The hidden one wakes. "No," she whispers. "No."
But things are exactly as she sees them; her eyes do not lie, and she sits plainly in the middle of the truth, the bright and glaring truth of everything. She is just as trapped as she ever was, but now it is obvious, evident in the cave walls around her and the darkness between them, black and soundless, like a void.
She is condemned to die, but it is not like a death like anything else. She is to waste away, to languish, to wholly and physically abate. Dribs and drabs of death. Brought to an end one day at a time.
The hidden one is censured, erased. Her mortality is measured in memory; until the day she truly dies, the day she passes from mind and thought like the ceaseless orbit of a planetary body around their merciless sun. She is not mourned this time. The queen makes sure of that.