Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even when the dream ends… fantasy lives on.
Even when the sun rises over a world reborn, its light falls upon hearts still haunted by the shadows of what once was.

The age of crowns and curses has passed, but their ghosts remain—woven into the breath of every dawn, waiting to be remembered. The kingdom that once bled under its own pride now breathes anew. The wounds of the old world have scabbed over, yet beneath the surface, the pulse of what was still beats faintly. The scars of kings, of monsters, of men who dreamed too fiercely—they do not fade so easily.

And so, those who dared to dream—to risk everything for a glimmer of truth—walk once more upon the earth.
No longer as saviors.
But as travelers.

The newest King of the United Kingdom of Euchronia, Will, and his partisans journey again, though their hearts no longer march to the drumbeat of destiny. They move not as warriors now, but as witnesses. From the crystal peaks of the northern highlands, where the wind hums with the memory of hymns, to the golden coasts of Oceana, where the sea swallows the ruins of forgotten towers, their path winds through nations that once trembled at the whisper of change. The banners of fallen armies have been folded and laid to rest, yet their colors still flicker faintly in the eyes of those who survived. Every inn and market holds its storytellers—each tale a slightly different echo of the same war, the same dream.

Young Maria walks beside them, her laughter lighter now, her gaze softer. In her hands, she carries a journal—half filled with sketches, half with signatures of those who dare to hope again. The others praise her for it, so proudly she writes on every night as though the world itself might vanish if she does not capture it to the page.

And Will…
Will still carries the weight of his new crown.

In the markets where they pause, people recognize him—not as some would-be dreamer, but as the man who walked among dreams and returned as a king. They call him the traveler-hero king. He answers with a smile, but his eyes always drift toward the horizon, as if searching for something—or someone—beyond the reach of this renewed peace.

Perhaps he is.

The party’s laughter echoes along the edge of a seaside cliff, where the world stretches wide and unbroken. They speak of the days to come—of new lands yet unseen, of the unknown tomorrows that belong to no prophecy. For a moment, even the wind seems to celebrate with them.

And yet… in the space between their words, something lingers.
A silence—small, but persistent—nests in the heart of the story.
A truth that even the bravest cannot name.
A voice travelling in the wind, a quiet murmur echoes, softer now, threaded with melancholy:

But make no mistake, dear specter, O other-worldly reader.
This is not the story of a vacation.
Nor is it the tale of a king who sought peace after war.
To understand what truly lives on—
To grasp the breath of fantasy reborn—
We must begin elsewhere.
 In a different place.
 At a different time.
 With different faces than we’ve come to know.

The sound of the sea fades. The sunlight dims.
And as the last word leaves the dying wind, the world seems to tilt backward—
Unraveling toward a time when kings were yet to be born, and monsters wore crowns of gold.

And so, our story begins again…

Chapter Text

Act 1

Before the dreamers took their first steps across a healing world,
before the name of Will ever touched the wind—
There was another story.
A tale buried in the amber glow of a distant dawn.

The reign of King Hythlodeus was one of order and gold. His banners hung bright upon the marble towers of the allied Rhoag noble houses, and his word was law as eternal as the sun itself. Beneath that gilded sun, the noble Houses of Vastelune gleamed in their devotion to purity, for the Rhoag were said to be the children of light—untainted, divine, eternal.

And beneath that same light, a noblewoman labored to bring forth her first child.

The cries echoed through the palace of Vastelune, sharp and desperate, carried on the polished marble until even the statues seemed to wince. When they faded, the midwives—clad in white and gold—announced a son.

“A pure Rhoag, flawless in lineage, unbroken by doubt.”

The noblewoman, known to all simply as Matrona of House Quimera, held the infant in trembling arms. Her arranged marriage had been set since her cradle years—a union between noble houses forged to secure the bloodline and keep Rhoag purity unchallenged among the courts. Her husband, Lord Quimera, stood at a distance, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked upon the child as one might appraise a gemstone.

“He will serve the House well,” he murmured. “The King will be pleased.”

Matrona smiled as custom required. But her smile was brittle. This would be the last time she saw her husband, the agreement long forged that once a viable heir, he would venture to return to his studies at the mage academy.

The boy—Dalton Quimera—was beautiful by every royal measure: pale gray eyes, luminescent skin, and a faint pulse of light beneath the veins of his wrists. He was, by decree, perfect.

And yet, as the weeks passed, the palace grew quiet around her.

In kingdoms built upon perfection, even the perfect are found wanting.

Her husband’s affection was reserved for his students and theoretical magic studies. The King ruled; the nobles schemed. Matrona became a painted figure in gold-threaded gowns—a symbol more than a soul. When Dalton toddled through the gardens, she saw the other nobles watching, murmuring polite words edged with judgment.

“How handsome,” one would say.
“How… ordinary,” whispered another.

At night, Matrona would sit by her child’s cradle, studying his face by candlelight.
“You must be more,” she would whisper. “For both of us.”

But as the years turned, the gap between what he was and what she needed him to be widened.

The Mustarri children sang to spirits before they could walk.
The Eugeif raced on winds invisible to mortal eyes.

And among them all gleamed daughters of the Ishkia court—whose crystalline wings caught the dawnlight, whose laughter bright as glass, whose magic effortless. At every festival, every council, their names were praised. Ishkia noblemen, Ishkia fathers, and Ishkia ambassadors all spoke softly, but the King listened. The Ishkia had influence now; their shimmering beauty was the envy of the court.
And envy—seeded in Matrona’s heart—took root.

She began to compare. Every faltering step of Dalton’s became a flaw. Every stumble in his lessons was a humiliation. One night, she scolded him too sharply, and the boy—no older than three—looked up at her with tear-bright eyes.

“I’ll be better, Mother. I promise.”
“Better?” she snapped, then caught herself. Her voice softened, but too late. “You must be perfect, my son. We are Quimeras. We do not fall behind lesser blood.”

The boy nodded, silent, understanding only the weight of her tone, not its poison.

The days blurred into years. The Queen became a statue of grace, her smile never faltering, her envy never sleeping. From her tower balcony, she would look out each night at the Ishkia Embassy, its towers glowing with silver lanterns. They shimmered like cool water, serene and mocking.

And one evening, when the memory of her son's failures felt too fresh, she saw him—an Ishkia emissary—walking beneath the moonlight. His wings folded close, his steps unhurried.
He looked up and met her gaze.
He did not bow.
He smiled.

Their first meeting was an accident—or so she told herself. A quiet corridor, a wrong turn, a breath caught in surprise. His voice was smooth as wind through glass.

“You watch the ground too much for a woman who lives among the pale sun,” he said.
“And you walk uninvited where shadows fall,” she replied.

He laughed softly.

“Then we are both trespassers.”

Their meetings became rare but deliberate, hidden among forgotten halls of the palace. He spoke of skies beyond nations, of cities where wings were not chained by rank or blood.

“In my homeland,” he told her once, “the color of one’s feathers means nothing. Only the way they catch the light.”
“Then your homeland is a dream,” she said bitterly.
“Perhaps,” he replied, “but dreams are the only truths worth chasing.”
To her, his words were blasphemy. And yet—they were salvation.

When Matrona found herself with child again, terror and awe clashed within her. She wove excuses of illness, retreating from court life. Her husband was not there to question; the academy demanded his full devotion. The months crept by in silence. And one storm-soaked night, the second birth came. The chamber was empty save for one trembling handmaid, sworn to secrecy.

The infant’s first cry was soft—almost like a song.

Matrona’s breath caught. She saw the silver in the child’s hair, the faint shimmer of light beneath her skin, and the smallest, trembling wings unfurling from her shoulders.
Tiny. Fragile. Unmistakably Ishkia. The Queen froze.

“No,” she whispered. “No, not you. You can’t…”
The handmaid reached out.
“My lady, she’s beautiful.”
“She’s damned!” Matrona hissed, clutching the child to her chest. “They will burn us both if they see!”

Her panic turned to silence as the baby cooed, small fingers curling around hers. The Queen’s expression wavered—terror giving way to something raw and aching. She pulled a bolt of crimson cloth from the bedside chest, the fabric trembling in her hands. Carefully, she wrapped the child, layer upon layer, until the wings disappeared.

“Cassandra,” she whispered, voice breaking, “you will never be what they would call you. You will be my secret. My hope. My sin.”

She pressed her lips to the child’s brow, trembling with both dread and devotion.

Thus was born the daughter of two worlds—
a half-blood in a realm that worshiped perfection.
Her mother’s envy became her cradle.
Her father’s absence, her shield.
And from this hidden spark, one day, a fire would rise—
one that would not be named until it was far too late.

A day long dawned…
And yet, it had only just begun.

Chapter Text

And so it was that the Rhoag noblewoman kept her secret.
In a palace of marble and mirrors, where lineage was law and flaw was sin,
she nurtured a dream of perfection so fragile
that even love itself became a threat.

Her second child, Cassandra, grew beneath that shadow. From her earliest days, Cassandra moved through the halls like a ghost made of gold. Her tutors spoke of her as if she were a miracle — her grasp of language and logic came as easily as breathing. At three, she corrected her instructor’s spellwork; at five, she memorized the entire genealogy of the Rhoag court.

Her brother, the noblewoman’s firstborn, stumbled where she soared. His lessons left him weary, his mind tangled in the demands of diplomacy and decorum. Servants whispered that he lacked the light of his ancestors.

When Cassandra passed him in the study one day, his hand trembled over a page he couldn’t read. She paused.
“Brother, do you want help?”

He scowled, tearing the parchment in half. “I don’t need your help.”

Their mother’s voice echoed from the doorway:
"Then prove it, Dalton. Or she will continue to surpass you.”

The boy’s face fell. Cassandra looked down, her throat tight. Their mother’s smile never reached her eyes.

Each triumph became a chain.
Each praise, a blade pressed gently to the throat.

Behind locked doors, the noblewoman drilled Cassandra with relentless precision. Books by candlelight. Etiquette lessons that stretched past midnight. And before every lesson, her mother would check the bindings on Cassandra’s back—her fingers tracing the silk wrappings that hid the soft, growing wings.

“You must always be better,” she whispered.
“Better than them. Better than yourself. The world must never see what you are.”

When Cassandra winced, the Queen only pulled tighter.
“Pain is a teacher,” she said. “And you, my dear, have much to learn.”

A mother’s love, when warped by fear, becomes a cage.
And even the gentlest wings will wither when starved of light.

The next year passed like glass turning in sunlight. Dalton matured, but his brilliance never came. He was courteous, obedient—everything a son should be, and yet not enough. The court began to look elsewhere for promise. They found it in the noblewoman’s daughter.

“Lady Cassandra,” they said in the corridors, “has the makings of a sovereign.”
“She has her mother’s poise, and her father’s cunning.”

Each compliment reached the noblewoman’s ears like honey over rot. Pride and guilt warred within her heart, neither winning for long. But Cassandra’s strength remained her weakness. She tired quickly in the training yard, her slender arms failing against wooden blades. Each stumble was met with her mother’s sharp voice:

“Again.”
“But Mother—”
“Again! A Rhoag does not falter.”

When Cassandra’s knees gave out, the Queen turned away in disgust.

“You are clever, yes. But cleverness will not save you.
A noble must endure. A Rhoag must be unyielding.”

And Cassandra, desperate to please, rose again—her palms raw, her wings trembling under their bindings.

Perfection, once tasted, devours all it touches.

And so the noblewoman’s hunger grew.

It was said that the Roussainte were born closer to flame than flesh—creatures of vigor and passion. Perhaps that was what drew her to him: a nobleman from the frontier, with fire in his eyes and no patience for marble cages. Their affair was brief but burning, each meeting an act of defiance against her own reflection.

When she found herself with child again, her heart split between dread and desire. She cloaked her growing form with layers of silk and silence, hiding her shame behind smiles and ceremony.

The birth came in secret once more. The infant’s cry was fierce—his voice echoing down the stone halls before the Queen silenced the handmaids.
The boy’s skin was touched with bronze, his eyes a pale molten gold. He was strong. Too strong.

Then she saw them—long ears with a subtle upward curve, delicate but undeniable.
Evidence.

The noblewoman froze.
The midwife whispered, “My Lady… he bears his father’s mark.”

There was a long pause. There was a trembling hand reaching for the same scissors that separated the newborn from the mother.
Then the noblewoman said softly, “Then he cannot bear it for long.”

What followed was not written in any record. Only the silence of those who served her remained—and the faint trace of blood on silken cloth, gone before dawn.

The noblewoman wept that night, not from sorrow, but relief. When noble guests of fellow Rhoag houses visited, she smiled and placed the child on display.

“Another son,” she said sweetly. “A strong one.”

And no one dared look too closely.

With each secret birth, each hidden truth, the noblewoman’s reflection grew more distorted. She no longer walked the halls as a woman, but as the ghost of an ideal she could never reach. She began to speak to herself in mirrors—low, fevered mutterings that frightened even the servants.

At times, she avoided her reflection altogether. Perhaps she feared it would speak back.

Cassandra would sometimes wake in the night to hear her mother pacing. The sound of slippers on marble. The faint creak of silk. And a whisper that slid through the dark like a prayer:

“What we could be… if they only believed.”

From her bed, Cassandra would clutch her blankets, unsure if the words were meant for her— or for the woman her mother could no longer find in her own skin.

In the nursery, the newborn cried softly. The bandages around his ears itched.

And thus was born not one child, but a legacy of illusions.
A lineage founded not on truth, but on fear—
and a fantasy that demanded more with every breath.

What begins as love can become a monument to denial.
And in the palace of Vastelune,
that monument was still being built—
stone by stone, lie by lie.

The birth of a fantasy…
and the slow death of all who lived beneath it.

Chapter Text

The noblewoman’s house had always been quiet. Still, lately, the silence felt unnatural—like a weight pressing against the walls, pooling in the corridors, suffocating the servants’ whispers before they were spoken. Even the marble seemed to hum with expectation, as if the building itself waited for the inevitable fracture.

Matrona sat upon her throne more often now, a regal figure carved from shadows and gold, surveying her children with eyes that could measure not just their movements but their worth. Her eldest son, Dalton, stood stiffly at her side, the tension in his shoulders a mirror of the fear and pride twisting inside him. Across the hall, the younger children—halfbloods of her hidden dalliances—moved with a grace and ease that seemed almost unnatural. Their eyes gleamed sharper, their powers more refined than their tender years should allow.

Yet it was the youngest, the most recent fruit of secrecy and passion, who drew her attention most. Pale golden hair like polished sun, eyes faint but fiery—an impossible hue in the lineage of Rhoag—he sat quietly, folding his small hands as if aware of the scrutiny. The Queen’s lies cloaked him, weaving an illusion of divine brilliance, convincing the court that he was the perfection of her blood, not its corruption.

Dalton, the firstborn, watched with growing horror as his mother’s favor shifted from him to his siblings. Where once she complimented his loyalty and his practice of the sword, she now looked upon him with the obvious sneer of disappointment. Every duel lost to his brother. Every debate outshone by his sister. Each failure dug a hollow beneath his chest that no amount of obedience could fill.

“Why does she favor them so?” he whispered once, to no one. The echo bounced from marble walls and returned as a mocking answer. “Why am I not enough?”

Whispers reached him through servants’ gossip, hints of “special children,” of rooms barred and secrets kept. Each word, each glance, sharpened the edge of his jealousy. Curiosity grew into obsession.

One night, driven by a blend of fear, envy, and daring, Dalton slipped from his chambers. The moon hung sharp and cold above the palace, silvering the black of the tiles. His steps were careful, but the marble offered no mercy; each footfall rang like a trumpet announcing sin.

The corridor to the children’s wing where his siblings slept was forbidden. Yet tonight, the air itself seemed to pull him forward.

He opened the door to the children's room, heart hammering. Candlelight spilled across the polished floor, casting long shadows. The room smelled faintly of lavender and wax. His siblings slept—peaceful, innocent—yet the moment the candle flickered, it revealed a truth his mind refused to believe.

The faint outline of wings under a nightclothes sleeve. The subtle upward curve of cropped ears on another.

Dalton’s knees went weak. His breath caught in his throat. The world spun on its axis, and he saw what he could never unsee: his mother’s perfection was a lie. These were not Rhoag. They were half-bloods, bastards of shame and sinful indulgence.

“Mother…” he whispered, trembling, disbelief twisting his tone.

He backed away, fumbling over his robe, mind racing. He could tell the court. He could expose the truth and reclaim his place, his mother’s favor, his dignity—the fragile dream of a child desperate for affection and ignorant of the consequences.

But before he could act, a shadow detached itself from the far corner of the room.

Matrona.

She emerged like darkness made flesh, every step silent, deliberate, as if she had been waiting for him all along. Her eyes held nothing of panic—only cold, precise clarity.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” she said softly, almost tenderly.

Dalton stammered, words failing him. “I… I didn’t mean—”

She lifted her hand, brushing a lock of hair from his face. It was a gesture of care, and yet, in it, there was something darker. A finality to the maternal gesture.

“My darling boy,” she whispered, voice smooth, a lullaby folded over steel. “You were always too much like your father. Too honest. Too proud. Too curious.”

Before he could scream, before the word “mother” could leave his lips, her hands gripped his face. The motion was swift, fluid, impossibly fast. One last look into her eyes—and then the world went silent.

Dalton fell, and the echo of his body striking the marble was swallowed by the palace itself. Matrona knelt, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she closed his eyes, smoothing the hair from his brow.

“Better a dead son than a truth too loud to kill,” she murmured, almost reverently.

The silence returned, heavy and suffocating. Every step she had taken, every breath she had drawn, seemed to press upon the walls themselves. Somewhere, the other children slept, oblivious. Their dreams remained sweet, untainted.

And the palace itself seemed to sigh, carrying her sin through the corridors, hiding it beneath its stones.

Matrona rose, a figure of marble and shadow once more, and returned to her throne.
The lengths we go to lie in lies, she thought, are the lengths we must go to survive.

But for all her control, a thread had snapped somewhere, deep within. The night was silent, yet even the manor knew that this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Dawn came cold and colorless to house Quimera.
By the time the first servants stirred, the blood had already been scrubbed from the marble.

No one spoke of the night before. The corridors smelled faintly of smoke and lavender — the noblewoman’s preferred perfume, used liberally to mask iron and death. Her attendants moved like ghosts, each one avoiding her eyes, each one pretending not to notice the empty space where Dalton, the firstborn prince, had always stood during morning court.

The noblewoman herself was immaculate. Her gown gleamed black, her hands gloved in silk so that no one could see how they trembled beneath.
“Tragic,” she murmured, her voice carrying just enough sorrow to be convincing. “The boy was too bold. Too curious. It seems a Clemar spy took his life in the night.”

The hall rippled with gasps and murmured outrage. A name was offered — a scapegoat, carefully chosen. Within hours, soldiers stormed the Clemar district, dragging forth a man whose only crime had been loyalty to his house. He was beaten, chained, and thrown before the Queen’s feet as her court looked on, their grief safely redirected.

The Queen rose from her throne and descended the marble steps, each footfall echoing with divine authority.
“You killed my son,” she said.

The man, bruised and dazed, could only whisper, “I did nothing.”

Her eyes softened. She reached out, cupping his chin as if she pitied him.
“I believe you,” she said quietly. “But belief does not absolve necessity.”

What happened next was not mercy — it was calculation. The Clemar would die, yes, but not before serving a final purpose.

Weeks later, whispers began again through the palace: the noblewoman was with child.
“This is a rebirth of my son, too soon taken,” she claimed — a symbolic gesture from the heavens to end any feud between the Rhoag and the Clemar. None dared question the timing, nor the faint shadow that crossed her eyes whenever she spoke of it.

And when the child was born — a girl named Illiana — her strange beauty silenced all doubts. Her hair shimmered silver-white like frost under moonlight, and her skin carried the faint iridescent sheen of her mother's purity, and the shame of her father’s bloodline, two tiny horns. Another secret wrapped in silk. Another truth smothered beneath the weight of power.

Cassandra stood at her brother’s grave — or rather, the empty patch of earth the Queen had declared his resting place. She was 8 now, old enough to see what her mother hid behind ceremony and tears. Dalton’s “accident” had been too convenient. Too clean.

Her younger brother, Malorn, knelt beside her, clutching a token — a broken wooden sword hilt, the only piece of Dalton the Queen hadn’t confiscated; an old token of one of their spars where Malorn’s strength made itself apparent. His small hands trembled as he whispered, “He didn’t deserve it.”
Cassandra placed a hand on his shoulder. “No one does.”

They stayed there long after the sun dipped low, the marble angels casting long, crooked shadows across the garden. Cassandra’s mind was a storm of suspicion and fear. She could not prove it — not yet — but she knew their mother’s grief was a mask.

As the moon rose, she made herself a promise:
No more of them would fall.
No more would die to protect their mother’s lies.

If the truth killed her, so be it.

Cassandra now bore the mantle of eldest in more than name. She understood the dangers of their household better than anyone. Dalton’s absence left the palace quieter, yet heavier. She bent to console Malorn, the youngest, who could only know loss.

“He’s gone,” Cassandra said softly, brushing the boy’s hair from his brow. “But we have each other. And we follow Mother’s rules… always.”

Malorn nodded, eyes wide and trusting. He did not know resentment, nor fear beyond the whispered warnings of servants. He had only Cassandra, and she would protect him as best she could. As the palace went through its ritual of mourning, Cassandra investigated in secret, quietly piecing together what had happened. Among Dalton’s belongings, soon to be sent off and burned, she found a small, folded note, tucked beneath a drawer in his chambers.

"Mother favors Cassandra and Malorn. She has always hated me. I cannot please her. Perhaps it is better to watch and wait for those brats to slip up, for nothing I do will change what she wants."

Her heart twisted at the words—not for Dalton, but for the truth they revealed. The note was not an appeal for vengeance, nor a warning of danger. It was the bitter recognition of a child suffocated by his mother’s shifting obsession. Cassandra tucked the note into her pocket. She understood now the first threads of her mother’s delusions, the beginnings of the fantasy that would one day demand impossible sacrifices. And in that understanding, she made a silent vow: no other sibling, no matter how small, would fall to her mother’s ambitions or her twisted designs.

The palace breathed around her, still and gleaming, hiding the Queen’s sins beneath layers of perfumed illusion. And in its quiet, Cassandra began to plan—not for rebellion, not yet—but for vigilance, the careful watching that would preserve her siblings from the shadow of a fantasy only their mother could see.

Chapter Text

After Dalton’s death and Illiana’s birth, the noblewoman returned to her throne with the serene poise of one untouched by grief. Yet the halls carried tension like static in the air—an invisible hum of fear, of obedience sharpened to the edge of exhaustion. Servants no longer spoke above whispers, and the royal tutors bowed deeper, their eyes fixed to the ground. Even the crystal chandeliers seemed dimmer, as though the light feared to disturb the oppressive calm. For the children, life went on as it always had—lessons, drills, expectations. But something had shifted beneath the surface, fragile and unspoken.

Cassandra saw it first in Malorn’s eyes when he stumbled over a spell and looked to her instead of Mother for reassurance. She noticed it in Illiana, clinging to her sleeve whenever the Queen entered the room, her tiny hands fisting the silk as if Cassandra were the only thing anchoring her to safety.

Mother’s voice still ruled the palace, sharp and unyielding, but its warmth no longer reached her children.

“Again.”

Malorn’s hands trembled. He muttered the incantation, clutching tightly the ignitor in his hand, but the merely training dummy wavered and tipped over, scattering straw across the polished marble.

“I’m sorry, Mother—I—”

“Silence.”

The noblewoman’s hand twitched, but she did not strike him. Her disappointment was sharper than any slap. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she turned away, voice calm and cold. “If you cannot master your heritage, you are no child of mine.”

Malorn’s lower lip trembled. Cassandra stepped forward, bowing low, careful to keep her voice steady.

“Forgive him, Mother. He’s tired. He’s been practicing since dawn.”

The noblewoman paused, eyes narrowing into polished obsidian mirrors. “You think excuses make him strong?”

“No, Mother,” Cassandra said carefully. “But rest might.”

A long pause. Then, softly—almost indulgently—the noblewoman allowed the barest curve of a smile.

“You always did know how to say the right thing, Cassandra. But words are not what rule kingdoms.”

Her robes whispered across the floor as she swept from the room, her perfume lingering long after she was gone. Only when the last echo faded did Cassandra kneel beside Malorn. The boy buried his face against her shoulder, shivering.

“She hates me,” he whispered.

“No,” Cassandra murmured, though her voice lacked certainty. Her mind drifting back to the note she recovered from Dalton’s belongings, ‘She has always hated me,’ and the outcome that followed such an admission. “She just… expects too much.”

Malorn looked up, blinking against tears. “From all of us?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said, holding his gaze. “From all of us.”

That night, Cassandra found Illiana in her nursery. The baby—barely walking, curls silver against her brow—sat by the window, tracing shapes in the fogged glass. When she saw Cassandra, she lifted her arms eagerly.

“Cass!” she squealed.

Cassandra smiled despite herself, lifting her sister onto her hip.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Can’t,” Illiana murmured, resting her head against Cassandra’s shoulder. “Mother came again.”

Cassandra stiffened. “What did she say?”

Illiana’s voice dropped, timid. “She said I mustn’t dream of the wrong things.”

Cassandra closed her eyes, holding her tighter. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind—softly wrapped in care, sharpened to control: You must be perfect. You must be what they expect to see. She glanced at her siblings—one trembling, one too young to understand—and something inside her hardened.

Later, the three of them gathered in Cassandra’s chamber, hidden beneath blankets like conspirators in a small, secret war. Malorn whispered spells into his hands, producing faint glimmers of light. Illiana laughed each time they fizzled, clapping her hands.

“See?” Cassandra said softly. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours.”

Malorn’s brow furrowed. “Do you think Mother was ever like us?”

Like us? Locked in gilded cages, fearing the hand that feeds? “No,” Cassandra said, then paused, recalling the brief echoes of light that would hit their mother’s eyes. “Or maybe once. Before she forgot how.”

The three of them sat in silence, listening to the wind hum against the palace windows. Somewhere in the distance, the faint, relentless sound of the noblewoman pacing could still be heard—soft, rhythmic, endless.

“She’ll never let us leave,” Malorn said quietly.

Cassandra met his gaze. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean we belong to her.”

Illiana, too young to fully understand the meaning but not the feeling, reached for Cassandra’s hand.

“Then who do we belong to?”

Cassandra squeezed her fingers, a small, steady anchor in the storm of their lives.

“To each other,” she said. “All we have is us.”

The words hung in the air—simple, small, yet fiercely true. Beneath the weight of the noblewoman’s ambition and the silent cruelty of Vastelune’s halls, the children made a quiet promise: if the world turned against them, they would stand together. Somewhere in the shadows beyond the chamber door, the Queen’s reflection flickered faintly in a polished mirror—eyes hollow, smile too still. She did not yet know that her children were beginning to dream.

And dreams, once born, are the hardest thing to kill.

Chapter Text

The morning came with a summons.

Mother’s voice echoed through the marble corridors like the chime of a distant bell—soft, melodic, but carrying a weight none could ignore.

“Children,” she called, her tone smooth yet unyielding. “Dress yourselves in your finest. We are leaving Vastelune.”

Cassandra’s hand froze on the hem of her robe. Leaving the palace—leaving the marble halls and echoing chambers they had always known—was unheard of. The royal halls were their entire world.

Malorn’s small shoulders tensed beside her. “Do you think… It’s safe?” he whispered, eyes wide.

“Safe?” Cassandra echoed, her voice soft. “With Mother? There is no such thing.”

When they gathered in the grand hall, Mother stood radiant in gold-trimmed robes, her posture perfect, her smile poised and deliberate.

“This is an expedition for diplomacy,” she said, the word falling from her lips like a sacred rite. “It is time the world remembers who we are—and who we might become.”

Malorn shifted nervously. “Does she mean… the other tribes?”

Cassandra’s gaze followed Mother’s deliberate movements. “She means everyone,” she murmured.

Mother’s eyes flicked toward them, sharp even through her smile. “Yes,” she said, as if she’d heard them. “Everyone.”

Mother stood in the hallway, robes flowing, arms crossed, eyes like polished quartz. “Children,” she said, her voice calm but edged with steel, “prepare yourselves. I will not have any… imperfections visible when we leave.”

Cassandra swallowed hard, feeling the familiar tightening in her chest. She glanced down at the faint outline of her wings under her robes. Malorn fidgeted, tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves, the scars of his cropped ears still sensitive. Illiana, too, kept her small hands wrapped around the curls near her horns, eyes wide.

“Start with you, Cassandra,” Mother commanded, pointing. “Wings. They must be hidden. Fold them. Bind them. Tighter this time.”

Cassandra hesitated, but her mother’s hand came down, pressing against the small of her back. The silk bindings went around her shoulders again, pulled taut, the cords biting into her skin. She gasped but held still, feeling the sharp sting as her wings pressed uncomfortably against her ribs.

“Steady,” Mother said, voice deceptively gentle. “Perfection is worth a little pain.”

Malorn’s ears were next. “Bend them back,” Mother instructed, gripping his jaw and twisting gently but firmly. He yelped, the cartilage straining, and Mother tugged at the tips until they nestled just inside the folds of his hair. “Do not fidget,” she warned. “Any sign of weakness will ruin everything.”

Illiana whimpered when her mother yanked at her hair, smoothing it down over her small horns before tucking a tight headscarf into place. The fabric pressed uncomfortably, pulling at her skin, and she blinked back tears as Mother’s fingers adjusted the knots until the horns were hidden completely.

“There,” Mother said, stepping back, inspecting each child with a gaze sharper than any blade. “Flaws are unacceptable. No one must ever see what lies beneath. Do you understand?”

Cassandra bit her lip, the feeling of her wings burning in her shoulders. Malorn rubbed at his ears, silently willing the pain to fade. Illiana stayed still, her hands clutching the scarf, cheeks pink from the tugging.

“Yes, Mother,” they said in unison, voices small and obedient.

“Good,” Mother replied, her smile calm but hollow. “Now move quickly. We have work to do, and the world will not wait for those who hesitate.”

The caravan departed that same day, cutting across the crystal plains beyond Rhoag’s capital. It was the first time the children had seen the world beyond their mother’s marble kingdom. To Cassandra, the world was a revelation. The skies stretched wider than any Rhoag artist had captured, painted with shifting hues that shimmered like molten gems. Towns thrived along the roads, alive with the hum of trade and laughter—but beneath that vitality, Cassandra sensed division.

It began subtle: the way guards positioned themselves around certain merchants, the cautious glances exchanged, the hush that followed those of mixed lineage.

And then she saw it.

A young half-born child—half Nidia, half Paripus—was being dragged from a market stall by soldiers. His only crime: existing in a place where his kind was unwelcome.

“Is he… hurt?” Malorn asked, clutching Cassandra’s sleeve.

Cassandra’s throat tightened. She could only watch as the boy’s mother cried out, reaching for him—until a Nidia officer struck her to the ground.

Mother said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed forward, her expression unreadable.

When Malorn opened his mouth again, Cassandra shook her head. “Not now,” she whispered. “Not here.”

Her stomach churned as the caravan rolled onward, leaving dust and silence in its wake.

That night, the stars crowned the horizon as the noblewoman hosted a gathering in the pavilion of a Nidia noble.

The Nidia were known for their beauty—smooth voices, eyes like crystals, and the rare ability to magic into illusory arts. The head of the noble house, Lord Saren, greeted the noblewoman with a smile that lingered just long enough to unsettle the children. The conversation flowed like wine—diplomacy, flattery, philosophy—but beneath it, Cassandra sensed something else. Her mother’s tone softened, her eyes warming in a way Cassandra had never seen inside Vastelune.

Not love. Calculation.

Later, when the music waned and torches dimmed, Cassandra glimpsed her mother slipping away with Lord Saren into the gardens, their silhouettes melting into the moonlight.

She looked away, already knowing the meaning.

Weeks later, they reached the lands of the Mustari. Cities rose from canyons of clay and tall hunts or wood and straw, their sun relentless in the sky. The Mustari were a pagan people—faithful, fierce, proud, their magic untamed and bright. Priest Kael received the noblewoman with guarded respect, his sharp gaze never leaving her. Cassandra noticed the way Mother’s smile grew subtle, measured, her posture poised yet predatory.

“Do you think he sees through her?” Malorn whispered, leaning close.

Cassandra shrugged. “Either he does—or he’s already caught in her orbit.”

Every glance Mother shared with Kael hinted at her true intent: she wasn’t simply building alliances. She was selecting fathers.

“That’s for us?” Malorn asked quietly.

Cassandra’s eyes followed the desert horizon, burning under the twilight. “For someone,” she said.

By the time they returned to Vastelune, the noblewoman’s belly had begun to swell. She claimed divine favor, insisting her diplomacy had been blessed by god himself. Few dared question her. When the royal caravan arrived, another figure walked beside it—Priest Kael of Mustari, now clothed in the guise of an advisor rather than a soldier.

“The noblewoman has appointed me as her counselor on future affairs,” he announced, bowing low. Cassandra noted the faint flicker of triumph in her mother’s eyes.

Months passed. The palace once again rang with lullabies and soft cries. Two children were born under the same roof, though months apart: Perry, with skin the warm bronze of her Nidia father, eyes shimmering rose-quartz pink-gold, and Raymond, born of the Mustari, broad-shouldered even as an infant, his gaze a grayish brown, his laughter deep and resonant.

They lay side by side in twin cribs of whitewood and silk, sunlight spilling over them like a benediction.

Mother stood above them, radiant and still. Cassandra remained by her side.

“Two perfect children,” the Queen murmured. “Proof that Rhoag blood can purify what lesser lineages taint.”

Cassandra said nothing.

Mother’s hand brushed her shoulder lightly. “You’ve always been clever, my daughter. I want you to think of a way to conceal their… uniqueness.”

Cassandra’s eyes flicked to the cribs—the glow of Perry’s iridescent eyes, the faint flare in all three of Raymond’s.

“That will not be easy,” she said softly.

“Nothing worth achieving is easy,” Mother replied, voice silk-wrapped steel.

“Perhaps,” Cassandra said, her tone colder now, “but it is dangerous. The more different they look, the more you risk everything you’ve built.”

Mother’s gaze met hers, alight with something between admiration and madness.

“My dear Cassandra,” she whispered, “greatness is born of risk. You’ll understand one day.”

“I already do,” Cassandra said, unwavering. “That’s why I’m afraid of it.”

The noblewoman smiled—a soft, empty curve that did not reach her eyes—and returned to the cribs. As Cassandra stood beside her, the light from the infants’ eyes flickered across the polished marble floor like reflections in a broken mirror. For the first time, she wondered if Mother’s dream was not to protect their family’s legacy…

…but to rewrite what it meant to be Rhoag at all.

Chapter Text

Morning came quietly to the Quimera manor, but there was no peace within its walls. Matrona Quimera was already awake, pacing before the nursery door as if guarding a vault rather than her own children. The air was thick with the scent of powdered chalk and the sharp tang of hair gel — her latest attempts to mask the traces of other bloods in her youngest pair. Two cribs sat by the window. Inside, Perry cooed softly, tiny hands stretching toward the sunlight, while Raymond gnawed on the corner of a blanket, oblivious to their mother’s meticulous scrutiny. Matrona knelt beside them, tilting Perry’s head toward the light, murmuring under her breath.

“Too bright… the shimmer in her eyes still lingers. And the boy—” she frowned as Raymond burped, a low, satisfied sound — “too loud. Mustari temperament, plain as day.”

A maid lingered at the doorway, wringing her hands.
“Madam, shall I—?”

“Leave,” Matrona snapped without turning. Her gaze, sharp and golden, swung toward the woman. “Leave, before I start questioning your loyalty. And remember—loyalty is not just a word. It’s a life preserver.”

The door shut hastily, leaving silence and the faint scent of lavender soap hanging in the air. Matrona exhaled slowly, pressing a palm to her temple. The illusion was fraying—not from external threats, but from within her own walls. Servants whispered. Lessons were skipped. Even the guards avoided prolonged gazes at the nursery room door. Her empire of discipline and deceit trembled under the weight of her own obsession. By midday, the manor was alive with motion, the corridors ringing with hurried footsteps and muttered curses. Curtains were drawn, walls scrubbed, floors polished until marble gleamed white. Cassandra and Malorn were drafted into Mother’s mania, their limbs aching as they obeyed.

“Fix the curtains—no, tighter! No sunlight on the babies’ faces!” Mother barked, inspecting each fold like a general surveying a battlefield.

Malorn’s hands shook as he tugged at the heavy fabric. “Mother, I don’t think anyone’s—”

“Do not think, boy. Do. Thinking could get us killed.” Mother’s eyes glittered. “And if anyone sees… anything… we all die with disgrace.”

Illiana, carrying a basket of laundry, muttered under her breath, “Lunatic noblewoman and her secret babies…” Cassandra shot her a warning glance, but the corners of her mouth twitched, betraying a faint smirk.

The day stretched long and laborious. Each moment brought another task: reposition a crib, blot a stain, touch up Perry’s eyes with a fine brush of pigment, press Raymond’s curls into submission so the slightest gray glint did not escape. Mother’s hands were everywhere, tugging, smoothing, binding. When she adjusted Cassandra’s wings under her robes, the cords dug too tight into her shoulders. Again Mother said as she worked, “Steady. Perfection is worth a little pain.” Malorn flinched as she pressed his ear tips back into the folds of his hair, the cartilage straining. Illiana whimpered softly as the headscarf was yanked over her horns, a sharp tug to keep them hidden. A ritual to uphold a lie.

By midafternoon, the siblings gathered in the sitting room, exhausted, dusting sweat from their brows. The walls smelled faintly of polish, chalk, and the metallic tang of anxiety.

“I don’t see why we’re the ones doing all this,” Malorn grumbled, scowling. “We didn’t make the secret.”

“Because we’re part of it,” Cassandra said evenly, arms crossed. “If anyone finds out, it’s not just Mother’s reputation on the line. It’s ours.”

Illiana rolled her eyes, tilting her head. She’s been getting sassier, perhaps a bad influence of the underhanded comments that had been spoken under Cassandra’s breath and whispered in her ear. “You mean hers. The rest of us can’t exactly fall any further in her good graces.”

The argument was interrupted as Mother swept into the room like a storm, robes rustling and hair perfectly in place. “So this is what you do while I shoulder the burden of this family’s survival?” she hissed, eyes blazing. “Sitting idle while I protect the name that feeds you?”

The three exchanged nervous looks. Cassandra spoke first, voice measured.
“We’ve been helping—”

“Not enough!” Mother snapped, stepping closer, every movement precise, controlled. “Every moment you waste is a chance for someone to see what should never be seen! If the truth leaks beyond these walls, everything I’ve built will turn to ash. The Rhoag name will rot in the streets, and you—” she pointed at them one by one — “you will wish you’d been stillborn.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the house itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then, unexpectedly, Illiana spoke, her tone flippant, as if daring the noblewoman to strike. “So, hide the babies, silence the staff, obscure the nursery— anything else, Mother?”

Matrona’s glare could have frozen flame. “Yes,” she said softly, the words sharp as knives. “Pray that I never run out of patience.”

By evening, the chaos of the manor settled into an uneasy quiet. The children retired to their rooms, whispering among themselves about their mother’s growing instability. None dared defy her but each carried the weight of her scrutiny in the tightening of their limbs, in the careful lowering of their voices. When the moon rose high, Matrona sat alone in her study. A single candle burned low beside her, casting warped shadows across the walls. She slid a polished obsidian mirror from her desk drawer, tracing a finger along its edge until a faint glow rippled across the glass.

A voice crackled from the darkness beyond the mirror. “Matrona Quimera,” it drawled, smooth and low. “I was told you wished to discuss an arrangement.”

Her lips curled in a cold, calculating smile. “Yes. Euchronia’s army have been... active. I have no doubt there is one general in particular who will understand the value of what I offer.”

“And what is it you offer, Lady Quimera?”

“Loyalty. Access. And the kind of power that won’t show itself until it’s far too late to resist.”

A pause, then the faint chuckle of the voice from beyond the glass. “You speak like someone who’s already chosen her war.”

“I have,” Matrona murmured, eyes hardening as she stared into the glass. “And I intend to win it.”

The candle flickered, the mirror’s glow fading to black. Matrona remained, half lost in shadow, half illuminated by the dying light, tracing her reflection with eyes that already saw a new world no one else could imagine.

Chapter Text

A year passed — though within the walls of the Quimera manor, time had grown claustrophobic. It did not flow so much as congeal, thick and airless beneath the weight of its mistress’s paranoia. The servants no longer whispered. They didn’t dare. The faintest murmur could summon Matrona’s gaze — and lately, that gaze was enough to freeze blood and curdle loyalty. At dawn, Matrona Quimera sat alone in her solar, the pale light of morning falling through lace curtains like a web. A newspaper trembled between her gloved hands. The ink was still fresh, smudged where her thumb had lingered over a single name.

Louis Guiabern.

The article spoke of a young general from Euchronia who had risen through the ranks with inhuman precision — a child of strategy and brilliance, ruthless and beautiful in equal measure. He had crushed a human battalion twice his number, seized borderlands long thought impregnable, and commanded loyalty as though born to it.

“Barely older than Cassandra,” Matrona whispered, her golden eyes narrowing with hunger. “And already the world bends for him.”

She reread the paragraph until the words burned behind her eyelids. It wasn’t just power that intrigued her — it was promise. Potential. A new bloodline. A force that could challenge, perhaps even replace, the decaying royals who looked down on her family with suspicion. She folded the paper neatly, her expression smooth but her mind ablaze. By midday, a letter had been written — sealed with wax, treachery, and her family’s dying crest. Her most trusted courier was to ride north to Euchronia’s capital and bring back everything there was to know about General Guiabern: his ambitions, his vices, his appetites.

A gamble, yes. But all queens must gamble when the board grows small.

In the courtyard, the next generation of Quimeras trained beneath a bruised sky. The clang of wooden blades and the hum of magic filled the air, steady as breath.

Malorn stood in the center, sweat streaking his temples as he parried a blow. “You’re getting faster,” he panted.

“Or you’re getting slower,” Cassandra countered, twisting her blade until it locked against his guard. For a heartbeat, their eyes met — and then she shoved him back with a grin.

Illiana lounged nearby on the fence, legs crossed, watching with lazy amusement. “You two sound like Mother.”

“Don’t curse us like that,” Cassandra muttered, earning a snicker from Malorn.

Beyond them, in the shadow of an old stone arch, Perry and Raymond watched quietly. Perry’s mismatched gaze shimmered faintly in the dim light — iridescent Nidia hues flickering through the contact lenses that covered them as they drifted off her pupil. Beside her, Raymond fidgeted, brushing at his bangs. For a split second, the hair shifted, and a faint gleam appeared beneath — the half-lidded third eye that marked him Mustari. Cassandra saw. Her stance softened. She lowered her sword and approached, kneeling beside the twins.

“Hold still, Ray,” she murmured, brushing his hair gently over the mark. “You know Mother will lose her mind if she sees this out of place.”

Raymond pouted, voice small. “Itchy.”

“I know,” Cassandra said. “But we can’t let anyone see what makes you special, remember?”

“Don’t like being special.”

“Neither do I.” She smiled faintly. “But we don’t get to choose that.”

She adjusted Perry’s contacts next, whispering reassurances as the younger girl blinked back tears from the sting. When both were settled, Cassandra pressed a kiss to their foreheads — a gesture born of habit, not command. Cassandra carries the two tired babies to their cribs in the nursery before laying them down.

“Sleep now,” she said softly. “Tomorrow will come whether we’re ready or not.”

The two children nodded sleepily. As Cassandra turned to go, Raymond’s voice drifted after her, barely a whisper:

“Will Mother stop being scared?”

Cassandra paused at the door, her hand tightening on the frame.

“No,” she said at last. “But maybe we can learn to stop being scared of her.”

That night, the manor lay under a shroud of silence. The corridors, usually filled with the soft murmurs of staff or the creak of old wood, were still — too still. Cassandra moved like a shadow through the dark, barefoot and tense. For weeks, she had felt something brewing in her mother’s study. The guards stationed outside it had doubled. Meals were left at the door instead of being brought in. Even the air near that room felt different — heavier, charged.

She reached the study door and crouched near the keyhole. Candlelight flickered through, and within, she saw her mother hunched over a desk littered with parchment — page after page covered in sprawling diagrams and feverish notes. Cassandra leaned closer, squinting. The papers were covered with symbols she only half recognized — genetic tables, and half-legible annotations in a script caught between science and magic.

Then she saw the heading, written in Matrona’s sharp, unmistakable hand:

“Eugief Hybridization: Theoretical Outcomes.”

Her blood ran cold.

The notes beneath were meticulous:
— higher resistance to disease
— accelerated magical potential
— enhanced sensory perception
— transcendent evolution of Rhoag bloodline

There were sketches too — not monsters, but children—silhouettes of half-formed children annotated with numbers, gene ratios, and statistics. Cassandra’s stomach turned. Mother wasn’t studying. She was planning. A sound echoed down the hall — heavy, deliberate footsteps. Cassandra jerked back from the door, pressing herself flat against the wall as the steps drew near. They stopped outside the study. The latch clicked. Candlelight spilled briefly into the hall as the door opened.

A figure entered — small, precise in movement. Bat-like ears peeked from beneath a hood; folded wings shimmered faintly in the light. His eyes glowed faintly silver in the dark, reflective and depthless. A Eugief. Cassandra’s breath caught. A real one. Not a picture, not a rumor — but one of the shadow-born, the tribe her mother had only ever spoken of in hushed, reverent tones.

Inside, Matrona’s voice carried, low and steady.
“You’re late.”

“I came as soon as I received your message,” the Eugief replied. His tone was calm, but beneath it was something careful — the poised restraint of someone from a tribe that had survived centuries of suspicion. “You said this concerned… lineage.”

Matrona smiled — slow and sharp, like a blade drawn from silk.
“Indeed. If your kind truly sees what others cannot, then you already know why you’re here.”

The Eugief tilted his head, wings rustling softly. “You wish to merge bloodlines.”

“I wish to perfect one,” Matrona corrected, her gaze gleaming. “Roussainte breed soldiers. The Rhoags breed legacy. But the Eugief…” She stepped closer, voice lowering. “You breed skill, 'tis a sham your kind do not live long enough to see that skill used efficiently."

He regarded her in silence for a long moment, the flicker of the candlelight caught in his strange, opalescent pupils. Finally, he inclined his head. “Then show me what you see, Lady Quimera.”

Her hand brushed his cheek — reverent, almost tender. “Something greater than any of us.”

Cassandra bit down on her lip to keep from making a sound. Her pulse roared in her ears. She understood, then, that this was no alliance. It was consumption. Matrona would not join with the Eugief — she would use him. As the man stepped deeper into the room, swallowed by the shadows, Cassandra turned and fled, running soundlessly through the corridor. The candlelight behind her dimmed, then vanished entirely as the door closed. 

Matrona’s gambit had begun. The pieces were in motion.
And Cassandra, trembling in the dark, could already sense it — whatever her mother was creating would not stop with them.

It would consume them all.

Chapter Text

In the children’s chamber, a single lamp burned, its light haloed through the soft veil of dust motes. Cassandra, Malorn, and Illiana huddled near the center of the room, where a bundle of crimson and gold rested atop a cradle of silk.

Eclipse Quimera.

The newborn’s wings — delicate, translucent things veined with silver along their forearm— twitched now and then in half-conscious spasms. Each motion seemed uncertain, as though their very body questioned their right to exist. Their breath came soft and shallow, a fragile rhythm that made Cassandra hold her own, terrified to disturb it. It had been only days since the birth, but the weight of secrecy had aged them all. No servants had been called. No midwife, no guards, no celebration. Mother had permitted no one else to know. This child was hers alone — and by extension, theirs to bear in silence.

Cassandra sat cross-legged before the cradle, her fingers tracing the fine, cold skin of the infant’s hand. “Breathe, Eclipse,” she murmured, voice barely audible. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Eclipse whimpered, the sound as small and sharp as a bird’s cry.

Malorn stood by the wall, wringing his hands, the anxiety too large for his growing body. “Cass…” he began, eyes flicking toward the door, “do you think he’s—”

“Don’t,” Cassandra said quickly. “Just help me. Keep them warm, quiet, still.”

Illiana leaned against the windowsill, her reflection pale in the glass. “It’s weird,” she said softly. “They don’t even look like us. Not really.” And it was true, wasn’t it? Eclipse had been born with their mother’s Rhoag complexion, but that was where the similarities ended. Eclipse had large bat-like ears protruding from their head, their eyes were wide and red, while their nose was a small, twitching thing. His hands were sharp and bony, while the hair on his head bore small markings similar to those on a Eugief’s coat.

“They don’t have to,” Cassandra replied, not looking up. “They’re still ours. And right now, we’re all they have.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint rustle of fabric as Cassandra adjusted the blanket around the baby. Then the door creaked open. Mother entered.

Her presence filled the room like smoke — heavy, perfumed, commanding. The children froze as she crossed the threshold, her heels silent against the rug. In her hand, a small magla crystal hung from a fine chain, its pale-blue glow casting a shifting light over the walls.

“Children,” she said evenly. “Step back.”

The two obeyed, but Cassandra lingered a moment too long, instinctively positioning herself between Mother and the cradle. Matrona’s gaze flicked toward her, sharp as a blade unsheathed — and Cassandra stepped aside with her head bowed.

Mother knelt by the baby’s crib, movements deliberate and reverent. “I have done my research,” she began, her tone that of a lecturer rather than a parent. “A child born of Rhoag and Eugief blood is not meant to live. Incompatible essence. The body rejects itself. It's a pity Eugief blood, for all the wonders of their tribe, is simply incompatible with our greatness.”

She turned her head slightly, silvered eyes gleaming in the lamplight. “The chance of survival is near zero. But I do not intend to let fate squander my investment.”

Cassandra’s stomach turned at the word investment, but she kept silent.

Mother lifted Eclipse, cradling the infant with surprising gentleness. “It cost a fortune, but with this, I may be able to reject such fate. This magla crystal,” she continued, raising the magla pendant, “is a conductor. With it, life can be prolonged… even reshaped. I have seen the sick and dying thrive beneath its influence. It will sustain him.”

The chain clicked softly as she fastened it around Eclipse’s neck. Instantly, the child’s crying stopped. The faint twitching of limbs ceased. Their tiny body went still — too still — before resuming its breathing in slow, even intervals. A hush fell over the room. Even the wind outside seemed to pause, as though nature itself was holding judgment. Cassandra’s throat went dry. The glow from the magla stone pulsed in rhythm with the baby’s heartbeat — a pale, unnatural cadence.

“See?” Mother whispered, voice soft and exultant. “Magla bends to will. It preserves what should perish, what was weak becomes strong under its influence. With it…” Her eyes lingered on Cassandra, then on each of her children in turn. “…with it, perhaps perfection is not so impossible after all.”

Her tone had shifted — from maternal relief to clinical curiosity. The transformation was subtle, but unmistakable. Cassandra felt the chill crawl up her spine. She had seen this glint before — the one that came when Mother spoke of bloodlines, of destiny, of change. It was the same look she wore when selecting which parts of her children to hide and which to praise. Matrona stood, laying Eclipse back into the cradle. The infant slept soundly now, their tiny chest rising and falling in shallow peace.

“Keep them quiet,” she said, adjusting her gloves. “They are not to be seen by anyone. Not yet.”

She lingered a moment longer, eyes fixed on the glow of the magla crystal. There was something almost tender in her gaze — but beneath it, calculation coiled like a serpent. Then she turned and swept from the room. The door closed softly behind her. The echo of her steps faded down the corridor, leaving the children once more in fragile silence. Cassandra leaned over the crib, pressing a hand against Eclipse’s chest. The heartbeat was steady — steady, but strange. She wasn’t sure if it belonged to the baby anymore, or to the stone.

Upstairs, in her study, Matrona paused as a shadow moved by her door. Her messenger — the one sent north weeks prior — entered, bowing low.

“My lady,” he said. “News from the capital. The general you inquired about — Louis Guiabern — has surrounded himself with exceptional soldiers; his command over the military may rival that of the King, even. But his ranks appear to be poisoned with the presence of lesser tribes. There’s even a half-blood among them.”

Matrona’s expression did not change, but her eyes sharpened like drawn glass. “A half-blood?”

“Yes, my lady.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then a slow, thoughtful smile curved her lips.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “So the young general is not as bound by purity as his predecessors. That may prove useful.” She turned toward the window, watching her reflection shimmer against the darkened glass. “Tell me everything. Every name. Every strength. Every weakness.”

“Yes, Lady Quimera.” The messenger bowed again and departed.

Matrona remained by the window long after he’d gone, the candlelight painting half her face in gold, the other half in shadow. Below, the wind stirred the manor’s banners — the crest of Vastelune twisting in the night. Her hand drifted to her stomach, almost unconsciously.

“One more step,” she whispered to her reflection. “Just one more step closer to a world that will know perfection.”

Outside, thunder rolled in the distance. Downstairs, Eclipse stirred in their cradle, the magla crystal pulsing faintly like a second heartbeat.

Chapter Text

The study of the Quimera manor had become a shrine to obsession. Stacks of parchment and crystal vials occupied every inch of the vast oak desk, their soft clinks echoing faintly in the heavy silence. Candlelight wavered through the haze of melted wax, casting long shadows across the walls where Mother’s notes hung like hunting trophies—diagrams, sketches, and lists of observations so detailed they bordered on madness.

Matrona Quimera sat at the center of it all, her quill moving with mechanical precision. The air smelled faintly of ink, alcohol, and the mineral tang of magla residue. Her golden eyes shifted from one parchment to another, scanning graphs that recorded her children’s growth and reactions to her methods. Cassandra, Malorn, Illiana, Perry, Raymond, and Eclipse—each name had its own set of charts. Every aptitude, every anomaly, every achievement carefully measured and cataloged. Even the way their moods changed under certain verbal pressures had a line of data. But as Mother leaned back, exhaustion settling like a shroud over her elegant frame, her expression remained unsatisfied. She needed to do something more, something risky.

“These children are… investments,” she murmured, her voice almost tender. “Too valuable to risk. What I need… is something expendable.” After the success of the magla crystal in prolonging what should have been a failed experiment of the union of two incompatible tribes, Matrona had been fixated on what more magla could do. Her gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where a pile of old research texts lay open to pages about the Paripus—a race long persecuted, but prized by those in shadowy industries for their physical resilience and adaptability. They were survivors by design, bodies forged through centuries of imposed hardship. And where others saw tragedy, Matrona saw potential.

She tapped her quill against the page. “Resilient. Adaptive. Perfect.”

From that day forward, her focus shifted entirely. The household moved under a new, invisible order—letters sent, strangers summoned under secrecy, and one Paripus male chosen with cold precision. The man was strong, unaware of the purpose for which he had been selected. The union was transactional, not romantic. It was biology, a calculation written in flesh. It was a secret told then sealed away in an unmarked grave.

Weeks later, Matrona was with child.

She kept a magla crystal pressed against her body throughout the pregnancy, a steady pulse of energy feeding into her veins and, by extension, into the child growing inside her. The crystal hummed faintly at night, casting ripples of blue-white light across her skin as she took her notes. Her journal became a diary of calculated wonder—entries written in perfect, clinical shorthand.

Day 23: Heart rate remains elevated. Increased magla absorption correlated with fetal response. It is growing at an elevated rate.

Day 87: Surges during nightly exposure. Fetus adapting faster than expected. It’s already kicking.

Day 113: Energy readings exceed baseline. Viable mutation confirmed.

And then came the birth. It was swift, violent, and eerily quiet. No midwives were summoned; no servants were permitted near the room. When Cassandra arrived—summoned by a wordless pull—she found her mother standing amid the aftermath, pale but triumphant, a newborn cradled in her arms. The child was small, fragile as spun glass, yet his presence felt strangely… amplified. His skin held the dark undertones of Rhoag lineage, but his limbs were subtly elongated, his eyes dark and intelligent even in their first unfocused moments, his ears raised and more akin to a beast than a man. He was a paradox—fragility and resilience intertwined. The magla crystal around his neck pulsed faintly, a heartbeat that was not his own.

Matrona’s smile was soft, almost maternal, as she adjusted the crystal against his chest. “Nehja,” she whispered. “You will be my proof.”

Cassandra stood nearby, silent. Her breath hitched as she watched her mother’s hands move with the precision of both a surgeon and a sorceress—checking pulse, measuring breaths, making notes even as she rocked the infant. The journal lay open beside her, its ink still wet from fresh observation.

“You see,” Matrona murmured, almost to herself, “magla is not merely a force that drives magic—it is the architect of evolution. With it, I can shape what nature fears to touch. Weakness becomes strength… mortality becomes design.”

Her voice trembled not with fear, but with awe. Cassandra wanted to speak, to protest, but the words caught in her throat. Nehja’s tiny chest rose and fell, the crystal gleaming faintly with each breath. The faint hum of magla filled the air like a lullaby.

From her chair, Matrona continued to write, her quill scratching rapidly across the page. “He will live,” she said softly, “and through him, the next generation will rise beyond constraint. One day, my work will redefine the meaning of life itself.” Her pen stilled only when a knock sounded at the door.

Cassandra tensed as a servant entered silently, bowing before placing a sealed letter upon the desk. The wax bore the unmistakable crest of Euchronia—a dragon beneath a crown. Matrona’s eyes narrowed with sharp intrigue. Breaking the seal, she unfolded the letter carefully, her expression shifting from curiosity to something darker. The handwriting was bold and elegant—the script of one with noble teaching.

“I know you have been watching, Matrona Quimera. If you wish to prove your worth, come to me. Alone.”
— Louis Guiabern

The corner of her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. At last, he had noticed her.

The letter trembled slightly in her grasp, though not from fear. The opportunity was intoxicating. Louis Guiabern—the rising general, the prodigy of Euchronia—was a child who dominated armies through intellect alone. For months, she had studied him from afar, admired his ruthlessness, and seen in him a mirror of her own ambition. And now, he had invited her into the game. She folded the letter with deliberate grace and glanced toward Nehja’s crib. The infant slept soundly, magla’s glow flickering like a second heartbeat against his chest.

“Soon the world will take notice to what we can become.”

Outside, the wind rose, rattling the windows of the ancient manor. The candlelight guttered low, catching the gold in her eyes as she turned toward her desk once more. The house seemed to listen as Matrona Quimera straightened her papers, dipped her quill, and began drafting her reply.

The game was no longer about secrecy or survival.
It was about dominion.
And this time, Matrona Quimera was ready to step onto the board herself.

Chapter Text

For the first time in months, the Quimera manor stirred with something almost resembling peace. Dawn crept across the marble floors in hesitant strokes, silver and soft, catching on the fine dust of a house too afraid to breathe. In the courtyard below, the family gathered to see their matriarch depart. Matrona Quimera stood before them in traveling attire — dark velvet and high collars, her cloak clasped with gold filigree. Even dressed for the road, she radiated that same commanding stillness that made the very air seem to align itself around her.

“While I am away,” she began, her tone sharp enough to part the morning fog, “this house remains under my name. You will keep it intact. Cassandra, see to the servants. Malorn, the grounds. Illiana—” her gaze lingered, pointed, “—don’t go making a mess. I expect to return to find everything as I left it.”

“Yes, Mother,” came the unified reply — quiet, practiced, almost mechanical.

Her silver eyes swept over them one last time. For a heartbeat, her expression softened. The corners of her mouth twitched — not a smile, not quite — before she turned away. The carriage door shut with a dull, echoing finality, and soon the sound of its wheels faded down the long, tree-lined road. The silence that followed felt alive.

It began subtly — a collective exhale, a tension unwinding in invisible threads. Then, Illiana threw her arms into the air.
“She’s gone!”

Cassandra blinked, half in disbelief. “Just for a few weeks,” she said, though her lips betrayed her with a smile.

“Still gone,” Malorn grinned, stretching his shoulders as if shrugging off invisible chains. “We can actually talk in the halls without her shadowing behind us.”

Perry giggled from behind Raymond, who was already exploring the courtyard like a little lord inspecting his new domain.

“Let’s make a rule,” Illiana said, her eyes alight with mischief. “For as long as she’s gone — no titles, no curtsies, no lectures. Just us.”

Cassandra hesitated only a moment, then nodded. “Just us.”

The manor changed almost overnight. Gone was the tension that haunted every corridor; gone the constant sense that someone was watching. The servants dared to laugh softly among themselves again, and sunlight, once filtered through heavy drapes, was now allowed to spill freely through the windows. Cassandra found herself baking with Perry and Raymond, though “baking” was perhaps too generous a term — flour dusted every inch of the kitchen, and the resulting loaf resembled a lump of charcoal more than bread. Illiana laughed so hard she cried, and even Malorn, who was impatiently waiting for something to eat, couldn't help but double over beside her. For a time, they were a family unbound.

That night, they gathered in the courtyard beneath the stars, wrapped in blankets and each other’s laughter. Fireflies blinked lazily in the hedges like little floating embers.

“Do you think she’ll ever stop?” Raymond asked, eyes lost in the endless dark above.

Cassandra knew what he meant. She brushed a hand through his hair, the faint glimmer of his hidden third eye catching the starlight. “No,” she said softly. “Mother doesn’t stop. But maybe… maybe we can.”

Malorn’s expression grew distant. “Maybe when we’re old enough to leave. To have our own names. And our own houses!”

Illiana scoffed through a grin. “You? Responsible for your own home? You’d burn it down before breakfast.”

He threw a blade of grass at her. “At least I’d be free while I did it.”

Their laughter rang unevenly through the courtyard — fragile, defiant, and entirely human. For that fleeting night, they weren’t heirs or experiments. They were simply children who had learned, in their mother’s absence, what it meant to breathe.

The next afternoon, the manor glowed in sunlight and serenity. Cassandra’s laughter drifted through the nursery as she rocked Nehja and Eclipse in their silken cradles. Eclipse reached for her with small, light-catching fingers, his pale lashes fluttering as he grasped a lock of her hair. Nehja, ever quieter, watched — his dark eyes fathomless, ancient in their calm.

Malorn crouched beside them, offering Nehja a carved wooden toy. “What’s with that look? You’re already smarter than me, aren’t you?” he muttered, half fond, half resigned.

Illiana leaned over Eclipse, her curls brushing his face. “He just wants to stare at you. Like Mother does.”

“Don’t say that,” Cassandra murmured, but her tone was soft — a warning dressed as affection.

The older siblings lingered there, whispering nonsense to the infants, each smile a small rebellion. Perry brushed a hand over Eclipse’s cheek; Raymond played peek-a-boo with Nehja, earning tiny, breathy coos. Then, suddenly, both infants turned toward the window. Their eyes gleamed with a faint, eerie light reflecting the magla crystal around their necks, glowing brighter. The laughter faded. For a moment, Cassandra felt something — like a ripple in a still ocean, like a growing anxiety bubbling in her chest and fit to burst. It passed quickly, leaving only silence and the sound of her own pulse.

“You two must be tired,” she said, forcing a smile as she tucked Nehja into his blanket to rest. “Rest up, little siblings.”

But when she looked down again, Eclipse was still staring at the horizon, fingers twitching as though grasping for something unseen. And for that afternoon, they all pretended that they were just a family — not a project, not a prophecy. Just them.

Far from the manor, the world was not so merciful. The capital of the United Kingdom of Euchronia loomed before Matrona Quimera like a cathedral — a labyrinth of steel and marble where ambition sang through every echo. Soldiers marched in perfect formations beneath banners of crimson and gold. The air smelled of oil, gunpowder, and the unmistakable, yet hidden, stench of iron. Matrona entered the grand hall of the army fortress, her every step deliberate. Her heels clicked against the marble with a rhythm like a clock — precise, inexorable. At the end of the chamber, waiting as though he had always been there, stood Louis Guiabern.

He was younger than she’d expected — too young, perhaps — but something in his stillness made him feel older than war itself. His uniform was immaculate, his bearing sharp enough to cut through the heavy air. His eyes, like dulled steel, met hers with dispassionate calculation.

“Lady Quimera,” he said, his voice smooth and sure. “I confess, I doubted you would come alone.”

“Then we are both surprised,” she replied, inclining her head in a gesture that balanced between deference and defiance.

He studied her openly, as if reading a book he was deciding whether to burn or preserve. “Your letter fascinated me,” he said. “They read less like diplomacy and more like divination.”

“Observation,” she corrected. “Prophecy leaves room for failure. I prefer precision.”

Louis’s mouth curved — not quite a smile. “You speak of bloodlines as others speak of nations.”

“Because they are the same,” Matrona replied smoothly. “Every empire, every dynasty — built upon illusion. Purity, legacy, divine right. All fragile delusions. True power,” she said, leaning closer, “is born from imperfection refined.”

His interest sharpened. “You sound less like a noblewoman and more like a scholar.”

“I am a mother,” she said simply. “Which is to say, I create what others fear to imagine.” Silence settled between them — the quiet hum of two minds recognizing themselves in the other.

Finally, Louis rose from his seat, his epaulets catching the light. “So tell me, what is creation to you?”

“It is a warfare on nature,” she murmured. “Only the weapons differ.”

Louis smiled then — slow, deliberate, dangerous. “Then perhaps I should see your armory for myself.”

Her heart quickened, though her face remained still. “You’d find it… enlightening.”

“I imagine I would.”

He stepped forward, extending his hand. “Among my ranks, there is room for visionaries, Lady Quimera — if your vision serves my cause.”

Matrona met his gaze without flinching. “I never serve, General. I partner.” Their hands met — cool, electric, sealing something unspoken. When she left the fortress, the night air bit at her cheeks, but her pulse still thrummed with the aftertaste of danger. Louis Guiabern was not simply powerful. He was hungry. Like her. A reflection. A revolutionary. And for the first time in years, she felt tempted to share what she wanted with another.

Back at the manor, Cassandra awoke to the sound of laughter echoing through the halls. Illiana was burning another loaf of bread. Perry’s magic danced like fireflies across the kitchen tiles. For one more fragile morning, the world forgot its darkness. None of them knew that somewhere across the distant horizon, beneath the banners of Euchronia, their mother had just invited that darkness to dinner.

Chapter Text

The Quimera manor felt alive that morning — alive in a way it hadn’t since the children could remember. Without Mother’s ever-watchful gaze, the air seemed to expand, filling the halls with the light sound of laughter, with footsteps that dared to echo, with the smell of warmth instead of silence. Sunlight spilled through half-drawn curtains, painting the marble floors gold and soft. It was Illiana, of course, who first suggested it, as most dangerous ideas tended to begin.

“We should take them off,” she whispered, eyes glinting with mischief.

Cassandra froze halfway through plaiting her hair. “Take what off?”

“Our bindings,” Illiana said, her grin wickedly innocent. “The scarves, the wraps, the covers — all of it. Don’t you ever wonder what it’s like to be us? Really us?”

Malorn let out a low snort. “And get caught? Mother would skin us alive.”

“Not if we’re careful.” Illiana’s voice dropped into something teasing but almost tender. “Come on. Don’t you ever get tired of pretending?”

Cassandra hesitated. Her fingers found the edge of the cloth beneath her blouse — the one that held her wings folded tight against her back. It bit faintly into her skin when she breathed too deeply. The thought of loosening it felt dangerous, like loosening a chain.

“It’s reckless,” she said at last, though the conviction faltered on her tongue.

“Exactly,” Illiana replied, her smile spreading. “For once, let’s be reckless.”

Within minutes, the room was chaos — a flurry of nervous laughter and soft defiance. Scarves were unwound, wraps untied, old stitches of shame undone. Malorn tugged his ear coverings free and winced as air brushed against the faint scars where his rouissante ears had once been clipped short. Cassandra’s hand reached out instinctively, brushing against the ragged edges with no disgust — only quiet sorrow. He gave her a small, grateful smile. Illiana’s horns caught the morning light as she unwrapped them — small, pale spirals gleaming like polished ivory. She tilted her head proudly, running a thumb over one of the ridges. “See? Not so terrible.”

And then Perry — laughing like a mischief spirit — darted behind Cassandra with a pair of scissors.

“Perry, don’t—!” Too late. There was the sharp snip of fabric, a rip, and then —

Cassandra gasped as the bindings fell away. Her wings unfurled all at once, bursting outward in a sweep of white and silver. Feathers scattered like snow, drifting through the air. Blood rushed back into muscles that had been cramped and silent for years, and the sudden ache of freedom made her dizzy. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then, Illiana reached forward, fingertips brushing the silken edge of a feather. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered, awe replacing her usual teasing tone.

Cassandra laughed softly — a sound half-sob, half-liberation. “They’re heavy,” she admitted, stretching them wider, the motion trembling. “But they’re mine.”

That day became a week. The children hid in unused rooms, in garden corners overgrown with ivy, beneath canopies of dappled leaves. They existed as they were — unhidden, unashamed.

Cassandra taught Perry and Raymond how to braid fallen feathers into fans and ornaments. Malorn carved figures into the firewood logs, ears uncovered and proud. Illiana spent long hours sitting behind Cassandra, gently preening her sister’s feathers with the precision of a jeweler, scolding the others for laughing when she fluffed one the wrong way. In the afternoons, they would chase each other down the corridors, laughter echoing like the sound of a home finally alive again. For a fleeting time, they were not projects or progeny. They were simply children, drunk on freedom.

But peace is fragile — and in the Quimera estate, it is never allowed to last.

It began with a sound. The heavy creak of the front doors opening. The slow, deliberate strike of heels across marble. Every heartbeat froze.

“She’s back early,” Malorn hissed.

Illiana peered from behind a doorway, her face paling. “And she’s not alone.”

Cassandra’s blood went cold. Beside their mother, tall and immaculate in gold-trimmed armor, walked a stranger she had only heard of in whispers — Louis Guiabern.

“Quick,” Cassandra breathed, snapping her wings inward. “Cover up. Now!”

The nursery dissolved into panic. Scarves and bindings flew like frightened birds. Illiana wrestled with her horn wrappings; Malorn jammed a cap over his ears; Perry tripped over a length of silk in her haste to reach her contacts. Cassandra moved through them, tying, fixing, adjusting — her hands shaking — until she realized with horror that one pair of bindings remained undone.

Her own.

The nursery doors opened. Louis stepped inside beside Mother. His presence filled the room — cold, commanding, magnetic. The glint of his armor caught the dim light as his gaze swept the children, sharp and assessing. It lingered on Cassandra. The feathers on her back trembled. Mother’s eyes followed his — and in that terrible instant, Cassandra felt the world narrow to a single breath. She waited for the sting of discipline, for her mother’s voice like ice, for the world to come crashing down — but instead came silence.

Then Louis smiled. Slow. Intrigued. Almost delighted.

“How fascinating,” he murmured, stepping closer. “So these are the Quimera children.” His gaze lingered again on Cassandra’s wings. “Tell me, Lady Matrona… are they all so uniquely gifted?”

Cassandra didn’t dare breathe. Mother’s expression shifted with dangerous grace — fury melting into calculation. “Each bears potential beyond their lineage,” she said smoothly. “They are living proof that magla does not solely have the power to destroy — it refines. It perfects.”

Louis’s eyes gleamed. “Proof,” he echoed, tasting the word. “I would like to know more.”

“Then allow me to show you,” Matrona said, voice honeyed, already anticipating the alliance forming in the air between them. Before she turned to leave, she cast one last look at her children — a silent warning, the kind that burned deeper than any scolding. The promise of retribution on a condition. Then she led Louis down the hall and into her study.

Behind the closed doors, the candles burned low over parchment and crystal. Louis listened as she spoke — of theory, of bloodlines, of magla. Of creation disguised as evolution. His sharp features softened into fascination as she laid out her designs: how magla could awaken dormant traits, how nature could be rewritten through will and precision. When at last he lifted his head from her notes, there was something almost reverent in his voice.

“Mutation,” he said quietly. “The bridge between imperfection and divinity.”

Matrona smiled faintly, hands folded before her. “And with the right vision,” she replied, “divinity can be manufactured.”

In the hallway beyond, Cassandra stood trembling. Through the crack of the door, she could see their shadows moving across candlelight — two figures bound by ambition. The feathers on her wings shivered as if touched by a chill wind. For the first time, she understood something terrible and true: Mother’s dreams no longer belonged to the manor.

Louis had given them wings.

And soon, the whole world would learn how high they could fly — or how far they would fall.

Chapter Text

Yet time continued to pass since that night. Like any other day, the morning sunlight filtered through the manor’s tall windows, casting thin bars of gold across the marble floor. Yet the warmth that should have come with it never reached Cassandra. The air in Quimera Manor was brittle—every sound fragile, every breath weighted. Something was wrong.

Mother paced in her study like a storm bound by walls. A courier’s letter lay torn on her desk, its wax seal cracked and forgotten. In one hand, she clutched a trembling stack of parchment; the other tugged furiously at the edge of her robe.

“Blasted luck,” she hissed under her breath, pacing faster. “Louis—stripped of command, blamed for the prince’s curse. That useless King Hythlodaeus drowning in grief… the church circling like carrion. And me, forced to sit idle beneath their politics.” Her palm slammed against the desk. Papers scattered like startled birds—charts of magla resonance, diagrams of her children’s traits, her life’s work spilled onto the floor. “All this brilliance, stifled by incompetence!”

The children huddled silently in the corner. Seven pairs of eyes tracked her movements—Cassandra tense and upright, Malorn stiff and wary, Illiana rolling her eyes at her mother’s dramatics, Perry and Raymond clutching one another. Even the youngest, Eclipse and Nehja, whimpered in their swaddling, sensing the fury in the air. Mother stopped suddenly. Her silver eyes swept over them, sharp and searing.

“Do you understand what this means?” she demanded, her voice taut with a dangerous calm. “There’s no longer any point in staying loyal to a fallen crown. We are no longer bound by the games of nobles or the fear of kings. Their world is crumbling. We are free to act—and we will leave this place in a blaze of glory.”

Cassandra’s heart lurched. “Free?” she repeated, her voice trembling. “You’re talking about burning our home—because Louis lost favor?”

Mother’s gaze flicked to her, cold and cutting. “Do not mistake my pragmatism for madness, Cassandra. The world changes its rulers like seasons. I refuse to let us wither beneath another’s dead rule.”

Illiana’s voice wavered. “But… our home? Our rooms? Everything we’ve ever known—”

Perry swallowed hard. “Are we just leaving it all behind?”

“Yes,” Mother said simply, gathering her journals with deliberate care. “Everything that matters will be taken with us. The rest is ash and sentiment.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Raymond broke it softly, his third eye faintly aglow. “Then… where will we go?”

Mother knelt before them, her tone softening—but her eyes gleamed with zeal. “To the capital city of Euchronia. Louis has founded an independent faction under the nose of those idle fools—loyal to no crown and no church. There, my research will continue, unshackled. My work will evolve without limit.”

Cassandra’s stomach turned. “You’re destroying our home, our life, and calling it freedom.”

“Enough!” Mother’s voice cracked like a whip. The air itself seemed to flinch. “You mistake comfort for safety, child. I justify nothing to you. I act so that you may live in a world that fears you no longer.” Her tone dropped to something cold and final. “You will obey.” Cassandra lowered her head and bit back tears and words alike. Still, the heat in her chest refused to die. Mother’s orders came swiftly. Servants were dismissed. Every scroll, every vial, every magla crystal of value was packed into iron chests. Her movements were efficient—clinical—like a surgeon cutting away rot.

Then came the fire. The first wing burned quietly at first, a distant crackle and hiss. Then the flames spread, hungry and alive, racing up the draperies and devouring the old oak beams. The children stood at the threshold, faces bathed in the flickering orange glow.

Malorn’s voice was a whisper. “It’s… gone.”

Illiana’s small hand sought Cassandra’s. “All of it…”

Cassandra knelt beside her siblings. Perry clung to her skirt, Raymond’s fingers trembling as his third eye dimmed to dull gray. “We still have each other,” Cassandra murmured, her voice barely holding steady.

Mother’s voice cut through the crackle of burning wood. “Do not weep for ruins. You have your lives, your gifts, and my guidance. That is more than most can claim.”

Cassandra looked up, her face streaked with ash and defiance. “Freedom does not require fire.”

Mother turned toward her, eyes hard as polished steel. “Freedom requires sacrifice. One day, you will thank me for understanding that.” The carriage waited outside, its wheels glinting like obsidian in the firelight. The children filed in silently, Mother the last to board. As they pulled away, the manor’s collapsing roof sent sparks spiraling into the night—a funeral pyre for the life they had known. The journey to Euchronia’s capital was quiet. The world beyond the windows blurred into motion—forests giving way to frozen fields, then to desert, until finally the metallic haze of cities beneath a unified banner.

Malorn stared at the horizon, jaw clenched. Illiana leaned against him, silent tears drying on her cheeks. Perry and Raymond drifted in and out of uneasy sleep, as the two youngest remained silent in their swaddles. Cassandra watched the manor drift further and further away, as the smoke faded behind them, her reflection pale against the glass.

She could still smell the fire. Still hear the echo of Mother’s final words. The manor was gone, but its ghosts would follow them—to Euchronia’s capital, to Louis, to whatever new world their mother intended to build atop the ashes.

Chapter Text

The capital city of Euchronia rose from the morning mist like a fortress built by ambition itself—spires of steel and stone piercing the pale sky, walkways lined with carriages and people. The streets below pulsed with life: merchants shouting, airships humming, banners snapping in the wind. For the Quimera children, it was dazzling and terrifying all at once, and they wouldn’t miss the rare opportunity to explore once it presented itself. With mother yelling orders at various men unpacking their belongings into the small manor she procured, the children snuck out to see the city. Cassandra led them carefully through the narrow lanes, her hands gripping the edges of her cloak. The masks, bindings, and wrappings that concealed their mixed-blood traits felt heavier here, in this place where eyes were everywhere.

“Stay close,” she murmured. “And stay quiet. Just as Mother taught us.”

Malorn tugged uneasily at his hood. “Do you think anyone will notice?”

“Not if we don’t draw attention.”

Illiana had already darted a few steps ahead, her curiosity overriding fear. “Look at that fountain!” she gasped, pointing to a marble griffin pouring water from its beak. “And over there—market stalls!”

Cassandra hissed softly. “Illiana, wait—your horns!”

Illiana froze, cheeks flushing as she tucked the bindings tighter. Perry giggled, hiding behind her sister’s sleeve. “It’s… huge,” she whispered, her mismatched glimmering eyes hidden behind contact lenses.

Raymond kept his head low, twisting his hair to obscure the faint shimmer of his hidden third eye. “Too many people,” he muttered. “Too many eyes.”

Even the youngest—Eclipse and Nehja, wrapped in soft linen and carried close to Cassandra’s chest—sensed the tension. They squirmed, tiny hands clutching at her cloak. Cassandra kissed their foreheads, whispering, “We’ll explore slowly. No mistakes.” The day became a cautious dance. The children lingered at corners, marveled at the colorful banners and gleaming trams that glided over the cobblestones, then retreated when gazes lingered too long. In brief, stolen moments, joy found them anyway—Illiana’s laughter echoing through an alleyway, Perry balancing on a low fountain rim, Cassandra smiling as Malorn teased her about her motherly fussing. In the eyes of those passerbys, they were only children—not experiments, not liars hiding sin beneath bindings, just children basking in the joy of mundanity.

But elsewhere in the city, their mother was crafting something that would change far more than their lives. Deep within Louis Guiabern’s property, the air pulsed with magla—thick, metallic, alive. The laboratory was a cathedral to the sciences, its walls etched with notes; vials glowed faintly in time with the heartbeats of those inside. Mother Quimera stood beside Louis, her hands clasped behind her back, eyes sharp and hungry. Candles flickered against rows of instruments—vials of luminous liquid, cages humming faintly with struggled movement, diagrams sprawling across parchment like veins.

Louis moved with precision, tracing sigils through the air as arcs of magic flared and folded in response. “Steady…” he murmured, his voice low with reverence.

On the floor before him, a small Eugief quivered in its cage. The moment the magic stream touched it, the air seemed to ripple. The creature’s body warped—elongating, folding inward, sinew reshaping as bones cracked and knit anew. A hum filled the room, so deep it vibrated in the chest. When the light faded, what remained was no Eugief. It stood upright—wild, blinking, uncertain—but undeniably human. It’s bizarre, unnatural form unmistakably resembling that of the monstrous creatures that rarely made their presence known.

Louis exhaled sharply, sweat glistening at his temple. “It’s… done.” His voice trembled with awe. “It’s a human.”

Mother approached slowly, her golden eyes alight with wonder. She touched the creature’s arm—flesh still warm, pulse erratic—and smiled. “Remarkable. To think such extreme transformations could be done using magla. You truly are as impressive as they say, Lord Louis.” Her mind raced ahead. If it works on lesser tribes to this extent… what could it do for blood? For lineage? For them? Could it be refined to turn man not into a beast, but a god?

Louis watched her carefully. “You see it too,” he said. “Magla is more than power—it’s evolution.”

Mother’s smile deepened, both beautiful and dangerous. “Not evolution,” she whispered. “Correction. A chance to create balance where nature failed. Imagine it, Lord Louis. No more half-bloods. No more imperfections. A perfected world, with one perfect tribe—my children first among them. The Rhoags reborn.”

Louis’s eyes glimmered, though if that shifting of his eyes was toward the same vision Matrona saw, she could not tell. “Then we begin here.”

Across the city, unaware of the transformation taking shape beneath their feet, the Quimera children explored further into the capital of Euchronia’s heart. They found a quiet market square where flame-lit lanterns bobbed gently overhead. Cassandra let Malorn sit for a moment, massaging the tender scars where his ears had been clipped. Perry adjusted her colored lenses, giggling when a merchant mistook her for a doll with such big gray orbs. Illiana twirled through a patch of sunlight, scarf fluttering around her horns.

For a few precious minutes, they belonged to the city. Cassandra watched them—smiling, though her chest ached. She could feel it: a pull in the air, a vibration deep beneath the stones. Their mother would not bring them here for this peace; the tides of their lives are changing, and this was merely the start. Far above the markets, in the fortress of glass and steel, her mother and Louis stood before a new creation— the beginning of a new age yet to be realized.

Euchronia hummed with energy. With danger. With promise. And the Quimera children, unknowingly, were already at its center.