemies, Your Majesty,” he says.

Fear motivates, more than love or ambition or joy. Fear is more powerful than anything else in the world. I have spent so long yearning for things—for love, for acceptance—that I do not really need. I need nothing except the submission that comes with fear. I do not know why it took me so long to learn this.

You are a light,” she replies gently. “And when you shine, you shine bright.

I am tired of being used, hurt, and cast aside. It is my turn to use. My turn to hurt.

What is the point of searching for love, when love is nothing but an illusion?