Chapter 356: Flashback

Third-person POV

Little Electra stood in the middle of Queen Jella’s roof, small and stiff and trying very hard not to cry. She had learned, over the years, that tears only made things worse. Tears made Jella look at her with more disgust, like she was something scraped off the bottom of a boot. Tears also made Jella angry enough to throw things that did hit their mark.

And tonight was one of those nights.

Jella staggered a little as she moved, her silk gown hanging unevenly across her shoulders, her eyes sharp but glassy from the wine she always drank before she let herself unravel. The queen of Elmeria was known to her people as a graceful, disciplined woman, elegant and composed, but Electra knew the other side of her, the bitter, furious, hateful side that always came out when she had taken more than a few glasses.

“You stand there like you’re innocent,” Jella snapped, pointing a finger at Electra like she was accusing a criminal. “Like you’re not exactly what you are.”

Electra swallowed. Her throat hurt, and as always, she didn’t answer.

“An abomination,” Jella hissed. “That’s what you are, a useless reminder of what that wretched phoenix woman did to my marriage.”

As much as she hated it, Electra had heard the same words repeated to her over and over again, with Jella reminding her that her real mother had been a phoenix, King Vale’s lover, and that she had died after giving birth to Electra. The entire kingdom believed Jella was her birth mother because Jella had made sure of that, and she never failed to remind Electra at all times.

“I’m sure you can see it, can’t you?” Jella went on, pacing, her steps uneven. “You see the way the maids look at you, like you’re something cursed, like something that shouldn’t exist.”

Electra kept her eyes on the ground. She was thirteen, so she was old enough to understand every insult, every threat, and every cold look. She was also old enough to know exactly what Jella meant when she used the words “that phoenix woman.” And old enough to understand that Jella had been drinking more heavily than usual tonight, which meant the whole thing was going to get much, much worse.

“You’re the daughter of a homewrecker,” Jella spat. “That creature ruined everything. She threw herself at my husband, using her feathers, her tricks, and her seduction. Filthy beast.”

Electra’s fingers tightened into small fists at her sides. She didn’t exactly know her mother, but something in her chest always squeezed painfully whenever Jella talked about her like that. As if a part of her, maybe the phoenix part, remembered being loved, even if Electra didn’t.

Jella caught the movement. “Oh? Are you angry?” she taunted. “Do you want to defend her? Go on. Say something.”

Electra stayed silent.

The queen let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Of course. You’re too weak to speak, just like she was weak enough to die for a man who never even claimed her publicly.”

That, more than anything else, made Electra’s heart drop. Her father, King Vale, had always been distant with her. He didn’t hate her, but he loved her in that detached, polite way people love things they don’t quite understand. He was at least kind enough not to hit her, not to insult her, but he didn’t protect her either, and Jella made sure Electra never forgot that.

“You listen to me,” Jella said, stepping closer. Electra could smell the wine on her breath. “Your life is in my hands. Do you understand that? Everything you have, every breath you take, this palace, this protection, it’s all because of me.”

Electra’s chest tightened as the queen leaned down just a little, her eyes narrowing.

“And the sooner you realize that you will never be loved, wanted, or valued in this kingdom, the better it will be for you.”

That one hit harder than any slap could.

Electra didn’t flinch externally, but her stomach twisted painfully. She tried to remind herself that this was the alcohol talking. That tomorrow morning, Jella would pretend none of this happened. She always did, but the words stayed anyway.

They always did.

The queen straightened and began to pace again, muttering curses under her breath, her voice growing harsher as the wine numbed whatever restraint she might have had left. Electra watched her quietly, like she always did, waiting for the moment things escalated, and they did.

Jella reached for one of the decorative vases on the shelf, an expensive glass piece Electra had always admired, and without warning, she hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall so loudly Electra jumped back, her heart slamming against her ribs.

“Clumsy little monster!” Jella shouted, though Electra hadn’t moved or spoken. “Always ruining things! Always reminding me of the thing your father loved more than his own wife!”

Electra breathed slowly, trying not to shake. She knew better than to respond. She knew what came next.

The throwing would continue, another object, this time a silver hand mirror, flew in her direction. Electra ducked quickly, and the edge grazed her shoulder, thankfully not enough to wound her.

Her breath hitched, and unfortunately for her, her luck wouldn’t hold for long.

Jella’s chest heaved in anger as she scanned the room for what to throw next. Electra tried to take tiny steps backward toward the door, hoping, praying, that maybe Jella would let her slip out this time, but the queen’s eyes landed on her again, and the rage in them sharpened into something else. Something Electra feared more than the objects flying at her.

The shift happened suddenly, like a dark curtain falling over Jella’s face. Her voice dropped and turned cold and disgustingly calm.

“Take it off.”

Electra froze. Her stomach dropped to her knees, and her fingers went numb. No, not this, not the three words she hated more than any insult.

“Take. It. Off.” Jella repeated slowly, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

Electra swallowed hard, her throat tight. “Mother… please—”

“Don’t you dare beg,” Jella snapped. “You think your pleas mean anything to me? You’re nothing but a stain on my life, living proof of his betrayal, and stains… stains need to be scrubbed clean.”

Electra’s heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst from her chest. She knew what those words meant. She had heard them before, in the darkest nights when Jella’s rage twisted into something uglier, something that left Electra feeling filthy and broken long after the queen had sobered and pretended to forget.

It wasn’t the first time, and the familiarity only made her fear much worse, like a knife dragged slowly across skin.

Her hands trembled as they rose to the laces of her simple nightgown, the thin fabric the only barrier between her and the queen’s cruel gaze. Tears welled in her eyes, hot and uncontrollable, spilling over despite her desperate efforts to hold them back. She blinked rapidly, but they kept coming.

“Please,” Electra whispered, her voice barely audible. “Mother, I’ll be good. I promise. Don’t make me…”

Jella’s laugh was low and venomous, devoid of any warmth. She stepped closer, the scent of wine heavy, her fingers twitching as if eager to rip the garment away herself if Electra delayed. “Good? You? Don’t insult me with your lies. You’re just like her, a seductive little beast hiding under that innocent face. Take it off, or I’ll do it for you, and you know how much worse that would be.”

Electra’s sobs broke free then, quiet and choking, as her fingers fumbled with the knots. The laces came undone one by one, her movements slow and reluctant, each tug a surrender she hated herself for.

Fear coiled in her belly like a living thing, twisting tighter with every inch of exposed skin. The cold air of the room brushed against her collarbone as the gown loosened, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself anywhere else, somewhere safe, and somewhere far from this room.

She shrugged the fabric from her shoulders, letting it slip down her arms, pooling at her elbows. Her body shook with silent cries, tears streaming freely now, soaking her cheeks. Shame burned through her, mingling with the raw terror that made her knees weak. Jella’s eyes raked over her, filled with disgust and something darker, a twisted satisfaction that made Electra want to curl into nothing and disappear.

“That’s it,” Jella murmured, her voice almost a purr now, laced with malice. “Show me what you really are. Filthy and worthless, just like your real mother.”

Electra’s breath came in short, ragged gasps as she let the gown fall further, exposing more of her trembling form. She hugged her arms to her chest, trying to cover herself, but Jella’s sharp command cut through the air.

“Hands down. Let me see the curse you carry.”

The girl obeyed, her sobs growing louder, her body wracked with shudders. The queen circled her slowly, like a predator savoring its prey, her fingers brushing lightly, too lightly, against Electra’s skin in a way that made bile rise in her throat. It wasn’t rough tonight, not yet; Jella preferred this slow unraveling, the kind that left marks no one could see, the kind that haunted dreams.

Electra stood there, exposed and small, crying openly now, her mind screaming for it to end, for someone to burst through the door and stop it, but no one ever did. No one ever would.

The touches lingered, invasive and deliberate, probing at her fragility, reinforcing Jella’s cruel lesson: that Electra was nothing, owned and broken at will, and then, suddenly, the world tilted.

Electra’s eyes snapped open.

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