The night after the massacre hung heavy in the air like a funeral shroud. Kyra couldn't sleep. Not because of the blood. Not even because of the screams. But because of the look in Keal's eyes when he knelt before her—broken, feral, and desperately human in his need to be loved despite the monster he had become.
He had locked himself away in one of the estate's towers, not speaking to anyone. Not even her.
For hours, she stood outside the door, trying to say something—anything—that might draw him out. But silence was his reply. A silence colder than the night wind curling through the marble halls.
She didn't know how to fix this. She didn't know how to love a man so damaged he couldn't bear his own reflection. But she knew who might.
Soraya.
She was Keal's stepmother, yes—but she was also something far older and deeper than that title could define. Soraya had kept her distance from Kyra since the day she arrived. Polite. Mysterious. Watching. Never truly engaging. Kyra had been too caught up in her feelings for Keal to ask questions then. But now… she needed answers.
---
The path to Soraya's cottage wasn't marked on any map. It twisted past the bloodwoods, curled around a dead stream, and emerged through a wall of bramble that should've been impassable—but parted for her without a scratch. That alone sent a shiver down Kyra's spine.
The cottage stood half-sunken into the earth, swallowed by ivy and wisteria. The windows glowed faintly green, like moss beneath moonlight. Smoke curled from the chimney, white and unnervingly still.
She knocked once.
The door opened before her hand landed again.
Soraya stood there, tall and still. She wore robes of deep emerald and midnight, her black hair braided down her back and dusted with silver. Her eyes—violet, unnaturally bright—regarded Kyra with quiet intensity.
"Kyra," she said, her voice smooth as velvet and just as heavy. "I was wondering when you'd come."
Kyra swallowed, unsure if that was kindness or something else entirely. "I need your help. He's shutting down. He won't talk. He won't let me near him."
"Keal is mourning himself," Soraya said simply. She stepped aside. "Come in."
---
The inside of the cottage smelled like smoke, herbs, and something sharp—iron, maybe. The walls were crowded with shelves of books, glass jars filled with powders and roots, preserved things that didn't look entirely dead. Lanterns floated in midair, casting no shadows. A cluster of bones hung in a web over the hearth, chiming softly whenever Kyra moved.
She sat on the edge of a velvet-cushioned bench, unsure of what to touch. The place felt alive, watching her back.
"You said he's mourning himself," Kyra repeated. "What does that mean?"
Soraya moved to a low table and poured tea into two black ceramic cups. She handed one to Kyra, then seated herself across from her.
"When a vampire kills," she said, "and does not mean to—or does so in a state of frenzy—what remains afterward is not just blood on the hands. It is echo. A ringing in the soul. Some learn to silence it. Others are destroyed by it."
Kyra wrapped her fingers around the cup. It was warm, and something about it steadied her breath.
"But I've seen him feed before. I know what he is."
"You've seen him restrained," Soraya said, her voice low. "Last night… you saw what he's capable of when the leash slips. And so did he."
Kyra lowered her gaze. The memory of the blood—so much blood—and the way Keal looked at her after, as if begging her to run, still clawed at her chest.
"He thinks he's lost you," Soraya said.
"I'm not going anywhere," Kyra whispered. "But he won't believe that."
"Then you must show him. Not by comfort. By understanding."
Kyra looked up, meeting those violet eyes. "How?"
Soraya leaned back, studying her. "You were never just a girl caught in a storm. Something about you… pulses. Wakes the air. You need to know who you are before you can save him."
Kyra frowned. "What do you mean by that?"
"Have you never wondered why the forest bends toward you? Why firelight dances differently when you're near?"
"I thought I was imagining it."
"You weren't. But that is a truth we will explore in time. For now, you must know: what Keal feels for you is not just love. It is instinct. It is blood-deep. And it terrifies him."
Kyra sipped the tea, realizing it wasn't tea at all—but something else, earthy and electric, like drinking the first rain.
"What are you, Soraya?" she asked, not unkindly.
Soraya smiled faintly. "A guide. Nothing more."
"But you're his stepmother. You raised him."
"I did. But not as a mother. As a keeper. A protector. Keal was born of grief and fire. He needed both blade and balm. I gave him what I could."
There was silence between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
"Why help me now?" Kyra asked.
Soraya reached across the table, gently brushing her fingers over Kyra's hand.
"Because you asked. And because the war is coming, whether either of you are ready or not."
Kyra looked into the flames of the floating lantern nearest her. It flickered, then flared—once, like a heartbeat.
She thought of Keal, caged in his own mind. Of the way he touched her like she was both salvation and sin.
"I want to understand him," she said again. Firmer this time.
"Then come back before dawn," Soraya replied. "We will begin. But be warned, Kyra: understanding him may cost you the person you think you are."
Kyra rose.
"Maybe that's exactly what I need to lose."
And with that, she stepped back into the darkness, not realizing the path she had walked as a child had always been leading back here.
Only Soraya, standing in the doorway, watched her leave with a look of something close to recognition.
But she said nothing.
Not yet.