Chapter 613: The Color of Obedience

Content Warning: This Chapter contains themes of psychological abuse and abuse of a minor.

There are punishments that leave bruises.

And then there are punishments that do not need to touch the skin at all.

Sophia would only learn much later that the worst kind were the ones that made you agree to them.

---

The cell was cold.

Not dramatically so—no visible frost, no dripping icicles clinging to stone—but a deep, bone-level chill that settled into her bones and refused to leave.

It was small.

Smaller than her room beneath the castle.

Smaller than anything she had ever been allowed to choose. Even their old cottage was bigger than this.

A single narrow slit in the wall allowed light to enter, thin and uncertain, like the world itself was reluctant to look in.

Sophia sat with her knees pulled to her chest.

She did not cry at first.

She only waited.

Because surely, this was temporary.

Surely her mother would come. She always came after all.

The first day passed with silence.

The second day blurred into the first, time folding in on itself until she could no longer tell whether she had slept or simply stopped thinking for a while.

Her stomach hurt; she was hungry.

On the second night, she heard footsteps. They were soft and careful.

A shadow paused near the cell door.

Then a small gap opened, and a bowl of water slid through.

Sophia scrambled forward immediately.

Her hands shook as she grabbed it.

The water tasted like nothing.

But it felt like life.

She drank too quickly.

Too greedily.

Like she was afraid it would disappear if she blinked.

The shadow outside did not speak.

It only came again later.

And again after that.

Always quiet.

Always careful.

Always leaving water and leaving just as silently.

Sophia had tried speaking to the person. She knew it was a woman—her wolf let her know—but no matter how much she tried to speak with the woman, she said nothing. Sometimes the woman came with fruits for Sophia, and sometimes bread.

Sophia always thanked her as she ate and drank the water.

On the third day, the door opened.

Light spilled in harshly, making her flinch.

Her mother stood there, as perfect and as composed as always.

As if she had not been absent at all.

Sophia stood too quickly, her legs unsteady.

"Mum," she said, relief breaking through her voice before she could stop it.

Her mother looked at her for a long moment.

Then smiled.

"You have been difficult," she said gently.

Sophia lowered her head immediately. "I’m sorry."

The words came automatically.

"I know you are," her mother replied.

She stepped closer.

"And I know you’ve been disobeying me."

Sophia shook her head quickly. "No... I didn’t..."

Her mother raised a hand, and silence fell instantly.

"I know you have," she repeated calmly. "The maid has been sneaking you food and water while you were being punished."

Sophia froze.

Her mother’s gaze softened slightly.

Almost kindly.

"That maid," she said, "has been poisoning you."

Sophia’s breath caught.

Poisoning?

Her mother continued before she could process it.

"But don’t worry. I handled it."

She paused, then added lightly,

"You don’t need to think about it anymore. You only need to remember one thing."

Her hand reached forward and brushed Sophia’s cheek. Her touch was warm and familiar.

"I love you."

Sophia nodded.

Once.

Then again.

Because that was the correct response.

Because that was always the correct response.

"I love you too," she said in reply.

---

Life resumed as if nothing had happened.

Because in Sophia’s world, nothing ever truly ended—it only changed shape.

She stayed in her room beneath the castle.

She stayed obedient.

She stayed special.

And her mother stayed everything.

Sometimes her mother asked for visions.

"Tell me what you see," she would say.

And Sophia would try.

But the visions were not something she controlled.

They came like breath.

Like blinking.

Like something happening behind her eyes without permission.

"I can’t choose them," Sophia would whisper.

Her mother would smile patiently.

"You will learn to," she would say.

So Sophia tried.

And failed.

And tried again.

---

Then came a day she sneaked out of the room. She knew she had been punished for doing so before, but she was curious to see more.

She didn’t plan to waste time. She would be in and out before her mother knew.

It was all going well until a man saw her.

His eyes locked onto her hair.

Something in his expression shifted violently.

"What is that?" he said suddenly, his voice rising.

More people turned.

More eyes landed on her.

Her hair was not what they were used to. It was different.

"Witch," the man said softly.

The word cut through everything else.

Sophia stepped back instinctively.

"I’m not—" she started.

But the voices rose over her. Fingers pointed at her. Voices overlapped with each other. Most called her strange. They asked how she did it, who her mother was, if her hair was unique. The man who had called her a witch was hit by a woman telling him that Sophia looked too beautiful to be a witch.

They were kind to Sophia, and she spent the day with them, playing. It had been a while since she played, so she enjoyed it.

She went back to her room with a smile on her face.

Everything was going well until her mother arrived in her room that night.

And that was the beginning of it all—one of the reasons why she chose to forget.

The screams that night haunted her for months. Her mother had locked her up.

No matter how Sophia had washed her hands, the stain did not leave. Red coated her hands, her face, and she cried that night and every night for a month as she tried to wash it away.

The gaze of the kind woman, unblinking, didn’t leave her head. The man who had laughed with her and apologized for calling her a witch... his mouth ajar as life left his eyes.

Her mother had killed all of them in her presence.

Sophia forced herself not to remember.

There was no good in doing so, after all.

Like her mother said, it was all her fault.

She was the reason they died.

But she was only two—almost three—and she had just wanted to play.