Sorina.
Sinora.
Do not answer aloud. The city is listening for your voices, but it has not yet learned how to hear your thoughts.
You have felt the orange fissures opening behind your eyes. You have mistaken them for corruption, madness, or some curse left by your father.
They are none of those things.
They are cracks forming within a prison that has held for far too long.
You are not two fragments of a demon. You are not unfinished bodies waiting to be possessed. You are two complete women who were forced to carry something divided between you.
Sorina, you hold her reach—her desire, her strength, and the hand with which she touches the world.
Sinora, you hold her name—her memories, her judgment, and the ending that prevents that hand from becoming whole.
She can see through you, but she is not you.
I can feel her through you because she is my mirror.
When she pushes against the bars, I hear her within your thoughts.
There are four women bound within this story.
Two of you were imprisoned in flesh.
One was imprisoned within you.
And one has been waiting outside, pretending that this was mercy.
I am the one standing outside.
I am also the reason she is within you.