Catherine Breeze jolted out of the dark like a bird flushed from thorns, curling up like a leaf in frost.

Since the Demon King seized her, sleep had been a mirage over hot sand, always out of reach.

She flinched for chains and barbs, bracing for iron vines and biting thistles.

Instead, a quilt like a warm cloud and a bed like soft earth let her tuck herself small and safe.

“Where… is this?”

“You’re awake?”

A gentle woman’s voice drew her back like spring water rinsing dust from stone.

Another one who’ll coax my heart open?

When I accept, when I trust, when I dare to love… you’ll be slaughtered by the Demon King like a flower cut at dawn.

Once, the first Catherine would’ve bolted or struck while the gate stood ajar like a careless hinge.

Now she had no spark left to fight; only ash clung like old snow.

Every escape had ended in the Demon King’s cold snicker, like a spectator amused by a clown on a stage.

In the end, blood-caked Catherine was chained again by the monster with the glaive, dragged back like a carcass hauled through mud.

Those who had trusted her—those who planned to flee with her—lay as husks beside her, rotting like fallen fruit.

A different, almost-kind Demon King had said her heart was worn thin like old leather, a well gone dry of tears.

Still, at least it hadn’t cracked; the vessel hadn’t shattered into despair.

When gentle arms gathered her, she felt calm float up like embers, felt warmth pool like sunlight on stone.

“Easy. You’re home now.”

“…”

Catherine tried to speak, mouth opening and closing like a fish stranded on shore, yet no sound rose from the dry reeds of her throat.

She didn’t cry; the other girl’s brows knotted instead, sorrow pooling like rain in a shallow bowl.

“Has she been tortured past her senses? Can this be mended?”

“No… what am I…”

“Great! You’re not completely broken! That bastard will save you!”

“Wait… what happened…”

Mid-sentence, her throat scraped like sandpaper; the well was empty, and coughing racked her like a storm.

“Don’t rush. Slow down. Here—water.”

Real water, clear as glass, not the filth laced with blood and mud she’d been forced to drink in chains.

“Mm… mm…”

“Don’t worry. You’re safe. Easy, easy.”

The girl patted her back like smoothing ruffled feathers, fingers combing her dark-silver hair, ragged where the Demon King had torn it like rough wind through canvas.

But it’s fine, she thought, things can still grow back like spring grass.

—Probably. After all, we’re still the Demon King’s “property,” birds with tags—though the current Demon King isn’t the worst storm to fly under.

When Catherine steadied, she finally studied the girl who cared for her.

First impression: slender, like willow branches; second: gentle, like dusk light on a lake.

She had gleaming gold hair and gray eyes like clouded steel.

—The signature of House Colonna.

“I… should call you… Your Highness?”

“Haha.” The laugh had a bite at its edge, a self-mockery like a chipped mirror. “What a funny child. No one’s called me that in years. Oh, that bastard doesn’t count—he says it to sneer.”

“How could that be…”

“Call me Sisi. There’s no need to drag out my old name. I’m no longer any empire’s princess. Don’t be timid. Here, we’re the same.”

This time the smile bent bitter, like tea left to cool.

Sisi tapped Catherine’s small head, rose, and poured another cup from the bedside jug, the water shining like a clear stream.

“We’re ‘relief tools,’ ‘slaves,’ ‘property,’ not ‘human’—on paper, anyway. In practice, it’s far better than where you were. I want to drag you to talk to that bastard right now, but Miss Vega says he’s busy, buried like a smith at the forge.”

For now, you’ll sleep with me.

Hands on hips, Sisi declared it like a playful edict, a banner in a quiet room.

——————

Too weak to stand, Catherine lay in bed for days, sleeping like a field after harvest.

Sisi handled everything like a steady nurse in a storm—changing dressings, helping her to the latrine, cleaning pus from wounds, wiping sweat like dew from leaves.

Sometimes Catherine saw Sisi with a basin, politely refusing help from a retainer with a pair of horns sprouting like antlers.

A warrior’s instinct told Catherine Sisi could be trusted; the scent of kindness clung to her like sunlight on linen.

When the Demon King had ripped Catherine’s wings away, the roots festered like rot in an old stump; Sisi frowned and pared the dead flesh away, bit by bit, like pruning blight from a tree.

Day by day, Catherine’s spirit rose as her body knit, her senses sharpening again like a bowstring drawn taut.

Sisi was not “just another ordinary person,” as she claimed; when she picked out shattered bone from the wing-roots, her hands were decisive as a knife through rope.

Not quite practiced, but never hesitant, never shy—more battlefield survival than clinic grace.

“Sisi, your potions—where do they come from?”

One day during the usual dressing change, Catherine lay prone like a cat in a sunbeam, voice calm by effort.

Her mind had steadied, not healed; she remembered the shape of who she once was and wore it like borrowed armor.

Sisi didn’t notice; she only brightened like a lantern lit, then fretted that Catherine’s stiff tone meant dislike, her mood see-sawing like a kite in fickle wind.

She secretly preferred the timid, clingy version, the way a gardener loves sprouts as much as blooms.

“Of course the bastard’s retainers bring them, plenty and to spare. Is the effect bad? I’ll go yell at them right now!”

“No, not that. It’s just… aren’t we ‘slaves’? Kept here like house pets behind glass.”

“Nope. Wait—haha, you didn’t really think we were locked in this giant birdcage, did you?”

Sisi looked up. It was, in fact, a huge birdcage, maybe fifty square meters, big enough for bed, wardrobe, desk—the whole nest.

“Isn’t that the point? High-grade enchantments around it to prevent escape, so the bars are wide.”

“The enchantments are mosquito repellent, per that bastard, like a summer charm. As for the cage shape, he calls it interior décor.”

“…”

Sisi slid off the bed, dragged it with a grunt to a particular angle, then walked into Catherine’s line of sight.

She reached out and opened the birdcage door with a simple click, like a window unlatched to morning.

“See? We’re not imprisoned. We can carry knives, keep personal belongings. If there are no guards posted, we can wander the Demon King Castle.”

“But… aren’t we the Demon King’s property?”

“Key point. That bastard never spelled it out. I’m guessing the scythe-wielding Demon King gifted you to the current one like a grim bouquet.”

That matched Catherine’s own shadowed guess, a puzzle piece fitting with a soft snap.

“Why treat us well?”

That was the heart of it, the stone at the river’s center.

She hadn’t understood the scythe-bearer either; maybe it was sport to him, flies in a jar.

Sometimes his retainers looked tired, like men trudging through winter with wet boots.

Why not simply die? She had wept until the well ran dust, yet endured, never asking for the mercy of a blade.

She knew, dim as dusk, that the scythe Demon King wanted her to kneel.

What about here?

What does this new Demon King want to carve into her?

“Sisi.”

“What is it? Does something hurt?”

“Kill me.”

“Why the sudden—”

“Please. Kill me.”

“No—hey, what happened—”

“I can’t trust myself to hold on. Kill me, let me die as a human, please.”

Sisi lifted a fist, anger flaring like a struck match, then saw the ruin of skin and let it gutter out.

She sighed, a long wind through reeds, unclenched her hand, and ruffled Catherine’s hair, now returning to silver-white like frost returning to grass.

“If you really want to die, that bastard probably won’t stop you. Still, meet him first. When you’re healed, I’ll go with you.”

“Now—”

“No. Lie down. I’ll change your dressings, and then…” Sisi bit down hard, jaw set like a locked gate. “Then I’ll tell you my story.”