The soft creak of the door was barely audible as Vira stepped into her father’s study, the cool night air still clinging to her skin like an unwelcome reminder of the ordeal she'd barely survived. Her wet hair dripped down her back, leaving streaks of water across the polished floor, a trail that led directly to her father.

  Alastair stood by the hearth, his figure cast in shadow by the flickering firelight. His back was straight, but there was no mistaking the slow, restless pacing that had him trapped in the confines of his thoughts. A man used to control, now reduced to a shell of patience—his fingers twitching at the cuffs of his nightclothes.

  The moment he heard the door, he stopped, his gaze snapping toward her. A sharp intake of breath was the only sign of emotion, but the tension in his eyes spoke volumes. It was clear he’d been waiting.

  “Vira,” he said, his voice rough, unused to the softness of the hour. The fire crackled as if echoing his impatience. “Where in the gods’ names have you been?” His tone was laced with something darker now, something she couldn’t quite place. The disappointment mixed with fear—it was a rare vulnerability she had seen from him only in fleeting moments.

  Alastair froze, his eyes narrowing as they took in the sight of her. Vira’s nightgown, once a pure shade of white, was torn across the chest, a thin red stain—almost invisible against her pale skin—marking the edge where the cut had once been. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, unable to reconcile the child standing before him with the one who had disappeared hours earlier. She looked… well, alive, but also far from it. There was a coldness in the air about her, something untouchable. Something wrong.

  He couldn’t process it quickly enough.

  Her skin was paler than usual, as if she had been submerged in ice-cold water, her breath shallow despite the warmth of the fire. She stood there silently, as though the room itself had become a place of quiet doom. The edges of her eyes were still red-rimmed, as if she had been crying—or worse.

  “Virean...” His voice cracked on the name, a desperate sound that rushed past his lips like a plea. He quickly corrected himself, but the damage was done. He had spoken her full name, not just her shortened one. Virean. He hadn’t used that name in years, not since she was a child. And now, in his panic, it slipped out.

  His eyes flicked over her again, taking in the state of her, the wounds that had vanished as if by magic, the trembling of her hands that she was trying to hide.

  Alastair’s feet carried him toward her in a flash, his hands reaching out with a fierce urgency. He didn’t wait for her to speak, didn’t wait for any signal that she was okay. He just moved, desperate to touch her, to confirm she was truly alive, and not some fragile illusion.

  His hands were shaking as he gently pulled her to him, his gaze scanning every inch of her, his fingers trembling as they brushed over her skin, as if expecting to find some hidden wound that had yet to heal. He turned her by the shoulders, his brow furrowed with concern, eyes sharp and calculating.

  “Vira, you’re… you’re okay. You’re alive. But what happened?” His voice was unsteady, the depth of his fear now clear in the way his eyes flickered over her, every motion frayed with raw panic.

  Vira stood stiff in his grip, her body rigid, as if locked in place by the sheer weight of everything that had happened. Her chest heaved with shallow breaths, and her mind raced through fragments of memory—nothing concrete, just flashes of terror, the cold water, the darkness, the pull of death. Lady Theron’s face, her words, the sacrifice. She could feel the weight of it all pressing against her chest, threatening to suffocate her. But she couldn’t make sense of it. She couldn’t make sense of any of it.

  Her eyes flicked over her father’s face, his gaze so full of concern and fear for her safety. And in that moment, something inside her broke.

  She had nearly died. She had been saved by Lady Theron, who had given up her divine essence for her. And yet here was her father, asking her to explain, asking her what happened as if it could be fixed with words. As if her survival could be a simple answer.

  Vira tore herself from his grip, her hands shaking, and before she could even think, the words were already spilling from her, angry and raw.

  “You—you didn’t protect me!” she spat, the words feeling as sharp as daggers. “I’ve always been able to protect myself, but I thought—I thought you would!” Her voice cracked but only for a moment before it built again, louder. “You didn’t even know I was gone until it was too late. I went out there alone, in the dark. You didn’t even notice—didn’t even care.”

  She paused, blinking hard to push back the sting in her eyes, but it was no use. The images of the night, of her body nearly being taken, Lady Theron’s sacrifice—everything was crashing down on her. The weight of it, the reality of it, it was too much.

  “I could’ve died,” she continued, voice trembling with rage and disbelief, but also with something else—grief, confusion. “I did die. Lady Theron gave up everything to save me. Her divine blood, her essence... and you—you don’t even understand! You think it can be fixed with words, with asking me what happened, as if this is just something that happened to me. But it’s not. It’s not that simple.”

  She turned away from him, the hurt twisting deeper. “Lady Theron’s spirit is gone, gone because of me. And here you are, standing in front of me, asking me to explain why I’m still standing. As if that’s enough. As if you can make it better by asking.”

  Her chest heaved with every breath, the sharpness of her words slowly dulling, replaced by the raw ache of everything she’d just experienced. She wasn’t sure what she was angry at anymore—whether it was him, or her own helplessness in the situation, or the cruel reality that had been forced upon her.

  Alastair stood frozen for a moment, the words hitting him like a wave. He didn’t flinch at her anger, nor did he react with the same intensity. Instead, he took in a sharp breath and processed the weight of her words—the guilt in her voice, the devastation. She had almost died. She had been saved, but at such a cost.

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  The words she spoke echoed in his mind: Lady Theron’s spirit is gone because of me.

  The sharp sting of those words sank into his heart, and it felt as though something had been ripped open in him. But then, with a deep exhale, Alastair moved. Slowly, carefully, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.

  “Vira,” he whispered her full name, his voice low, but thick with emotion. “I’m sorry... so sorry.”

  He held her tightly, feeling the tremble in her body, knowing she wasn’t ready for this kind of comfort, but still desperate to offer it. She was still too young for the weight of the world to settle on her shoulders like this, and yet here she was, standing in the aftermath of something so much bigger than either of them.

  For a moment, they were just father and daughter, tangled in the sorrow of their shared loss. Then, with a soft sigh, he pulled back slightly, his hands cupping her face as he looked into her eyes—eyes full of confusion, pain, and something else that Alastair couldn’t place.

  “Virean…” he repeated gently. “Do you know whose idea it was for the marriage? Do you know why they want it so badly?”

  The question hung in the air, the tension of the moment shifting toward something else—something he knew had been looming, even before all of this. The answer would change everything. But for now, he could only hope that she’d have the strength to face it.

  Vira’s brow furrowed at the mention of the marriage, her chest still tight with the sting of loss. She opened her mouth to respond, but Alastair’s voice cut through before she could.

  “It was Lady Theron’s idea,” he said quietly, the weight of the words settling between them like the cold stone of the study walls. “She believed it would secure a future for Eldritch Reach, for the kingdom, after everything that happened. She knew what was coming before anyone else.”

  Vira’s eyes widened, a flicker of recognition passing through her, though confusion still clouded her thoughts.

  Alastair took a deep breath, his gaze distant, as if pulling himself back into the past. “Lady Theron... she has protected this kingdom for longer than I can remember. When the previous royal family faltered—when they failed us, failed the people—Lady Theron was the one who stepped in. She held this kingdom together, fought to defend Eldritch Reach against forces that could have torn it apart. She became the shield when we needed one the most.”

  Alastair's eyes darkened, as if the weight of history itself hung heavy in the air between them. "Generations ago," he continued, his voice slow, almost reverent, "the kingdom teetered on the brink of collapse. The previous royal family—your ancestors—were weak. They were selfish, blinded by their own pursuits, and they failed to defend the land. Forces from beyond our borders, from the darkest corners of the world, sought to invade. The people had no hope, no protection. That’s when Lady Theron stepped in."

  Vira’s mind was still racing, trying to piece together the fragments of everything she had just learned, the shock of her near-death, the sacrifice of Lady Theron. Her bloodline had always been something of a mystery to her, something spoken of in whispers. But this… this was something far bigger than she had ever imagined.

  "Lady Theron," Alastair went on, his gaze fixed on the fire, "wasn't just a noble. She wasn’t just a protector. She was... more. Her essence, her power, was forged over lifetimes, cultivated by battle and sacrifice. It is said she reached a level of strength that defies time itself—near immortality, if not true immortality. She’s the one who held this kingdom together when it should have fallen apart, and she did it at great personal cost. Her blood, her essence, is tied to Eldritch Reach. She made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure its survival. And, Vira, you... you are the second person in known history to carry Ashara blood, the bloodline of Theron herself.”

  Vira blinked, the words hitting her like a tidal wave. She had known there was something different about her bloodline, something ancient and powerful, but hearing it put so plainly, with so much weight behind it, sent a shock through her body.

  She had never truly understood Lady Theron’s presence in her life—not at first. Theron had only reappeared when Vira found the ring, the relic that had sealed her spirit away for generations. It had been a quiet awakening, a whisper of power re-emerging from the past, drawn to her as if fate itself had willed it. Theron had been a guide, a presence in the shadows, watching, teaching, always there.

  But now…

  Vira’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening into the fabric of her torn nightgown.

  Theron was gone.

  Not just absent, not merely retreating into the depths of the ring—her divine essence, the very thing that had kept her bound to this world, had been given to Vira. Transferred into her veins, replacing what had been stolen.

  And what had been stolen…

  Her own blood. Her true blood.

  She pressed a trembling hand against her chest, as if expecting to feel the difference, to sense the change in her body. She had felt Theron’s sacrifice in every fiber of her being when it happened, the warmth of that divine essence sinking into her, binding to her like something sacred. It had saved her. It had kept her heart beating when it should have stopped.

  But what did that mean?

  Would Theron ever return now? Could she? Or had she truly, fully vanished, her existence burned away to keep Vira alive?

  The thought sent a crushing wave of grief through her, stealing the breath from her lungs. She had been so consumed by the sheer shock of survival, by her anger and confusion, that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel it yet.

  Theron, who had always been there.

  Theron, who had saved her.

  Theron, who had sacrificed everything.

  Gone.

  Forever.

  The grief swelled in her chest, sharp and suffocating.

  Alastair was still speaking, his voice calm, steady, grounding her with quiet strength, but his words barely registered through the storm in her mind. She felt wrong—as if the very foundation of her being had been rewritten, and she wasn’t sure how to exist inside of it.

  The Ashara Blood that had been hers since birth—stolen.

  Theron’s divine essence—now inside her, replacing it.

  Did that make her something different? Something other?

  She swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. “She’s really gone, isn’t she?”

  Alastair hesitated. His hands, which had been firm on her shoulders, softened slightly. His expression was unreadable for a moment, as if he were weighing his words carefully.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “You told me before that she only returned when you found the ring. If her essence is now within you…” He exhaled, his jaw tightening. “Then I don’t know if her spirit could remain.”

  Vira’s hands curled into fists.

  The ring.

  She reached for it instinctively, the cool metal pressing against her skin where it hung from the thin chain around her neck. The ring had once been alive with Theron’s presence—a constant, comforting weight, humming with quiet power.

  Now, it was silent.

  Lifeless.

  Her breath shuddered.

  Theron had been sealed away once before. Could she have returned to the ring? Or had the act of giving up her divine essence truly erased her from existence?

  She didn’t know.

  And the not knowing was unbearable.

  A sharp, painful lump formed in her throat, and she clenched her jaw to keep it from breaking into something weaker—something she refused to let herself feel right now.

  Instead, she forced herself to focus on the one thing she did know.

  Whoever had stolen her blood… they had set this in motion.