Chapter 18
AYLA
It’s been just over three months since I gave birth.
The estate has settled into its old rhythms—servants shuffling quietly, my father’s meetings echoing through the stone halls, Frederick prowling like a vulture already bored with his kill. And me? I drift through it all like a ghost in silk, clutching my daughter like a talisman.
Chelsea.
My daughter.
She came into the world without a sound—eyes open, fists clenched, breath steady. The med-techs called it unusual but not alarming. But I knew better.
I knew then.
She wasn’t like other children.
She was his.
And she was perfect.
Chelsea doesn’t cry the way babies are supposed to.
She breathes. She watches. She listens.
The first time I notice it, she’s barely a week old—swaddled in a blanket the color of milk, fists tucked under her chin like she’s thinking. Her eyes track me across the room. Not the unfocused flutter of a newborn, not that hazy, half-awake stare everyone tells you is “normal.”
Focused.
Alert.
Like she’s cataloging me.
“Hey, little star,” I whisper, leaning over the cradle. My voice trembles, not with fear exactly—more with awe. “It’s just me.”
Her gaze follows my mouth as I speak.
She doesn’t blink.
The nurse standing behind me laughs softly. “She’s quiet. You’re lucky.”
Lucky.
I smile, nod, play the part. But my skin prickles.
Chelsea is strong, too. When I lift her, she grips my finger with a strength that makes my breath catch. When she startles, the muscles in her tiny arms flex—not jerky, not uncoordinated. Purposeful.
And she never bruises.
Not when she bumps her head on the crib rail. Not when she kicks against my ribs as I carry her through the estate corridors. Not even when she squirms out of a blanket and rolls farther than a baby her age should be able to manage.
I notice.
I always notice.
Frederick notices nothing.
He glances at her the way one might glance at a painting—assessing value, not substance. He stands at a polite distance, hands clasped behind his back, nodding while the doctors chatter.
“A healthy heir,” he says, satisfied. “Excellent.”
I hold her closer.
“She’s colicky,” I say when she doesn’t cry.
“Allergies,” when she doesn’t sleep.
“Delayed development,” when she doesn’t babble.
Each lie stacks neatly on the last.
Frederick waves it all away. “As long as she grows.”
She does.
Too fast.
By three months, she holds her head steady. By five, she crawls like she’s stalking prey—silent, fluid, eyes locked on whatever has caught her attention. I keep her wrapped, keep her close, keep the curtains drawn and the lights low.
I tell the staff she’s sensitive.
I tell myself I can manage this.
At night, when the estate goes quiet and the stars peek through the balcony doors, I sit with her curled against my chest and whisper stories she can’t possibly understand.
“Your father was fierce,” I murmur, rocking gently. “He loved like it was war. Like it was worship.”
Chelsea’s eyes glow faintly in the dark.
Not red.
Not yet.
Just… warmer than they should be.
I tell myself it’s a trick of the light.
The nanny is new.
Young. Nervous. Her hands shake when she takes Chelsea from my arms. “She’s beautiful,” she says, voice tight.
“She doesn’t like loud noises,” I warn. “Or sudden movements.”
The nanny nods too quickly. “Of course, Lady Ayla.”
I watch them from the doorway as she carries Chelsea toward the sitting room. Every instinct in my body hums like a live wire. I almost call them back.
I don’t.
It happens fast.
A sharp cry—high, shocked. Not Chelsea.
Blood splatters against the pale carpet.
The nanny stumbles backward, clutching her hand. “She—she bit me!”
Chelsea sits on the floor, diapered and steady, one tiny hand braced against the ground.
Her mouth is red.
Not from teething.
From blood.
She looks up at me.
And she purrs.
A low, vibrating sound—soft, pleased, utterly wrong.
Then she growls.
The sound isn’t loud. It’s not even angry.
It’s possessive.
The room seems to shrink around us. I scoop Chelsea up before anyone else can react, pressing her face into my shoulder.
“I warned you,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “She’s sensitive.”
The nanny stares at me, eyes wide, hand bleeding. “That wasn’t—babies don’t—”
“Leave,” I say. “Now.”
Later, I scrub the carpet myself.
Later still, I sit on the nursery floor with Chelsea asleep against my chest, her breathing slow and even. When she dreams, her fingers flex like claws opening and closing.
I press my lips to her hair and whisper, “We have to be careful.”
Her eyes flutter open.
For just a second, they gleam crimson.
And I know.
Kallus, wherever you are—she’s yours.
And I will destroy the galaxy before I let them take her from me.
3 years later…
Time has a way of slipping past you when every day is spent hiding something sacred.
Chelsea is nearly three before I realize how much of her childhood I’ve spent in fear.
The early months were a blur of sleepless nights and hushed stories, gene masking and whispered warnings.
Then, like water carving through stone, the routines settled.
Bottles became solids, gurgles became words.
Crawling turned to walking. Her laugh grew louder. Her curiosity bolder.
But still—always—there’s the watching. The scanning. The hope she might just… remain undetectable.
Hope is a fragile thing. A brittle lie I tell myself.
Because it happens just after her third birthday. We’re in the garden, just the two of us. The air smells of lemon blossom and synth-grass, and Chelsea is giggling as she chases a blue-winged hopper that darted past the hedge.
“Mommy! Look!” she calls, holding out her arms in triumph.
And that’s when I see it.
A sharp edge of bone just below her right elbow—like a blade budding from her skin. Not broken. Not bruised. Growing.
My breath catches.
“Chelsea,” I say, careful, calm, kneeling down. “Let me see your arm, sweetheart.”
She toddles over, oblivious. “It tickles,” she says, grinning.
My fingers are ice as I run them along the raised edge. Smooth, sharp, already hardening.
Panic coils in my stomach.
I bundle her inside, make excuses to the staff, lock the nursery door. My hands are shaking as I initiate the gene recalibration interface. I run her biometric scan twice, three times, because I don’t want to believe what I see.
The Reaper markers are blooming again.
Faster. Stronger.
I prepare the serum, teeth clenched, inject her with trembling precision. She flinches but doesn’t cry. Her eyes—too bright—watch me with that eerie calm that’s always set her apart.
But this time… the markers don’t recede.
They dull. They blur. But they don’t vanish.
She’s outgrowing the masking.
Her DNA is evolving.
Changing.
Claiming what she is.
I stare at the monitor’s flickering readings until my vision blurs, then turn off every console in the room and pace. The walls feel too close. My skin itches with the need to run, to scream, to fight something.
Instead, I activate my emergency relay node—built in secret, housed behind a false panel in the floorboards. It’s encrypted. Traced to no network. A legacy of my mother’s war-spy past.
I key in the Reaper comm frequency.
“Khari,” I whisper, breathless. “Matron Khari, please respond.”
The line crackles for long seconds before a voice answers, deep and grating.
“You’ve hidden well, Ayla.”
I almost sob with relief. “I had to. They would’ve taken her from me.”
“Yes.” A pause. “And they still might.”
My gut turns to stone. “Her body is changing. Bone spurs. Strength. Sensory spikes. I restarted recalibration treatments, but they’re failing.”
“The child’s DNA is asserting itself,” Khari says bluntly. “She’s not fully human anymore.”
I close my eyes. “I knew this day would come.”
“But you thought you had more time.”
“Yes.”
Another pause. Then, softer, “You’ve done well. She’s alive. That alone makes you a warrior.”
Tears fill my eyes. “Is there… has there been any word of him? Of Kallus?”
Khari is silent a long time. “No.”
The word is a blade to the gut.
“The clan believes he fell in glorious battle. There is a statue. There was a ritual. We mourned him. We honored him.”
I sink to the floor, hand over my mouth.
Khari continues, quiet now. “But we have moved on. The stars do not wait.”
I end the call.
I collapse into the nursery, curl on the floor beside Chelsea’s cot. She stirs, sensing me, even in sleep. I brush a hand through her dark curls and whisper his name without thinking. “Kallus…”
She shifts, blinks awake. Her eyes are violet and gold in the moonlight.
“Mommy sad?” she asks.
I try to smile. “No, baby. Mommy’s just missing someone.”
She reaches up, her fingers soft against my cheek. “Don’t cry, Mommy.”
I kiss her hand, hold it there.
Behind us, the door creaks.
Frederick stands in the hallway, watching. Cold eyes. Unreadable face.
I don’t flinch.
Let him see. Let him fume. Let him burn.
I turn back to Chelsea, all that matters in this universe.
“Kallus,” I whisper again. “Please, if you’re out there… I need you.”
And for a moment, just a heartbeat, I swear I feel something.
A jolt.
A flash.
Red eyes.
Snapping open in the dark.
But it’s probably nothing.
Just a memory.
Just a wish I’m too scared to hope for anymore.