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Aoife-Clíodhna had been gone for days before Ail even touched the golden award.
She didn't say goodbye.
No final bow. No closing act. She simply vanished.
Her room, now Ail's, still bore the ghost of her presence. Her costumes hung untouched, her notes scrawled across the walls in perfect cursive, her perfume lingering in the velvet of the armchair. No one had packed her things. Maybe they never would. Maybe the crew thought it respectful. A shrine, perhaps. A memoir.
How pointless.
After the party, long after the champagne had dried on their skin and the congratulations faded into a hum of useless noise, Ail slipped away. No one noticed them leave. No one dared stop them as they made their way toward the dressing room that was now theirs by right.
The lights flickered as they entered. A dusty gold glow stretched over the vanity and the racks of gowns, casting long, delicate shadows. The room felt like it had been holding its breath.
Ail didn't hesitate.
They moved through it like a storm. Their hands ripped the photos off the walls—those glossy prints of Aoife-Clíodhna beaming in ballgowns, drenched in fake starlight, adored by everyone. Ail tore them with brutal precision, letting the scraps fall like feathers. Some they crushed under their heel.
How dare she run. How dare she disappear like a coward while Ail stood tall before the world.
They turned to the far wall where a single dress hung—one Aoife had worn in her most iconic performance. The golden gown shimmered softly in the dimness, the silk catching the light like trapped fire. Ail approached it slowly, heels echoing on the marble tile. They reached out, fingers trembling, and picked it up.
It was warm. Still warm, somehow. Or maybe that was just Ail.
They pressed it to their face and inhaled deeply.
Sour.
Faintly floral, yes, but with that acidic edge of fear. Of running. Of regret.
Ail imagined standing before her, draped in that very dress, just as the world called out their name. Imagined her smile fading, her breath catching, the scent of her turning bitter in panic, sweet confidence decaying to something sharp and rotten.
Ail wanted it.
They wanted that moment.
They wanted to win, again.
They traced the embroidery with delicate care. Pearls dotted the collar like dried tears. The silk was heavy, tailored for someone softer, someone more adored. Someone who hadn't earned it.
Now, it was theirs.
No one would ever see Aoife-Clíodhna in it again. No one would watch it cling to her skin, see it twist around her body as she bowed. She was gone. Her stage belonged to Ail now.
"How enraging," they muttered, voice tight. "How easy it was for her."
The industry buzzed with theories, hungry for scandal. Some said she had eloped with a foreign prince. Others whispered of disgrace, of secrets buried beneath glamour. None of them knew.
But Ail did.
She had quit.
She had walked away from everything. From applause. From adoration. From the games and the politics, the cruelty, the glory.
She had left everything Ail had fought and bled for.
And for what?
Peace?
The thought made Ail's stomach twist. They opened the jewelry box on the vanity. Rings, hairpins, bracelets, a forest of gold. Their fingers hovered before settling on a pair of delicate star-shaped earrings.
They clipped them on.
Then, slowly, they turned to the mirror.
The reflection that stared back wore Aoife-Clíodhna's crown. The dress, the jewels, the quiet poise. But the eyes—they weren't hers.
They were cold. Unreadable. Void of sweetness.
Ail had won.
And still… something pulled at them.
Did she leave because she wanted to be free?
No.
She left because she was weak.
Ail gritted their teeth.
Weak and selfish. That's all it was. She had no right to vanish. No right to abandon the stage like a discarded costume. No right to leave the weight of her legacy for someone else to shoulder.
Ail would carry it.
They would wear the dress. They would take the applause meant for her. They would become something more than she ever was.
And yet, as they stood there, draped in gold and silence, a single thought whispered in their mind—
Why did it still feel like they had lost?