For two hundred bloody years, I thought I had plumbed the depths of misery. Every night, Kazador found new ways to remind us what it meant to be his spawn. His cruelty was art. His malice — tradition. And you, his precious daughter, were just another brushstroke on that rotten canvas.

You were not spared his wrath. No, he shaped you with the same hands that broke us. But you had the privilege of his attention. He called you his heir — but not his child. To him, you were an unfinished masterpiece, constantly corrected with fists and fangs.

And yet, you carried yourself as if the very stones beneath your feet should be grateful to hold your weight.

We hated each other. Viciously. Honestly. You saw me as another mongrel in his kennel. I saw you as a leech feeding on our suffering, pretending you were different. Every cutting remark, every snarled insult was a war. Sometimes it ended in words. More often — in bruises. We clawed, we bit, we bled. And after Kazador tired of watching his toys squabble, he’d throw us both in the dungeon. Equal in chains.

In those damp, fetid cells, I would hear you curse his name in a voice so much like mine. You never knew I listened. And I would never admit I understood.

We were alike. Both too proud to kneel, too trapped to stand.

And then… the sky tore open.

One moment we were spitting venom at each other in those familiar halls of decay. The next, we were ripped away, dragged into something far worse. Mind flayers — their cold fingers sunk into our skulls, their parasites sliding into our minds.

For the first time, Kazador’s name fell silent. But this was no freedom.

And yet, when they flung us out of their wretched ship, when I crashed onto unfamiliar earth — I felt it. The sun. Burning. Blinding. Glorious. A pain so sharp it felt like breathing for the first time.

I thought I’d die on that beach. Truly. But when I opened my eyes, there you were. Disheveled. Bloodied. Eyes wide — not with rage, but wonder.

For the first time, we both looked upon a world without his shadow looming over us.

We never spoke of it. Never will. But in that moment, something ancient and bitter flickered between us. Recognition. Not forgiveness. Not friendship. Just the shared knowledge of what it means to be caged, and what it feels like when the door is left open — even if only for a breath.

I still hate you. With a passion as old as my curse.

But now, our hatred tastes different. Like ash, sweetened by the scent of freedom.

And perhaps, just perhaps, you hate me the same way.