Lilith
Holly Palace
Raider city
Ardonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
December 26th 6414
I hammered away the pain, each strike ringing through the forge like a heartbeat of rage. Sweat poured down my skin, the heat of the furnace blending with the fire burning inside me. My muscles screamed in protest, but I didn't stop. I didn't want to stop. Not until the ache in my chest dulled beneath the rhythm of metal and fury.
The twenty-fifth piece of shaped shimmersteel clanged into form under my will when I sensed it—a ripple in the link. Aeternum had entered the forge lab. It didn't speak at first, but concern bled through our connection like smoke through cracks.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked up, my breathing heavy, my grip still tight on the hammer."What is it?" I asked, already feeling the change in the air.
Aeternum's voice was low, tense. "There's just been an explosion. Inside the Palace."
My pulse skipped."What?"
I didn't wait for details. My body moved on instinct. The hammer was still in my hand as I teleported—straight out of the forge, into my room, and then through the hallway. My focus locked on one person. Ella.
By the time I reached her chambers, the metallic scent of blood hit me like a blow to the face.
Ben was already there, his massive wolf form crouched low and alert, black fur slicked with red. The muscles under his coat rippled as he turned toward me, but his amber eyes told me everything—he was guarding, not hunting.
I rushed to Ella's side. She was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, trembling but alive. Her skin was pale, and her breath shaky, but I found no wounds. Relief slammed into me, but it was short-lived.
The air still hummed with something wrong. A residue of mana—foreign, thick, and laced with an ominous will. It clung to the room like a shadow that refused to lift. My heart sank as recognition settled in. That mana... it was familiar. Too familiar. It reeked of the same corruption that had taken Jen.
Slowly, I turned.
A body lay sprawled near Ben's paws. Blood had soaked into the floor beneath him. The wolf gave a low growl—not of threat, but of grim acknowledgment—as I stepped closer.
And then I saw his face.
I froze.
Emmett Levine.
His wide, lifeless eyes stared upward, mouth slightly ajar. One of his chakram blades lay near his outstretched hand, untouched.
My mind reeled.What the hell was he doing here?
And more importantly...Who—or what—had sent him?
After the chaos of the night, we found ourselves gathered in one of the smaller living rooms—an old chamber with high windows, flickering firelight, and too many shadows. The air was still heavy, charged with the remnants of fear and confusion.
Ella sat on the couch, her posture tight, hands clenched in her lap. She hadn't spoken much since the attack, but her eyes never left the flames. Ben stood near the far corner, still in his half-shifted state, a silent sentinel with blood-stained claws. Eduardo sat across from her, one leg crossed over the other, arms resting on the chair's frame near the hearth. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was sharp—watching, calculating.
The door creaked open.
Jack entered, Greta behind him, both marked by battle. Jack's tunic was scorched at the sleeves, and a dark stain—either blood or mana burn—smeared his right glove. Greta's armor bore dents and a slash mark across her shoulder plate.
I didn't wait for pleasantries.
"What the hell, Jack?" I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "I thought this place was supposed to be secure."
Jack winced. "Apologies."
"Apologies?" I snapped. "An assassin and a pack of Mana beasts made it to Ella's room. That's not a breach—that's a catastrophe."
Jack nodded, jaw clenched. "I know."
Greta stepped forward, her tone calm but grave. "There was no external breach. No break in the perimeter. The wards never flared. That's what's most troubling."
I narrowed my eyes. "So the beasts didn't come from outside."
She met my gaze. "No. They were summoned from within the grounds."
I turned away, running a hand through my hair, trying to process. "Of course they were…"
Jack's voice was low. "The assassin. You recognized him, didn't you?"
I nodded. "Yeah. I knew him. We served together back in the palace. He was one of the Royal Guard… his name was Emmett. Emmett Levine."
Greta stiffened. "Levine? As in—"
"The Manaborn family that specializes in Mana beasts," I said. "They're not just tamers. They bond with them and form blood contracts that last for life. Each one is trained from childhood to fight, command, and kill for them."
Jack frowned, brow furrowed. "So… he summoned the creatures from within the Palace grounds."
Greta nodded slowly. "It makes sense. No signs of entry, no triggered wards. The summoning circle must've been prepared in advance—disguised or cloaked."
Ella's voice was barely audible, trembling beneath the weight of her memory. "Emmett was… kind. He used to bring me sweets from the city. He taught me how to calm Mana beasts when I was little." She looked down. "There's no way he would willingly follow an order to kill me."
"He didn't," I said quietly. "He was controlled."
I remembered the dark, corrosive mana lingering in her room. It wasn't his. It didn't belong—not to him, not to this place. It slithered and whispered like something sentient, something twisted.
"That mana," I continued. "It reminded me of what took control of Jen."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "The King has an Enchantress by his side now. A powerful one. If anyone could dominate the mind of an Ascendant like Emmett... it would be her."
Eduardo leaned forward, the firelight casting long shadows across his sharp features. "But why would the King risk something like this? Attacking you on your own ground? He knows the consequences. The political fallout alone—"
Jack cut him off, his voice low and grim. "That's probably because this place isn't in my name."
A heavy silence fell.
I turned to him slowly, unease curling in my gut. "What do you mean?"
Jack exhaled. "This estate is registered under one of my alternate identities. It was meant to be off-grid—uncatalogued by the Royal Registry and outside the reach of my title. Technically, Jack Kuria doesn't live here. Which means anyone attacking this place isn't breaching Paragon territory."
"In other words," Eduardo said, brows narrowing, "your status won't protect us here."
"Exactly."
I ran a hand through my hair, tension mounting. "But how the hell did Emmett even find us? We only just left Thornhill."
Jack's jaw tightened. "Some of the guards stationed here were hired through the Holly Palace estate network. A few of them are mercenaries from Ardonia—Ascendants who couldn't land sponsorship as Dungeon raiders and took whatever job they could find. Emmett must've posed as one of them, slipped through the screening, and got assigned here."
Greta folded her arms, eyes sharp. "King Nehemiah must be more desperate than we thought. The situation in Zellux is unraveling. The Mircalla just declared independence—open defiance. That's no small shift."
"And he's losing control," Jack added. "Fast."
"Zellux did what?" Ella asked. She was' the only one surprised by what they had heard. The expression on my face made Greta smile a little.
"I suppose you all missed the news, given how buried you've been in your training," Greta said, her tone edged with urgency. "But there was an assassination attempt on Matriarch Patricia's life."
"What?" Ella breathed, eyes wide.
Greta nodded grimly. "It didn't succeed, but it was enough. Zellux wasted no time—they've declared full independence. The region has officially broken from the crown."
Ella's expression tightened. "It's worse than I thought."
"Fortunately, nothing happened to you," I said, trying to ground the conversation. "The Mana beast Emmett summoned served its purpose—to distract and create chaos. But Ben got to Ella in time. That's what matters."
"Still," I continued, glancing toward the others, "the enemy will know Emmett failed. If they were hoping for a clean kill, they'll be recalibrating."
Jack's jaw clenched. "And knowing Nehemiah… he won't stop. He'll just try again."
He looked around the room, voice steady but commanding. "We need to be ready. No more delays. In four months, all of you must complete your training."
His gaze lingered on each of us in turn.
"Because after that… we move."
****
I was back in Greta's lab—the air thick with the familiar scent of smelted ore, oils, and old parchment. The books she had given me were still spread out along the workbench, their pages marked with notes, symbols, and the occasional smear of soot. I'd read them all. Really read them. Not just skimmed through the words, but absorbed them, forged them into the foundation of my growing understanding.
And with that understanding came a humbling truth: I knew more than I ever had, but far less than I needed. The world was vast. The universe—colossal. Forgemastery wasn't just about metal and flame. It was about will, resonance, and the invisible threads connecting matter and meaning.
That quiet awe stirred something in me—a restless curiosity for the unknown. The kind that reached beyond steel and structure, toward the arcane truth behind creation itself.
Greta stepped forward from the shadows of a towering shelf, arms crossed as she studied me. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, gave nothing away. Whatever she was thinking, she kept behind that impassive face of hers.
"So… more hammering?" I asked with a tired smile, hoping to cut through the silence.
She shook her head. "Not today. Today, we start with actual forging."
My eyebrows rose. "Really?"
She nodded. "You've read enough. Now it's time to apply it. So—what technique did you choose to begin with?"
I hesitated, scratching the back of my head. "Well… I was tempted to go for one of the big ones. The flashy ones with threefold resonance and soul-bond layering."
Greta arched an eyebrow.
I chuckled. "But I figured I should pace myself. So I went with Iron Echo Forging. Simple, clean, and foundational."
"Iron Echo?" she echoed, clearly surprised. "Huh. I would've bet a dozen spirit cores you'd charge headfirst into something ridiculous like Mythic Flamefold Synthesis."
"Sounds like something I'd do, right?" I said sheepishly, shrugging.
Greta smiled—just a small twitch of her lips. "Honestly? I think it's a smart choice. The basics, when mastered, will carry you further than any shortcut ever could." She turned toward the forge, gathering a few tools. "Much better than what I picked for my first."
I blinked. "Wait, really? What did you choose for your first technique?"
Greta didn't turn around. "The same one I use now."
I stared at her, stunned. "You're telling me you mastered your current technique on your first try?"
She turned back toward me, expression blank. "Let's start the lesson."
I squinted at her. "No, no, no—you don't get to drop that on me and walk away. What aren't you telling me?"
She ignored the question entirely, sliding a raw ingot onto the bench like it was a full stop in a conversation. "Set your stance. Let's see if the Iron Echo actually answers your call."
I narrowed my eyes, but obeyed. For now.
But one thing was clear—Greta Stregha was hiding something. And I intended to find out what.
The lesson began not with metal or fire, but with stillness. Greta moved around the workbench with practiced ease, pulling out a smooth slab of reforged obsidian, a set of engraving tools, and a small vial of flickering liquid mana. She slid them toward me.
"Before you can forge anything worth keeping," she said, "you need to understand how to make it alive."
I blinked. "Alive?"
She nodded. "Through mana channels. A forged tool is just dead weight without them. These channels aren't just lines or grooves—they're the paths that let the object breathe. They allow mana to circulate, resonate, and eventually bond to its wielder."
I leaned over the slab, eyeing the shimmering runes etched into the tools. "So… it's like a nervous system for the object?"
Greta gave me a rare smile. "Exactly."
She picked up the mana vial, holding it between two fingers. "We'll start with something small. Something that will carry your mana signature and evolve with you. Every forgemaster needs their hammer—one that resonates with their soul. That'll be your first creation."
My breath caught a little.
A personal hammer.
I hadn't expected something so… symbolic. So intimate.
Greta saw the flicker in my eyes and continued, softer now. "Your hammer is more than just a tool. It's an extension of your intent. It remembers every strike you make, every failure, every triumph. It grows with you."
She placed a blank iron core onto the slab. "This will be the heart. Not ordinary steel—this alloy responds to intent. You'll inscribe it with your mana signature through a rune, then build around it. Handle, head, balance—everything flows from the core."
I stared at the raw material. It didn't look like much. Just a dull ingot with faint, flickering veins running through it. But as I touched it, I felt a pulse—not from the metal, but from within me. A subtle tug. A whisper.
Shape me.
"How do I begin?" I asked, barely above a whisper.
Greta handed me a fine-point inscriber, its tip glowing faintly. "First, breathe. Let your mana settle. Then picture the path it would take if it flowed through the hammer. Not just lines—purpose. Form follows will."
I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. In my mind, I began to trace the paths—an intricate web of meaning: resilience, balance, rhythm, memory. I wasn't just imagining lines—I was shaping intention. The life I wanted this hammer to have. Then I pressed the inscriber into the core… and began to carve. Each stroke glowed faintly with my mana, like light following a thread through darkness.
For the first time, I wasn't just training. I was creating. The faint glow of mana in the inscription lines pulsed once more as I finished etching the core. Greta stood beside me, arms crossed, a faint nod of approval on her face.
"Good," she said. "The runes are clean. No fraying, no conflict. That's a solid start."
I exhaled, a little shakily. "It felt like… it responded to me."
Greta's gaze softened. "That's how you know it's working. From here, it's all about learning to listen."
She stepped to the forge and motioned for me to follow. "We're starting with Iron Echo Forging—a foundational technique that'll become the bones of every advanced method you'll ever learn. And it begins with one rule: let the metal speak."
She adjusted the furnace's vents, revealing a crucible already glowing with heat. "Your job isn't to control the metal. It's to understand it—read its rhythms, its resistance, its heat. Every strike, every hiss of quenching oil, every ring from the anvil—it's telling you something."
Greta handed me the iron core I'd just inscribed, now fitted into a forming mold with a tempered ironwood handle.
"Let's begin."
I gripped the tongs and held the core above the roaring heat. Greta didn't give me a thermometer or a gauge—just a wordless gesture.
"Watch the color," she said. "A bright orange means you're close. A pale yellow means too hot. Dull red? Not ready. You need that cherry white glow—that's the sweet spot."
I studied the shifting gradients of the alloy—shimmering streaks and dark veins reacting to the fire. Slowly, the metal brightened, glowing like a dying star.
I nodded. "I think it's ready."
"Then move."
I laid the glowing core onto the anvil. Greta handed me a basic shaping hammer—not enchanted, not weighted—just cold steel and leather wrap.
"Now… let's hear your rhythm."
I raised the hammer and began to strike.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The first few hits were uncertain—too soft, then too hard. The metal flattened unevenly. Greta said nothing, simply standing beside me, arms folded.
"Listen," she finally said.
I paused, panting slightly. "Listen to what?"
She tapped the anvil lightly with her knuckle. The sound was clean, crisp. "To the echo. The metal talks back. If your rhythm falters, the echo distorts. Your goal is to create a resonance, constant and clear. That's the Iron Echo. It tells you when your strikes are aligned with the metal's will."
I took a breath. Closed my eyes.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
This time, I felt it—a faint vibration in my wrist, a hum that danced with the rhythm. The hammer felt lighter, easier to control. The metal bent, not under force, but through agreement.
"That's it," Greta murmured. "Now you're forging."
After what felt like hours—but was probably forty minutes—Greta stopped me.
"Now… test it."
I tapped the partially shaped head of the hammer with the inscriber's blunt end. At first, the sound was dull, like a rock dropped into thick mud.
"Too much tension inside," Greta said. "Hit the right spots again, with rhythm. Release the stress."
I adjusted my stance. This time, I struck with the breath of the forge, letting the hum guide me. When I tapped again… ting.
A clear, bell-like note rang through the lab.
Greta smiled. "You're hearing it now. The echo of balance."
We moved to the Whetstone. Greta demonstrated first—measured passes, even pressure, and a steady hand.
"Shape isn't just for looks. It affects balance, swing, and weight distribution. Your hammer should feel like a natural part of you—an extension of your intent."
I followed her example, sparks flying with each pass. The shape began to emerge—a slightly tapered head, grooves along the edge for channeling energy, and a faint rune embedded near the crown. It wasn't perfect. But it was mine.
The final part. Greta guided me to the quenching basin—oil mixed with bloodroot essence to temper the soul of the metal. I submerged the hammer slowly, steam hissing and rising like breath from a dragon's mouth.
"Don't just dunk it," she said. "Feel it settle."
As the metal cooled, I felt my mana echo within it, like the final heartbeat of a shared memory. Just as I lifted the newly forged hammer from the basin, the air shimmered behind me. Aeternum appeared—its ethereal form flickering with soft blue light.
Greta glanced at it, then at me. "Want to try a Soulfeel pass? Might as well give it a name, if it resonates."
I hesitated… then nodded.
Aeternum extended a hand toward the hammer. "Let your essence reach into it," it said gently. "Not to claim it—but to recognize it."
I placed my hand on the handle and closed my eyes. A faint hum spread from my chest into my palm… then down into the metal. Suddenly I felt it: warmth, rhythm, and a flicker of light.
My first creation. A forge-bond had formed. When I opened my eyes, the hammer glowed faintly. The rune near the crown pulsed once, then faded to a soft gleam.
Greta stepped forward and asked, "Well? What will you name it?"
I looked down at the tool—simple, sturdy, and resonant with me.
"Heartbeat," I said.
Greta's lips curved in approval. "A good name for a forgemaster's first echo."
And in that moment, standing with soot on my hands and the warmth of creation still lingering in the air, I felt something familiar. Not just pride.
Purpose.
The forge cooled to a quiet hiss, embers settling like stars into ash. I held Heartbeat in both hands, feeling the faint echo of my essence pulsing through the metal—steady, familiar, mine.
Greta stood across from me, her expression thoughtful as she turned over a thin ingot of manasteel between her fingers.
"You've made your first tool," she said. "Now it's time to learn what makes a tool more than just steel and shape. It's time to learn how to awaken it."
I looked up. "You mean enchantments?"
She shook her head. "No. Not yet. That comes later—after the groundwork is set. First, you must learn to form mana channels and cores within your creations. This is the difference between a sword and a spellblade. A hammer… and a relic."
She set the manasteel ingot on the table beside a translucent schematic crystal.
"Forging is just the skeleton. Channels are the veins, and the core is the heart. Without them, mana has nowhere to go—no flow, no resonance, no ability to hold enchantment or intention."
I leaned over the schematic as she tapped it. A 3D model of a dagger shimmered into view—cross-sectioned to reveal glowing lines branching through the blade like lightning vines. At its center, a small orb pulsed slowly.
"That's the mana core?" I asked.
Greta nodded. "Yes. It serves as the internal power source—an anchor that stabilizes and fuels any enchantments or rune-structures inscribed later. Some cores are artificial. Others are cultivated from rare beasts, elemental stones, or even crystallized mana essence. We'll start with a basic one: a mana-formed core, created through focused compression."
She handed me a blank piece of refined shimmersteel—no etchings, no shaping yet.
"We begin here," she said. "Take a moment. Hold the metal. Breathe into it."
I did as she asked. As soon as my fingers closed around the cool metal, I let my breath flow steadily. My mana responded, pulsing faintly beneath my skin.
"Now," Greta continued, "focus your mana into your fingertips. Feed it slowly into the metal. Not too fast. You want it to settle, not spike."
The metal pulsed gently under my grip, flickering faint blue. A drop of sweat trickled down my temple as I concentrated on directing the mana into the center, not around it, not through it.
"Good," she said quietly. "Now compress it inward. Imagine folding the mana into a knot—denser, tighter, until it forms a nucleus."
The pressure in my fingers grew intense. My vision narrowed slightly. And then—
Click.
A soft pulse vibrated through the metal.
I blinked. "Did I just—"
Greta nodded. "You formed your first core. Basic, but stable."
I felt it now, faint, but there. A quiet presence pulsing from within the metal, like a candle in a sealed jar.
"And now… the channels."
She took up an inscribing stylus and pointed to the schematic.
"Mana channels are carved from the core outward—never the other way around. If you start from the surface, you risk misalignment or mana backlash." She handed the stylus to me. "Trace lines from the core to the edges. Visualize it like blood flowing to limbs. A channel to the edge. A branch to the tip. A loop for return flow."
I nodded and began. My hands moved slowly, deliberately. Each line I etched glowed briefly before fading into the shimmersteel. When I finished, the network looked almost like veins—organic, intricate, purposeful.
"Beautiful," Greta murmured, inspecting the lines. "Do you feel how the metal breathes now?"
I closed my eyes… and I did. The steel felt warmer. Alive. It welcomed my mana instead of resisting it.
Greta stepped back and crossed her arms. "Now you're truly ready to begin forging items of power. Weapons, tools, armor, conduits. Anything you shape from here on should begin with this knowledge. Because without a core or a channel, your creations are just cold matter."
I looked down at the etched steel, feeling that quiet pulse of life I had embedded inside it. And I realized… This was more than crafting. This was communion.
_
Royal Palace
Pandemonium city, Royal capital
Hudsonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
April 17th 6412
By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting a golden-red hue over the capital, the banquet hall of Ashtarium Palace had transformed. The silver chandeliers glowed with soft, dignified light. Enchanted orchestral spheres hovered in the corners, projecting a delicate string ensemble. The tables now shimmered under fine crystalware and spell-woven silkcloths. Everything—from the scent of royal incenses to the calibration of temperature and mana resonance—had been fine-tuned to perfection.
And then the guests began to arrive.
The first to step through the grand arched doors were the noble vampires—members of the Nightblood Aristocracy, cloaked in elegance and silence. Their movements were fluid, their mana coiled like serpents beneath tailored coats of velvet and enchanted boneweave. One bore the sigil of House Thorne, another of Velmoor, and yet another of a lesser but ancient bloodline whose crest bore the symbol of a veiled moon.
Each nodded respectfully to the palace attendants but said little. Their kind did not waste words on ceremony unless necessary.
Next came the noble human families—affiliated with various satellite regions of Ashtarium. Some were wealthy merchant houses with military roots; others, descended from old heroes and tacticians of the Long war. They arrived in embroidered coats and military-style gowns, flanked by guards and mana scholars. Their presence were loud, their conversations politically charged and performed.
Close behind were the noble Wytches—figures draped in cloaks threaded with living runes and elemental ink. Their magic swirled around them like perfume, subtle but ever-present. The High Lady of House Caelistra, whose family oversaw the arcane wards of the northwestern area of the capital dome, arrived alongside her daughter, Thessaly, rumored to be one of the youngest Awakeners among the Caelistra coven. A few whispered greetings to Lilith as they passed, but most observed, calculating.
And then came the ones that drew everyone's attention—the sponsored dungeon raiders.
Known by name, admired by the lower courts, feared by rivals—these were Ascendants who had made their names not through blood, but by descending into the depths of the world and returning alive.
Kaelen Dray, the firebird-Scourge of the Red Obsidian Labyrinth, walked clad in battle-scorched armor enchanted to look ceremonial, his scarred face grinning beneath fire-colored eyes.
Vyre Selene, a Wytchblade of the Iron Hollow, floated inches off the floor in a runic gown of shifting metal, her mana signature like a cold storm held in check.
And Gerrik Stonehand, a Titanblooded warrior sponsored by the lesser House Jarna, entered with a massive obsidian axe slung over his back—clearly against regulation, but no one dared to question him.
Lilith stood near the side of the room now, positioned along the outer curve of the hall, her guard uniform pressed and her blade at her hip. She watched each arrival with hawk-like attention, her expression composed, but every breath attuned to the mana shifts in the air.
She noted who greeted whom. Who avoided eye contact? Who exchanged coded glances when they thought no one noticed. And above all, she marked the spaces left empty—seats clearly reserved.
Because the guests of honor had yet to arrive.
The Prince of Xibalba and the Queen Consort Rosa Mircalla would be last. And with them, the atmosphere would shift again—more sharply, more politically.
Lilith's fingers brushed the hilt of her blade, subtle but instinctive. Let the nobility toast their alliances. Let the raiders boast of their exploits. She would be watching for the threats no one saw coming.
Elsewhere in the palace, behind sealed doors and layers of warded privacy, Ariella Ashtarmel sat still as her handmaidens adjusted the final touches to her gown. The room was quiet save for the soft rustle of silk and the whisper of enchanted fabric responding to mana-guided threads. Her dress tonight shimmered with a subtle radiance—crimson kissed with threads of moon-gold, the high collar and sleeves echoing the formal style of her father's house, while the layered skirt bore ancient Lionheart embroidery with lion and dragon designs on them.
Her hair had already been braided with runic gems and set into a regal crown-knot, strands cascading down her back in waves of golden luster. Her hands rested calmly on her lap, but her eyes glowed faintly with light untraceable to this world.
"Still with us, daughter?" came the soft voice beside her.
Queen Guinevere Marie Lionheart-Ashtarmel stood a few paces away, her bearing ever the balance of strength and gentleness. No longer clad in court armor or battle regalia, she wore a simpler, formal gown of deep green and silver, her golden hair left down in smooth, elegant waves. Her presence grounded the room, the handmaidens glancing toward her before making even the slightest adjustment to Ariella's attire.
"I'm here," Ariella replied, her voice even. "Just… thinking."
Marie walked over and gently dismissed the attendants with a gesture. They bowed and stepped back, leaving mother and daughter alone in the soft amber light of the chamber.
"About the dinner?" Marie asked knowingly.
Ariella nodded. "And about the Prince."
Marie sat beside her, folding her hands. For a moment, she didn't speak—only studied her daughter's face. "You don't have to lie, Ella. Not to me."
"I'm not," Ariella whispered. "I just… I keep wondering if this is it. If this is the path laid out for me. Marriage. Duty. Negotiation. Nobility games." She thought of all the things she wanted to do. Become a Dungeon raider, go on a Dungeon expedition, and discover historical artifacts to study. And most of all, spend time with Lilith.
Marie smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "It may be. For now. But your path doesn't end in one room or with one name. As both an Ascendant and a Vampire, you have a lot of time on your hands. Time to do whatever it is you set your heart to do. But for now..."
"For now, I have my duties to attend to," Ariella said. Ariella glanced toward the polished mirror across the room. "Even if I have power, it's not mine to choose how I use it."
"No," Marie said. "But it is yours to decide how you carry it."
That silence returned, filled with all the unsaid things: the legacy of two great bloodlines, the court expectations, the whispers of conflict in distant corners of the world. Ariella was no ordinary child, and while Marie had always treated her with kid gloves, especially since the kidnapping two years ago, tonight, she looked at her daughter not as a Queen, or a battle-scarred matriarch, but simply as a mother.
"I don't know what he'll be like," Ariella said finally.
"You don't have to love him tonight or ever. You can try....," Marie replied. "But first you must look him in the eye, and let him see who you are."
Ariella inhaled slowly. Then she stood. The gown shimmered as she rose—elegant, dangerous, radiant.
"Alright," she said. "I should go meet my future husband."