Narra

Prologue

As I watch Cercis fidget nervously, I know I have her exactly where I want her. My voice cuts through the tension in the air, smooth and commanding. "Sit," I say, patting the spot beside me, knowing full well she'll obey. She always does.

She hesitates, fear flashing in her eyes, but then she relents and sits down. Good girl.

I offer her a pastry, watching with amusement as her hands tremble so violently that she drops it. Pathetic, really, but also... amusing.

A chuckle escapes my lips as I pick up the fallen treat. "Here, let me." My tone is gentle, almost caring. She tries to refuse, her voice weak, but I shake my head, ignoring her pitiful attempt at defiance.

"Open," I command softly, holding the macaron to her lips. She's shaking, lips quivering, and I steady her face with one hand, forcing her mouth open. She obeys, of course. She always will. My touch is light, tender even, but the power I hold over her is undeniable, and she knows it.

She chews slowly, trying to maintain her composure, but she's trembling. I feel her fear in the way her body reacts to me, and it excites me. I tighten my grip on her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze.

"You're scared," I observe, more to myself than to her.

Her voice is barely a whisper when she asks, "Should I be?"

I tilt my head, studying her like one might study a fragile object. "Only if you give me a reason to be upset." The message is clear: her fate is in my hands.

She swallows hard, nodding like the good, obedient little thing she is. "I won't," she whispers, her voice shaky. "I promise that I won't... Seymour."

"Good," I murmur, feeding her another piece of the macaron. "Then there's nothing to worry about." I lean in closer as she nibbles on the pastry, and without warning, I bite into the other end. The distance between us vanishes, and my lips brush against hers in a calculated move that sends a shiver down her spine. I feel her shock, her revulsion, and I relish it.

Her reaction comes swift—a slap across my face. The sharp sting of it should anger me, but it doesn't. It only amuses me further. She's playing into my hands, just as I'd hoped.

I smile, slow and deliberate. "I deserved that," I say smoothly. "I shouldn't have kissed you without warning. Your lips were just so tempting." My hand reaches out, grazing her hair in a mockingly tender gesture. She's mine, even if she doesn't realize it yet.

I lean back, still watching her closely. "By the way," I begin, as if the slap was nothing, "have you ever wondered why your hair is white?"

She shakes her head, telling me it's always been that way. Such naivety. I sit up, adopting a thoughtful expression. "There's a legend," I say, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "that those born with pure white hair are cursed." I pat the space beside me, inviting her to lie down. She hesitates, but I insist, my voice gentle, coaxing. "Just lay your head on my chest."

She does, of course, her reluctance masked by a weak excuse about her damp hair. I ignore it, pulling her closer, her head resting against my chest.

As I begin spinning a tale about cursed white-haired children and albino animals in the wild, I feel her body relax against me. My hand moves to her hair, stroking it gently as I weave the story, keeping my voice soothing. I can feel her exhaustion, both mental and emotional. She's weak now, pliable. Exactly how I want her.

"Imagine animals in a forest filled with dark greens and browns," I begin, my voice smooth as I stroke her hair. "Those with pure white fur, scales, or skin... They can't hide, can't blend in. They stand out like beacons, vulnerable, exposed."

I pause, letting the words sink in, feeling the slight tremor in her as she listens. "A predator or a hunter can spot them from miles away. Easy targets." My voice drops lower, more sinister. "They have no chance. No cover. The predator strikes swiftly—sometimes killing them instantly, but sometimes... sometimes they don't kill right away."

I feel her tense under my touch, but I continue, relishing the effect my words are having. "Sometimes, the predator toys with them, tortures them, letting their fear build. Drags it out for fun. Imagine being hunted like that. Knowing you're doomed but not knowing when the final blow will come."

I lower my voice to a near whisper. "Those poor creatures... eaten alive, or worse, left to suffer until they beg for death. That's what happens to those who stand out too much. The ones who can't hide."

I gently run my fingers through her hair, the contrast between my soothing touch and the disturbing imagery stark. "White hair, white fur... it's not a gift. It's a curse. It makes you an easy target. And in a world full of predators..." I trail off, letting the silence fill the space before murmuring softly, "You're always being hunted."

Her breathing quickens, but she stays still, powerless under my control. I continue stroking her hair, smiling to myself.

Long long ago...

I hug my legs tightly, curled up in the hollow of this tree, its rough bark pressing against my back. The space feels suffocating, but it's safer in here. At least, I hope it is. My once pure white hair, now filthy, clings to my face in knotted strands. I don't know how long I've been hiding—minutes, hours? I've lost track. But I know why I'm hiding. I'm hiding from him.

I press my forehead against my knees, the coolness of my skin grounding me. Severino. The name sends a shiver through me, a twist of something—fear, sorrow, guilt.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the memory of his face, of how things used to be. Once, I was Narra the Diwata, a being of power and grace, worshipped as a goddess by the people who revered nature. I commanded the elements with a flick of my fingers, spoke to the spirits as easily as breathing. But now...now I'm nothing. My strength is gone. And it's my fault.

"Oh... Severino... my darling..." I whisper under my breath, my voice trembling with the weight of my shame. Severino—he was so kind, so gentle once. So loving. But because of me, because of my doings, he is now—

My thoughts break apart as something cold grazes the back of my neck.

A sharp, vice-like grip tightens around my throat. I gasp, my eyes wide with terror as I try to twist and see who it is, but I don't need to. I know.

"You're so easy to find, Narra," a voice whispers into my ear, low and venomous. His voice.

"Severino..." I manage to croak, my voice weak, cracking like dry leaves underfoot. I try to turn my head, to look at him, to see the man I once knew—the man I loved. But as his hands tighten around my throat, all I see is the monster I created.