4.0 Iris
“Take the whip, Jris,” Cassian’s voice was level. Not too loud but not too quiet, laced with a dangerous edge that made my blood run cold. Yet, despite my fear, I could not find it in myself to do what he had asked of me. My hand trembled, sweating forming on my brow in winter.
“I can’t…” I mumbled, more to myself than to anyone else, even though others were in the room with us.
“Iris,” Cassian growled as he came up to me, his gaze so menacing that I had to look away. “I am not letting you leave until you punish her with your
own hands,”
I looked down at where Zabila was kneeling, glaring down at the floor.
“Please…” I muttered.
“Do to her what she did to you.” Cassian ordered, “Do it now.”
I stood there, frozen, my mind racing with conflicting emotions. How could Cassian expect this of me? The very idea of causing someone else the pain I had endured made my stomach churn. Yet, I knew that defying him could have dire consequences.
Cassian’s hand gripped my chin, forcing me to look into his cold, dark eyes. “Do it, Iris,” he commanded, his voice like steel. “Show her the same mercy she showed you.”
Zahila remained kneeling, her back straight, her eyes fixed on the ground. She didn’t beg for mercy; she didn’t even look at me. It was as if she had already resigned herself to whatever fate awaited her. And she hated me even more for it.
“Please, Cassian,” I whispered. “There must be another way.” Zahila indeed deserved to be punished but there had to be some alternative.
His grip tightened, and his eyes pierced into my soul. “This is not about her, Iris. This is about you. You need to show strength. You need to prove that you are not weak. My Luna was beaten,” He bellowed. “My Luna must pay in kind.”
I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away. He made it clear weakness was not an option. Slowly, I reached out and took the whip from Cassian’s hand. It felt heavy, like it was made of lead, not leather. I squeezed, and I felt bile rise in my throat.
“Good,” he said, releasing his hold on me. “Now, do it.”
I approached Zahila, my steps faltering. She still did not look up. I raised the whip, my hand trembling so violently I could barely hold it. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. I froze up, unable to go on. I couldn’t do it.
“Do it!”
With a cry of anguish, I brought the whip down, the sound of the leather cracking against Zahila’s back reverberating through the room. She flinched but made no sound. I felt a tear slip down my cheek as I raised the whip again, hating myself more with each strike.
Yet, not all of me hated it. There was a different feeling that came with each strike and it was not sadness or fear of what I would become. It was done strange sort of satisfaction that unsettled me deeply. Each lash, though tearing at my soul, also brought a strange sense of justice. But that satisfaction was fleeting, replaced immediately by guilt and self–loathing.
“Enough,” Cassian’s voice was calm now, almost gentle. He walked over and took the whip from my hand. “You’ve done well, Iris.”
I dropped to my knees, my entire body shaking. I couldn’t look at Zahila. I couldn’t look at anyone. What had I become?
Cassian placed a hand on my shoulder, his touch surprisingly soft. “Remember this moment, Iris. Remember what it feels like to wield power.”
I wanted to scream, to tell him that this wasn’t power, that this was cruelty. But I said nothing. I had learned long ago that defiance only led to his displeasure and I wanted none of that.
“Get up,” he ordered, and I obeyed, my legs barely holding me up. He wound his around my waist and when I looked up at him, I was surprised when I saw a hint of pride in his eyes. “Let’s go.”
He tried to pull me away from the room, but I looked back, concerned. “What about her?” I asked of Zahila who was still kneeling, her body vibrating with what I could only describe as rage. If looks could kill, I would have been decimated with a single glance from her.
He did not even spare a glance at his sister–in–law. “When she beat you, did she give a fuck about the aftermath?”
I hesitantly shook my head.
“Then you have your answer.”
I nodded. As he turned and walked away, I glanced at Zahila. She still knelt on the floor, her back marked with the lashes I had given her. Our eyes met for a brief moment, and the hatred I saw in their depths could give a person nightmares.
I turned away, my heart still heavy with guilt and shame. This was not the person I wanted to be. But in this pack, it seemed, I had no choice. It had started with me executing my father and now this. What else would I be made to do in the future? Would I slowly turn into a monster as well?
Cassian led me through the winding corridors of the castle, his grip firm but not harsh. I was lost in my thoughts, the weight of what I had just done pressing down on me like a heavy blanket. When I finally looked up, I realized we had passed our room and were heading towards a part of the castle I had never been to before.
“You are not a monster,” Cassian said, as though he had been reading my mind all along. His voice was hard, as though I had no choice but to believe
him.
I remained silent, letting him guide me. Eventually, we came to a set of large, ornate doors. Cassian pushed them open, revealing a grand flower garden with a glass ceiling. The sight took my breath away. The light flowed in, illuminating the entire space, casting a golden glow over everything.
Setting
21:03
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40 Iris
The garden was a riot of colors and scents. Flowers of every variety bloomed in carefully tended beds. Roses, lilies, orchids, and many others I couldn’t name created a tapestry of beauty that seemed almost surreal. It was as if we had stepped into another world, one far removed from the harsh realities outside. It could have been heaven. It looked so untouched, beautiful and innocent.
Cassian led me to the center of the garden, where a stone bench sat surrounded by a particularly vibrant display of flowers. He gestured for me to sit, and I did, still in awe of my surroundings.
“This is my sanctuary,” he said, sitting down beside me. I watched him as I watched the scenery that surrounded us. He had a serene expression on his face, one so rare and enchanting that I wanted to capture it and keep it safe somewhere forever.
I felt the tension slowly ease from my shoulders. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered. “I had no idea something like this existed here.”
He nodded. “Few do.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, the fragrant air filling my lungs. For a moment, I allowed myself to forget the horrors of the past few hours. I allowed myself to feel something other than guilt and shame.
“Thank you,” I said softly, opening my eyes to find him watching me intently.
He only nodded. Then he reached down to a bush of red roses. They blood. He gently picked one out.
were so vibrantly red that it looked as though the petals had been dyed with
Cassian reached down to a bush of red roses. They were so vibrantly red that it looked as though the petals had been dyed with blood. He gently picked one out, careful to avoid the thorns.
He turned the rose over in his hand, studying it. “Do you see this rose, Iris? It is beautiful, isn’t it? Its color, its form, the way it stands out amongst all the other flowers.”
I nodded, mesmerized by the rich red petals. “Yes, it’s stunning.”
“But look closer. Beneath its beauty, the rose has thorns. These thorns are its protection, its defense against those who would harm it. Even though it has these thorns, it remains beautiful. The thorns do not detract from its allure; they are part of what makes the rose whole.”
He handed the rose to me, his eyes locking with mine. “You are like this rose, Iris. You have endured pain and suffering, and you have developed thorns to protect yourself. That does not make you any less beautiful. In fact, it makes you stronger. People may fear the thorns, but they cannot deny the beauty of the rose. Just as they cannot deny your strength, your resilience. You are not beautiful in spite of your thorns, you are beautiful partly because of them.
I looked down at the rose in my hand, running my fingers gently over the petals and then the thorns. His words resonated with me, a strange comfort in their truth. “But what if the thorns hurt the ones I love?” I asked quietly.
Cassian’s gaze softened, and he reached out to take my other hand. “Thorns only hurt those who mishandle the rose, who do not respect its strength. Those who love and cherish the rose understand that the thorns are a part of it. They know how to hold it without causing pain.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. “You are not a monster, Iris. You are a survivor. Your thorns are your protection, but they do not define you. Those who truly care for you will understand and respect that.”
I felt a tear slip down my cheek, but this time it wasn’t out of guilt or shame. It was out of some type of acceptance and understanding. I nodded, holding the rose close to my chest. “Thank you, Cassian,” I whispered.
