Chapter Text
So tell me everything is not about me
But what if it is?
Then say they didn't do it to hurt me
But what if they did?
I wanna snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me
You wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me
Amarantha had been only five years old when she was presented to the King of Hybern. She was just a little girl then, with bright red hair braided down her back that sat in stark contrast to the muted grey of her dress. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, took in the opulence and cruelty around her; the cold, merciless stares of those who would shape her life.
She was only eleven when her mother announced that she was with child again. Both her parents had hoped for a boy but as she snuck into the birthing room and saw her baby sister for the first time, Amarantha began believing that perhaps the Mother really did exist. Her prayers had been answered.
From that day onward, she and Clythia had been thick as thieves. Her sister was the light of her world, the only spark of colour in an otherwise monochromatic existence. When their parents had tried to arrange a marriage for Amarantha, it was Clythia who’d warned her. Who had gone with her to the King of Hybern, pleading that her sister’s talents were better suited elsewhere in the service of his majesty.
She had been right, of course. Amarantha had a natural talent for strategy and command. Her sister had been there the day she was named General. They had been there for each other on the most important days of their lives. On the day Amarantha had come back to Hybern after visiting the Spring Court, only to reveal that her mate was none other than the High Lord’s son, a male barely of age. On the day Hybern declared war on the human lands. On the day her sister had come to her, teary-eyed, clutching a posey of wildflowers, confessing that she had fallen for a human general. That he loved her above all others and she did not care that he was mortal.
And so on the day Clythia died, Amarantha’s heart turned to stone. She found her sister’s body on the battlefield, crucified with ash wood, her limbs scattered like broken toys. The sight shattered something within her. Her cries of grief and rage echoed across the plains, drawing even the most hardened soldiers on both sides to silence.
Amarantha carried Clythia’s body back to the Hybernian camp. She washed her sister’s blood from her skin, braided her hair one last time, and swore vengeance. When the king ordered her to stand down, she ignored him. Her hatred burned too fiercely to be quenched by commands.
Jurian’s death was slow and agonising. Amarantha ensured he suffered as her sister had, and when he finally died, she did not feel relief. Only emptiness.
The war continued, but Amarantha fought with a cold, unyielding fury. She no longer cared for glory or honour. All that mattered was power—the power to ensure that no one could ever hurt her again.
And so, the seeds of her cruelty were sown, watered by blood and tears, and left to bloom in the shadow of her sister’s death.
There was a time she would have scoffed at the idea of letting anyone close. She’d sworn never to love, not after Clythia. Her sister had been the gentlest of them, so full of light and laughter, with a heart far too soft for a world steeped in blood and power. Clythia had trusted blindly, fallen in love recklessly, and paid the price with her life. Amarantha had sworn on that grave, on the memory of her sister’s broken body, that she would never be so foolish, never open herself up to such pain.
For centuries, she had held true to that promise, building walls around herself, wielding her power with ruthless strength. She would take her pleasures as she wished, but her heart would remain cold, unyielding. No one would be allowed to slip through her defences, to see the raw vulnerability that lay hidden beneath.
Then Rhysand had appeared.
At first, she’d seen him as nothing more than a tool, another High Lord to manipulate and bend to her will. She had watched him, wary of his charm and the darkness that lurked in his gaze, knowing how males like him used their power, how they whispered sweet words that turned into daggers when backs were turned.
But he had been relentless, bold enough to look her in the eyes, daring enough to match her every step.
It had thrilled her, that recklessness. For the first time in centuries, someone was not afraid to match her darkness with his own. She’d felt a twisted sense of kinship in him. They were alike, both haunted by shadows, both wielding their power like weapons.
And slowly, carefully, he had chipped away at her walls. He’d proven he could handle her strength, her ambitions, her twisted desires. He hadn’t flinched when she showed him her worst, hadn’t balked when she demanded his loyalty. He had promised her—time and time again—that he was hers, that there was no one else who could stand beside her as he could.
Foolish girl, she’d once chided her sister. You can’t trust him.
But Clythia hadn’t listened. As Amarantha scrabbled back along the cold marble floor of the throne room Under the Mountain, scarlet dress torn at the hem, violet eyes gazing at her with such hatred as Tamlin closed in for the kill, she cursed herself for not listening either.