Chapter7 It was you?

Aria’s POV

The hall was silent enough to hear a feather drop.

Then the projection began to play.

The air rippled, and the ward-screen brightened until the image sharpened. It was the stone chamber I knew too well. The Sauders’ old cellar, the place where I had almost died.

On the screen, Sandra, five years younger, draped in a crimson riding cloak, wrapped her hand in my hair and slammed my head against a rusted pipe. Blood spilled down my lashes like red rain.

“You filthy girl,” she spat at the version of me on the ground. “You stole eighteen years of my life. You should’ve died, Aria!”

She struck me again and again.

My younger self collapsed like a limp rag, her back a raw mess of open wounds and torn flesh. Sandra lifted a crocodile-skin whip and cracked it through the air.

“Go to hell!”

My younger self screamed curling in on herself, trembling violently. The sound tore through the hall like a blade.

I heard wolves gasp. Someone swore under their breath.

The memory washed over me.

The girl on the screen dragged herself forward, blood mixing with dirt, reaching for the embroidered hem of a noblewoman’s gown.

“Lady Maren… please… please save me,” she sobbed. “You raised me for eighteen years. I’ll be good. I’ll be the best daughter ever. Please…”

Blood mixed with tears on her face. But Lady Maren only wrinkled her nose and stepped back as if the air itself disgusted her.

Fiddling with her bracelet in irritation, she said calmly, “If it weren’t for you, my real daughter wouldn’t have suffered out there for eighteen years. If you care about us at all, let Sandra vent.”

“But she’ll kill me!” I screamed on the screen, voice hoarse with terror.

“Then die,” Lady Maren replied, smooth and emotionless. “As long as my daughter is happy, I don’t care what becomes of you.”

A few wolves gasped in horror.

Lady Maren turned to Sandra with a warm, motherly smile. “Sweetheart, don’t tire yourself out. We still have to take our family portraits later.”

Sandra tossed the whip. “Fine. I’ll finish her off after the photos.”

She took a few steps toward the stairs, then paused and snapped her fingers.

“Oh—I heard salt water disinfects wounds.” She smirked. “Bring a whole bucket of sea salt. Dump it on her.”

A murmur rippled across the hall. Several elders stiffened.

Sandra crouched down, tapping my cheek with her nails.

“She won’t die from it. And I’ll get to keep her longer. Plus…” Her eyes glimmered with delight. “It’ll leave scars. I want her to remember forever that she was born to be my punching bag.”

“No! Please—no!” my younger self cried. “Lady Maren—please stop her!”

Sandra ignored the plea. The butler grabbed my shoulders and pinned me easily to the ground.

Seconds later, a bucket tipped. Salt water crashed over my shredded back.

The scream that ripped from my throat filled Vane Hall. Raw unfiltered agony. Wolves recoiled. A few looked away. The guards who had grabbed me earlier blanched.

On screen, my younger self writhed uncontrollably, back arching, fingers clawing the stone until her nails cracked.

Her voice faded into hoarse gasps as the projection faded.

For several heartbeats, no one breathed.

Lycus stood frozen. His fists were clenched so tightly his claws had pierced his palm. Blood dripped down his wrist.

He had seen me like that once, broken, bleeding, half dead. But he’d never known the full truth. He’d never known it was Sandra who had done it.

His voice was low and dangerous. “It was you?”