text: (WP) Retribution She’d spent her entire life in pursuit of revenge, to get even with those who had wronged her. The palace was burning around her, and she couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the chaos she had wrought. Smoke clogged the air, thick and black, and the screams of the wounded and dying were like music in her ears. “How could you do this?!” Before she could so much and turn around and look at the speaker, she was tackled from behind, and they both hit the floor; she only just avoided cracking her head on the white marble. It was her younger sister, and tears were running down her face. “You’ve destroyed everything!” “You destroyed me first!” The words roared their way out of Viola’s chest, as raw and sharp as broken glass. How many days had she spent in this very room, wishing she was somewhere, someone, else? Her hands met her sister’s chest, and she tried to push her off, even as her sister’s hands went to her throat and squeezed. For the first time since the fire started, Viola was afraid she was going to die. And at her sister’s hands. She gripped her sister’s wrists and squeezed, fighting against the darkness that threatened to pull her under. She’d worked too hard for too long to not see her revenge realized. “You made me do this, all of you,” She whispered, and her sister let go. She shoved her off, growling. They’d never understood her, never tried. She’d always been the odd one out. “Nobody ever wanted you anyway!” The world narrowed to her sister, sprawled on the floor, and as if she was watching herself from outside, she saw herself pull out a dagger. “Take that back, or I will make you pay.” “You couldn’t just take your exile with grace, as usual, you had to throw a tantrum!” “SHUT UP!” Viola shrieked, rounding on her sister. She brought the knife down, but her sister dodged the blow, their training kicking in, and Viola screamed her fury to the ceiling. Even the roar and pop of the fire couldn’t completely muffle the sound of her rage. “You were supposed to die, anyway. Father wanted you left on a mountain. Mother didn’t let him; she only saved you out of pity, and fear of the gods.” A film of red descended over Viola’s eyes; the knife in her hand trembled violently. Everything she’d ever suspected and feared to be true was confirmed in her sister’s statement. She had a knife in her hand, their home was burning around them, yet she felt like a mouse before a cat: helpless. “I’m not sorry,” Viola said, pleased that her voice did not tremble. “You drove me to this, all of you, when you sent me away.” “Father never should have shown you mercy, sister mine. He should’ve just had you executed.” Her sister laughed again, and Viola decided that if she died in pursuit of retribution, it didn’t matter. She approached her sister, spinning the knife in her hand. “Get up, and let’s finish this, sister.