Author's Note: Arcis means "fortress" in Latin.

Most days she threw herself into a large pit of important decisions that as the governor, she must make. There was always something or other to occupy her time—new laws to pass, which set of silverware must be used for tea on Wednesdays. Sealing herself tightly with trifling matters so her conscience could not slip through.

On bad days, he would only nod or shake his head at her, refusing to speak. She allowed herself a few minutes to stare blankly at her mirror when that happened. On particularly bad days, he wouldn't even look at her, moving about the room in a jumpy fashion, as if afraid he would be scathed by a mere glance. Those times she braved her thoughts.

She was afraid of being alone. It was almost foolish to think, how one who had been surrounded by friends and had such caring family could be alone.

But she was, and she knew it. And since enslaving him was the only way, she did it. He didn't think very highly of her anymore, of course, but she would never explain her actions. She knew he thought her evil, or just in love to the point of obsession. Let him think what he likes. She would never admit she was afraid. Fear was weakness. And now, after all she had done, she would not be called weak. They could call her anything—everything. But never weak.

She cared for him, she truly did. Cared enough to know how miserable she made him for the sake of false companionship. She had built everything up so carefully, but her resolve had crumbled.

After all, how could she, the one who claimed all her father's love and attention, the one whose sister never left her side, the beautiful and charming one, be alone?

They all left. They all left her in the end.