(Author's POV)
Morning came serenely, birds weaving melodies that seemed to stretch time itself.
Mrs. Peterson, in her soft orange gown, moved through the mansion with a calm warmth of sunrise. Her silver hair shimmered like spun frost; her pale blue eyes carried the tenderness and resolve of a woman who had built her world with care. She was halfway through her morning routine when the doorbell chimed—sharp, unexpected, and out of place in such peace.
"Who is it?" she called out to the guards, but silence answered. With a small frown, she turned to the nearest maid.
"Mira," she said, catching sight of the young maid juggling a handful of stickers, "go ask the guards who's at the gate."
Mira dropped everything and sprinted off, returning moments later, breathless.
"Madam, it's a delivery man—he says you should come take the package yourself, it's—"
Mira's words broke off as one of the Peterson children tugged at her skirt, giggling.
"Leave mommy, come play with us!"
Mr. Peterson chuckled softly. "Go with them, dear. I'll handle it." She set down her jug of juice and made her way toward the gate.
The estate outside was a picture of quiet luxury—maids pruning flowers, guards grooming the horses, sunlight rippling through the pool like liquid glass.
"Morning, ma'am," the mailman greeted, holding a small box. His cap shaded most of his face.
"Good morning to you, too. How may I help?" she asked, her tone calm but firm.
"Is this the house of Mr. Luke Peterson?" he asked, voice trembling slightly as if he was afraid of his own words.
"Yes," she said, curiosity flickering across her face. "Do you know him?"
"N-No... not personally. He just asked me to deliver this," the man stammered, extending the box.
Mrs. Peterson hesitated—something about his unease made her wary—but she accepted it anyway.
"Do you know where he is?" she pressed, clutching the parcel.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," the mailman said, leaving, "but that's all I can let on."
And with that, he turned and hurried away.
When the mailman vanished down the path, she noticed a note taped atop the box:
[ To my dear wife, ]
"Luke," she murmured, smiling faintly as she opened it. "You always have a way of surpr—"
Her words died in a scream.
"AHHHHH!"
The box tumbled from her hands. The sight of what lay inside was so grotesque, so wrong, that her knees nearly gave out. This was not a husband's gift—it was a nightmare wrapped in morning light.
...
(Arinelle's POV)
The tension in the air was thick. My family glared at me: my mom, my sisters, and even my dad, who had been filled in on the chaos.
"She's acting like a child," Seraphina declared loudly, as if trying to shame me in front of the whole house.
Downstairs, I felt their eyes avoid me, their cold shoulders pressing down like an unwanted weight. I wanted to disappear.
"Madam Arinelle," called a maid named Lina, always respectful, always bowing—even when I insisted she didn't have to.
"Yes?" I replied, halting in my tracks.
"Lady Vivienne wants you in her chambers," she said gently.
I hesitated, confused by my mother's sudden request.
"Go now," Lina urged softly.
With a reluctant sigh, I dismissed her and pulled up the hem of my emerald green gown. Taking a deep breath, I climbed the stairs, my heart racing as I approached my mother's room.
...
"Out!" Mother's voice was furious as I heard the sound of glass shattering. A maid hurried out, her face injured, and I was taken aback.
I had never seen Mother this angry before, which made me anxious about what awaited me.
Knock, knock, knock.
When the door opened, I saw my mother sitting elegantly on her cushion, which highlighted the beauty of her room. The windows were open, and the room was tidy, but the shattered glass and blood droplets leading to the door marred its perfection.
"Arinelle." Her tone was cold and devoid of emotion.
I swallowed hard; I'd never witnessed her in such a fierce state.
"Y-Yes, Mother?" I stuttered, trying to find my voice.
Mother took the form of a magnificent emerald serpent, radiating intense energy when she was angry.
"Close the door," she commanded, her crimson eyes glowing fiercely as I hesitated to meet her gaze.
I shut the door, its sound echoing ominously. She then slithered gracefully toward the doorknob and broke it, the pieces falling slowly to the ground like raindrops.
"Mother..." I called out, but it was too late; she had already used her tail to catch my leg and swing me to each corner of the room.
"Don't call me Mother!" she roared, her voice trembling with fury. I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or pity myself—maybe all three at once.
She finally released me, and I crashed onto the cold floor with a brutal, echoing thud.
"Haah… haah…" I panted, every breath scraping my throat as my body twitched in pain.
She began to change back—barely.
Her upper body returned to its human shape, though her scales still glimmered faintly across her skin and her eyes burned red. Her lower half, however, remained serpentine—coiled, powerful, and terrifying.
My thoughts scattered; vision blurred; head pounding like war drums. My shoes lay flung across the room, and my hair clung to my face in wild tangles.
Now I understood why Seraphina and Lysara had always feared Mother—since we were children, even till now. We had seen only her smile, never her wrath. And that smile… oh, that smile was the cruelest lie of all.
"Get up," she hissed, her voice slicing through the silence like a blade dipped in venom. The air around her shimmered, vibrating with raw fury. Every inch of her presence pressed down on me—heavy, suffocating, divine and dreadful all at once.
I tried to obey. I tried. But my body betrayed me. My knees hit the marble floor again, arms trembling like a leaf in a storm. The cold surface beneath me felt miles away, as though gravity itself had turned against me.
"I said, get up!" she thundered. The chandeliers rattled. The portraits on the walls trembled, as if even the ancestors feared her temper. Her voice wasn't just loud—it cracked something deep inside me.
Never in all my life—not when she punished Seraphina for defying her, not when she exiled Lysara to the lower wing—had I seen Mother this angry. Her eyes glowed like molten gold, her hair lifting slightly in the unseen wind, her power stirred.
My heart pounded so loud it drowned out everything else. I could feel it—the pressure of her divinity pressing into my skull, demanding submission. My hands clenched into fists.
Blood slipped down my nose, warm and thick. My vision blurred, then doubled. I swayed, reaching for a balance that wasn't there.
"Mother…" I whispered. The word barely made it out before the weight of her gaze crushed the last of my strength.
The world tilted. The ceiling spun. My head grew heavier—each breath slower than the last.
And then… the world went dark.