"Patricia! Do you really think I don't know what is going on? Did you think I'm a fool?"
Her father's voice, booming and sharp, echoed through the family hall like a gavel slamming into stone.
Trisha didn't flinch. Not anymore.
She stood calmly in the center of the room, arms crossed, head tilted just slightly—defiant, but not disrespectful. She had long mastered the art of walking that razor-thin line. In fact, if defiance were a subject, she'd have graduated top of her class. Twice.
But the voice—that voice—still rattled something inside her. Not fear exactly, but memory. The echo of a time when she looked up to her father like he hung the moon. When his approval was everything.
She didn't respond immediately. Instead, she glanced past him to the giant family portrait that still hung over the ornate fireplace: a happy-looking version of them from years ago—her in pigtails, her father in one of his rare genuine smiles, her mother still beside him. Untouched by betrayal. Before it all shattered.
Her silence made him angrier. "Don't you dare look at me like that, Patricia. I know that face. That's your mother's face. Stubborn. Reckless."
That hit its mark. Trisha blinked once. Then her voice came, calm but sharp as a dagger. "Then maybe you should've kept her."
Her father's jaw clenched.
He wasn't used to her speaking like that. Not to him. But that was the problem. He still thought she was ten years old, living in fairyland, swinging between his arms, and watching cartoons on a loop. He didn't realize she'd stopped being a child the moment she moved in.
The new queen of the house.
Trisha still remembered that day clearly, though it was more than a decade ago. The day the housekeeper opened the door to let in her father's mistress—not a guest, not a friend, but a replacement. She came in holding a baby, wearing lipstick too red and a smile too bright. Her scent, all perfume and powder, didn't just fill the room—it choked it.
That night, Trisha cried in the shower, not because she'd lost her father, but because she'd realized he wasn't hers to lose.
She never cried again.
They'd let her stay with him under the assumption she wanted it—she was "daddy's girl," after all. But the truth? No one asked. No one cared. The adults simply passed her around like a suitcase labeled "minor."
She adapted.
She became quiet and calculating. She listened. She studied. And later, when adolescence gave her more freedom, she began to fight back in secret.
Not with arguments. Not with drama.
With training.
Martial arts first. Then parkour. Then firearms, knives, and survival skills. She took every class she could find, paying with the allowance she pretended to spend on makeup and snacks. Some nights, she snuck out through the balcony to spar with retired military instructors who thought she was just "an intense little tomboy with anger issues." No one knew the real reason she trained—why she practiced until her knuckles bled and her legs cramped.
She was preparing.
For freedom. For power. For a life no one could control.
Back in the present, her father paced the room like a lion in a cage.
"You lied to me," he said finally, stopping just short of yelling again. "You said this man—this Alex—your fiancé, he will stay and talk to the family?"
"I never said we will stay," Trisha said coolly. "You assumed."
"You shamed me in front of the family. Your stepmother nearly fainted."
"Oh no," she deadpanned. "The horror."
His glare could've sliced steel. "This behavior is unacceptable. I raised you better than this."
"No," she said, her voice tightening. "You raised me until I was ten. Then someone else took over."
The silence that followed was louder than any argument. It hung in the room like a ghost, and neither of them moved.
Her father finally sat down, running a hand over his face. He looked tired. Older. More human than powerful.
Trisha softened. Just slightly.
"Why him?" he asked quietly. "Why this guy?"
She paused. That was the real question, wasn't it?
Alex was a mystery. A forest boy with quiet eyes and deadly skills, hiding secrets under his hoodie like most people hide lint. She didn't love him—not romantically. But there was a strange comfort in his presence. It was like the universe had assigned her a bodyguard with sarcasm and superpowers.
"I trust him," she said simply. "And he treats me like an equal, not a child, not a trophy."
Her father looked at her long and hard. Then something softened in his eyes, something sad.
"You remind me too much of your mother," he murmured.
Trisha almost smiled. Almost.
Later that night, she lay in her room, staring at the ceiling. The window was cracked open, and the night air carried the distant hum of Davao's nightlife.
Her thoughts drifted to the forest again—the monsters, the near-death fights, the thrill of battle. She was no longer the caged girl waiting for a fairytale escape. She was the one jumping into caves and killing nightmares.
She smirked to herself.
Engaged. What a joke.
But then again, if pretending to be Alex's fake fiancée meant she could finally escape this political zoo, then why not? It's not like he was complaining.
She turned to her phone and typed out a quick message:
To: Alex
Still alive. Barely. Meet me tomorrow. We have hunting to do.
She hit send and tossed the phone onto the bed.
*********
Callum ended the call with a long sigh and dropped his phone onto the hotel bed like it had personally offended him.
Nearly an hour on the line with his Bailie—half interview, half interrogation. Titles, estates, legal obligations, press inquiries, and a very nosy cousin who somehow got involved. It was exhausting.
"Being heir to a bloody barony," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "is officially the worst perk in history."
He had no intention of wearing a sash or attending tea parties with boring aristocrats who smelled of mothballs and dead foxes. His father had already given him his blessing to chart his own path, far away from noble duties and family expectations.
"Sell the title," he had told the bailie, flatly. "I don't want it. I didn't ask for it, and I'd rather eat glass than sit in a dusty council chamber."
But the estate? That was different.
The land meant something.
It wasn't about the old manor house or the sprawling woods or the loch that shimmered like silver in the mornings. It was about the memories. About his father's love for the hills. About long walks in the rain and training with his first bow in the shadow of ancient pines. That land was part of him, and no title—no matter how royal-sounding—could replace that bond.
"I'll keep the land," he'd told the bailie. "But let someone else deal with the title and the crest and the ceremonial sword-polishing."
Now, sitting in silence, Callum leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Just a few weeks ago, he thought being Awakened meant he had become some kind of superhero. That he was chosen to save the world. That he had to act like it—noble, sacrificial, constantly brooding like some caped legend with a tragic past.
But then he met Alex.
And Trisha.
Everything changed.
There was something about being around them—something that made him feel alive in a way he hadn't felt in years. The thrill of the hunt, the teamwork in battle, the late-night debriefs filled with sarcasm and snacks—it was addicting.
Saving the world? Sure, that was still on the list.
But becoming stronger? Having each other's backs? Laughing in the face of danger, literally?
That was the real adventure.
And deep down, Callum suspected this wasn't just about monsters in caves or ancient creatures hiding in forests. No, it was bigger. Much bigger. Something in his gut told him they were standing at the edge of something far more vast than this world.
Maybe there were other realms. Other threats. Other secrets.
"Having friends," he said aloud with a crooked grin, "definitely has its perks."
He didn't know where this strange, insane journey was taking them—but he was on board.
"Let's see where this ride takes us," he whispered.