Velka POV
There are few things more humiliating than watching a magical clone live your life and worse do it badly.
My cell was no grand oubliette, not the gothic, spike-riddled chamber you might expect from a villainous betrayal. No, my prison was an old supply room deep beneath Arcanum, reeking of chalk dust, aged parchment, and the faint, bitter scent of regret. The walls were spelled smooth, the door thick and sealed, but the air was thin enough to breathe and, occasionally, to mutter curses at my jailer with remarkable creativity.
The magical screen shimmered before me a cruel window showing what the clone was doing with my face, my voice, my awkward fondness for Elyzara. Every so often, the image flickered, and I caught a distorted glimpse of Elyzara's uncertain smile or the clone's too-smooth movements.
If I ever got out of here, I was going to file a formal complaint with the universe.
