Chapter Forty-One
I’ve always wondered who my real parents are. I am Hecate, goddess of witchcraft. But someone must have created me. I asked Hades once if he knew who they were. But he didn’t.
I wonder if they ever loved me.
Or why they left.
Tabitha Wysteria
Queen Senka is dead.
The words battered against the walls of Mal’s mind, again and again, refusing to soften. She blinked once, then twice, as though sight itself might rearrange the truth into something bearable. How could her mother be dead? She had been with her only moments ago. Hadn’t she?
‘I don’t understand,’ she managed at last, the silence stretching thin and fragile between them.
‘She…’ Morthos shifted, suddenly ill at ease. ‘She appears to have jumped from her window.’
Mal did not wait for the rest.
She ran.
Up the narrow path, into the keep, past Ash’s voice calling her name, telling her to stop, to wait, to let him handle it. She did not listen. She could not. The world had narrowed to a single, terrible possibility.
Through the main hall. Up the winding stairs. Into her mother’s chambers.
The chair Queen Senka always occupied stood empty.
The sight wrenched something violent from Mal’s chest. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t spare a glance for the creature lurking in the corner, its low chuckle skittering along the stone walls at her grief.
Her attention drifted to the open arches across the room—no glass, never glass, for wyverians did not build barriers against the sky.
Their windows were always meant for flight.
For freedom. Queen Senka had always sat there, staring out over the sea, her mind wandering somewhere no one else could reach.
And now…
Mal stepped forward, slow and unsteady. Ash lingered at the threshold, begging her to stop. The creature hissed at the sight of him and retreated into the shadows, spitting curses as it went. Mal heard none of it.
There was only the thunder of her heart.
Could something already fractured be broken again?
It seemed it could.
She couldn’t lose anyone else.
She had already lost too much.
Mal stopped at the very edge of the arch and looked down.
The wind rose from the cliffs, cold and merciless, tangling in her thick black hair and sweeping strands across her face. She did not brush them aside. She simply leaned forward, peering into the dizzying drop below.
The ground was a patchwork of wind-blown sand from the beach, dark earth and brittle, dead grass.
And there, lying face down upon it, was the queen.
Mal’s breath tore from her in a broken gasp. She stumbled back from the arch as though the very air had struck her, her hand flying to her mouth. The pain came swift and savage, stealing the strength from her limbs.
She turned on her heels, sobs wrenching free as though something inside her had finally split open. The world did not merely tilt; it shattered.
Ash reached her within seconds, gathering her into his arms, holding her tightly against him. But she scarcely felt him. His warmth, his hands nor his murmured words could reach her.
There was nothing but despair.
Her mind dragged her back to that very morning.
Her mother had seemed…lighter. There had been a strange brightness in her dark eyes, a fragile flicker of something almost like peace.
She had spoken of Haven again, describing the conversation they had shared while she slept, recounting it as though it had been as real as the sea outside the arches.
Mal had sat quietly, listening.
More than once she had nearly snapped, nearly told her to stop.
Haven was dead. She was not coming back.
Speaking of her would not conjure her from the grave.
But Mal had learnt, slowly and painfully, that grief is not a single shape.
It wears different faces. For her mother, speaking of Haven seemed to soften the ache, to keep her close in some fragile way.
Mal had let her talk.
She had believed it helped.
Or so she had thought.
Ash turned her gently from the arch and guided her towards the hallway, one arm firm about her shoulders as though he feared she might shatter if he let go.
Morthos appeared by the stairs, anguish carved deep into his features.
‘I’ll go and retrieve the body…’ he said, his voice rough with something like shame.
Mal flinched at the word body. Fresh tears streamed down her face, and her fingers tightened desperately in Ash’s tunic. She could scarcely draw breath between the sobs.
And then…
The pain began.
It struck without warning, sharp and violent. Mal gasped and doubled over, her hands flying to her stomach as though she could cradle the agony itself.
‘What’s wrong?’ Ash demanded, fear flashing across his face.
‘I don’t know…’ She tried to breathe, but it came in ragged bursts. ‘It hurts.’
Ash barked something at Morthos—orders, frantic and urgent—and together they half-carried her to her chamber. The bed loomed before her, and the moment her back touched the sheets she thought, foolishly, that the pain might ease.
It did not.
It deepened.
‘I think…’ Mal gritted her teeth as another wave tore through her. ‘I think the baby is coming.’
‘Your wa-water hasn’t broken,’ Ash said, his brow creasing as panic threatened to overtake him. ‘It’s too soon. I didn’t see—’
Mal’s gaze drifted to the far corner of the room.
The creature stood there, half-shadow, half-mockery, laughing softly to itself. Its eyes gleamed with wicked delight.
‘It seems,’ it purred, ‘your husband is not able to see everything.’
Mal wanted to scream at it, to command it to vanish, but another contraction ripped through her, stealing the air from her lungs. She cried out instead.
Morthos hurried about the room, fetching towels and basins of water with shaking hands. Ash knelt at her side and took her hand, gripping it tightly, as though by sheer will he might anchor her to this world.
Moments later, her water broke.
And the pain only grew.
‘Something is wrong,’ she whispered, her eyes blown wide with terror. Her mother’s broken body flashed again and again behind her eyelids, a cruel refrain she could not silence. What if the same fate awaited her child? Her chest constricted; air would not come.
‘Mal, you n-need to breathe,’ Ash urged, fear etched into every line of his face.
She wanted to obey. Truly she did. But the pain was merciless, and grief was devouring her from the inside out. They paraded before her mind like spectres summoned to torment her.
Haven; crumpled upon the ground, neck twisted, black eyes emptied of life.
Kage; lost within the Underworld, frightened and alone.
And now their mother; sprawled upon the cold earth, blood trailing from her mouth into the sand as though the world itself had rejected her.
‘Don’t worry,’ the creature crooned from the corner, its voice silk and venom entwined. ‘As soon as the baby is born, I will keep it safe. You won’t have to trouble yourself.’
Another contraction tore through Mal and she cried out, the sound raw and animal.
‘Stay away from my baby,’ she gasped between fractured breaths.
‘What?’ Ash frowned, brushing damp strands of black hair from her burning forehead. ‘Mal, what’s wrong?’
Morthos hurried back into the chamber, and between the two of them they laid towels beneath her, wiping the sweat from her skin with trembling hands. Their touch was careful, desperate to help.
But none of it touched the true terror.
She wanted to scream at them to stop—that the towels, the water, the gentle hands were useless. That the true danger stood watching in the shadows, smiling with her own face.
She needed that creature gone.
She needed it torn from existence.
But they could not see it.
‘It’s what’s best for the baby,’ the creature said, its voice thick with false tenderness. ‘It could be like us.’
Another contraction ravaged Mal’s body and she twisted upon the sheets, a scream tearing from her throat, wild and broken.
The creature had edged closer.
Mal saw it. Saw the way it hovered nearer to the bed, to her and to the life struggling to enter the world. Her purple eyes widened in naked terror. What if it laid its claws upon her child? What if she, who had survived gods and monsters, could not protect her own daughter?
She could not stay.
If she remained here, the moment her baby drew her first breath, that thing might snatch her away. And Mal would not gamble with her child’s life. Not for comfort. Not for love. Not even for Ash.
She stared at him, silently begging him to understand. To see through her eyes what stalked the shadows. To forgive her, one day, for stealing this moment from him, for denying him the sight of his daughter’s birth, for not letting him be the first to cradle her fragile body.
As she began to let herself unravel, her form thinning into shadow, she felt the instant he understood.
His grip tightened around her hand, desperate, as though he might anchor her to the earth by sheer force of love.
‘Mal, please, no.’ His voice cracked, and something inside her shattered beyond repair.
She glanced back towards the creature. Its face twisted in fury, teeth bared as it realised what she meant to do. It lunged.
But Mal was already dissolving into darkness.
And then she was gone.
She landed within her shadow realm upon a bed woven of smoke and murmuring darkness. The air itself seemed to cradle her, cool and yielding, as though the realm recognised its queen’s suffering.
Her cries must have echoed across the void, for Vera and Allegra appeared within heartbeats, rising from the gloom like twin phantoms. Their purple eyes were wide, stricken with alarm.
‘The baby,’ Mal breathed. Her voice trembled, yet it no longer fractured the way it had in the mortal world. The pain here was different. Softer, almost bearable. More natural. In this realm she was sovereign. Grief could not devour her whole. Fear did not quite reach her.
Vera and Allegra moved with quiet urgency, guiding her through the labour, murmuring reassurances in low, steady tones.
Their hands were cool as dusk against her fevered skin.
And when at last a cry pierced the shadows—a thin, fragile sound that trembled like the first crack of dawn—Mal exhaled in relief.
Allegra cradled the newborn.
The child was formed of shadow and whisper, not entirely solid, as though sculpted from a dream half-remembered. A being of smoke and night, delicate yet ancient. Some might question the wisdom of birthing a child in a realm of shadows, but Mal did not doubt. Her daughter would endure.
She was made of nightmares and shadows.
Just like her mother.
Allegra stepped forward to place the baby in Mal’s arms, but Mal shook her head and forced herself upright, already gathering her strength to leave.
Vera hurried to her side, pressing a steady hand to her shoulder and urging her back onto the bed of smoke. ‘You must rest. You have just given birth.’
‘I must go,’ Mal insisted.
‘Do you not wish to hold her?’ Allegra asked quietly, something fragile threading through her voice, something Mal refused to name.
Mal did not look at the child.
If she did, she feared she would never find the resolve to leave.
‘You must both care for her for now,’ she said, her hand brushing Vera’s arm in fleeting gratitude. Then she stood fully, drawing herself together.
She cast them one final glance.
And vanished.
She did not once look at her daughter.
The moment Mal reappeared within the wyverian keep, the world felt heavier.
Ash was at her side instantly, his hands gripping her arms as though afraid she might vanish again. His entire body trembled. Whether from fury or fear, she did not know. She was too exhausted to care.
She pushed him away.
In the centre of the main hall lay her mother’s body, dragged inside by Morthos. Mal did not allow herself to look at it. If she did, she might shatter completely.
‘I need to sleep,’ she said, her voice hollow as bone. ‘When I wake, we can burn my mother.’
‘You had no right.’ Ash’s voice was tight, pulled thin with restrained rage.
Mal had reached halfway up the stairs. Her pale hand clutched the railing; her back was rigid with grief so dense it felt carved into her spine.
‘She’s safe,’ Mal answered. ‘That’s all that matters.’
‘I wanted to hold her.’ His voice broke on the last word.
For a fleeting moment, something inside her cracked.
But she did not turn back.
She resumed her climb, step by step, ignoring the heat of his golden stare burning into her like a brand. Hate. There was hate in it now.
Hate directed at her.
‘You’ll have an entire lifetime with her, Ash,’ Mal replied, her tone brittle and dry.
And without another word, she vanished up the stairs, leaving behind a hall filled with death, grief, and a husband who probably now resented her.