Chapter 20
AYLA
Chelsea is my sun and my storm. She barrels through life with fierce, unpredictable energy—brighter than fire, sharper than stars. Her eyes shimmer violet when she’s excited, red when she’s angry, and no one else seems to notice except me.
I’ve built walls around her life. Carefully curated lies, diagnoses, whispered excuses to teachers and medical staff. "Oh, she’s just sensitive." "A high-reactivity child." "Unusual, but not abnormal."
But I know the truth.
She is not like them.
Today, I sit in the headmistress’s office for the third time this semester. My back is stiff, my palms clammy. Chelsea sits beside me in her little uniform—scuffed shoes, hair undone, lower lip pouted like I taught her.
The door opens.
Ms. Elryn enters, clutching a bloodstained towel to her cheek.
“She bit me!” the woman sobs. “I was only trying to redirect her from—she—she just—lunged.”
“She didn’t mean it,” I say smoothly, pulling Chelsea into my lap. “She was frightened. You raised your voice. She’s very sensitive to tone.”
“She clawed me!” Elryn’s voice pitches up. “Her nails—her eyes were glowing!”
“She’s a child,” I say coldly. “And you’re exaggerating.”
Behind me, Chelsea whispers, “I didn’t mean to hurt her, Mommy.”
I kiss her forehead. “I know, baby.”
Ms. Elryn storms out, muttering about reporting me to the Board of Governors.
The headmistress says nothing.
She doesn’t have to. I already know we’re on borrowed time.
That night, I put Chelsea to bed with her favorite lullaby. She curls into my side, tiny fingers tangled in my nightdress. She’s warm, pulsing with life and power that’s becoming harder to hide.
“Mommy?” she asks sleepily. “Am I bad?”
“No, baby. Never.”
“But I hurt people.”
“Only when you’re scared. And I’m going to teach you how to control it.”
“Like Daddy?”
My heart skips. “Yes,” I whisper. “Like Daddy.”
Downstairs, Frederick is waiting in the study with a glass of brandy and his usual scowl.
“She attacked a teacher,” he says before I can even open my mouth.
“She defended herself.”
“She’s a child!”
“She’s Reaperborn.”
He slams the glass on the table. “I know what she is. And I’ve had enough of your fantasy. This child—this experiment—has gone too far.”
My spine stiffens. “She’s not an experiment. She’s a person. She’s our daughter.”
“She’s a liability.”
“No, Frederick. You are.”
His mouth curls, more snarl than smile. “I’ve already contacted Earth First.”
My stomach drops.
“They’ll run a full panel. DNA. Neural. Behavioral. If she’s what I think she is, they’ll know how to fix it.”
“You’ll kill her.”
“No,” he says. “I’ll normalize her. And if you try to interfere…”
He doesn’t finish the threat.
He doesn’t have to.
That night, I don’t sleep.
I sit by Chelsea’s bed, watching her chest rise and fall. Every so often, she twitches—dreams of stars, maybe. Or of red eyes watching over her.
I clutch the edge of the blanket, fists trembling.
Kallus, if you can hear me…
Come back.
Please.
We need you.
My world gets smaller every day.
Frederick tightens the leash slowly, methodically. It starts with missed messages from Chelsea’s school. Then the removal of my name from her emergency contact list. One day I arrive to pick her up and am told she’s already been taken—by her father. No warning. No discussion.
Now, I stand outside the nursery, fists pounding the oak with a desperation that hollows out my bones.
“She needs me!” I scream, forehead pressed to the wood. “Frederick, let me in!”
From the other side, silence. Then footsteps. Measured. Cold.
He appears in the hall, composed as ever, a glass of something amber in his hand and smugness painted across his face.
“No,” he says calmly, like it’s obvious. “You need correcting.”
“You bastard—”
But he’s already walking away.
Two orderlies appear from behind the corridor. And behind them, a doctor in a white coat, glancing nervously at a datapad.
“Lady Ayla,” the doctor begins. “We’ve been asked to administer a behavioral wellness protocol—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I whisper, voice low.
I back away from the door, reaching under the hem of my robe.
The Reaper blade is still there.
Small. Folded. Hidden in the lining Kallus had sewn for me long ago.
The one thing he left me.
The one thing they haven’t taken.
I snap it open with a flick of my wrist and press the cold edge against the doctor’s throat.
The orderlies freeze.
I feel the power return—not Reaper strength, not yet. But resolve. Steel. Fury.
“You dare bring your hands near me in my own house?” I hiss. “You think you can cage me like an animal?”
The doctor stammers. “M-my lady, I was only instructed—”
“I am still the Lady of this House,” I say, voice trembling but fierce. “And if you ever come near me again, I will show you exactly what that means.”
The blade hovers against his skin. Close enough that he can feel the heat of my breath.
He nods slowly. Swallows. Then gestures for the orderlies to back down.
They do.
Smart men.
I step away, blade still raised, never turning my back on them as I retreat down the corridor.
My hands shake once I’m alone again. But I don’t cry. Not this time.
I can’t live like this.
Chelsea can’t live like this.
He’s made it clear—she’s a project to him now. A specimen. Something to be catalogued and sterilized and brought to heel.
I won’t let that happen.
That night, in my chambers, I sketch out maps. Old blueprints. Access routes. Estate tunnels they sealed after the war, thinking they’d never be needed again.
I find them.
I study them.
I mark paths.
I memorize.
Because I’m going to take her. One night, one breath, one slip of the knife, and I will be gone.
I won’t survive long outside the estate. I know that. I’m watched, monitored, collared by wealth and scrutiny and Frederick’s damned reach.
But I don’t need long.
I only need a head start.
Long enough to find someone who still owes me a favor. Long enough to reach the Matron, or a smuggler, or anyone who can get us off Earth.
Somewhere the IHC doesn’t reach. Somewhere she can grow up without being hunted.
Somewhere we can breathe.
I return the blade to its hidden sheath and whisper to the air, to the stars, to the man I still hope listens:
“I won’t rest until I have my child back.”
The hallway lights dim for the night cycle.
Frederick doesn’t know what’s coming.
But he will.