When I join the party again, I see Xavier talking to my parents. A woman approaches me with graceful poise and a warm smile.
"Hello, my name is Nina. I'm Xavier's grandmother. I must say, you are beautiful."
I smile, a little shy. "Thank you. It's easy to see where he and Ryan get their good looks from."
She laughs softly. "How are you finding the party?"
"Exhausting," I admit with a chuckle. "I'm used to Nicholas's parties—people are happy to ignore me there. Here, they aren't."
Nina gives a knowing nod. "Ryan mentioned you were friends with my stepson and his children."
"Yes," I say. "They're not just friends. Nicholas is like an uncle to me."
Her eyes soften. "Yes… Before everything happened, he was one of the most caring people you could meet."
I pause, then glance up at her. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"
"Of course not."
"Nicholas keeps trying to remember a soup from when he was a kid," I say. "He said it's something your stepmother used to make."
Nina's smile widens in fond recognition. "Let me guess—my special woodland soup?"
I grin. "That's the one."
She chuckles. "It was simple, really. We used butter or boar fat in a heavy pot, added onions, garlic, parsnips, carrots, a few turnips, and wild mushrooms—Nicholas was always the best at finding them. Then came the herbs: thyme, sage, and a bay leaf. We'd let it all simmer in a strong bone broth. Sometimes I added crushed chestnuts or barley, depending on what we had. It was the kind of soup that warmed you from the inside out."
I pull out my phone and offer it to her. "Would you mind putting that in my notes? I think he'd love to have it again. And maybe I could try making it for him sometime."
She takes it gently, her expression touched. "Of course, dear. That would mean a lot to him, I think."
As she types, I watch the memory flicker across her face like a candle flame—something tender and long past, yet still alive in her eyes.
When she hands the phone back, there's a quiet moment between us, a small but powerful connection stitched together by an old recipe and a shared care for someone we both love.
As if on cue, the grand doors creak open, and Nicholas enters the hall.
The music fades. Conversations die mid-sentence. Every eye turns toward him.
The air shifts—he carries the kind of presence that demands silence, whether he wants it or not.
Nina leans in beside me and whispers, "Greet him before a fight erupts."
Without hesitation, I raise my voice just enough to carry. "Uncle Nicholas!"
His eyes, sharp and searching, land on me. The tension in the room doesn't vanish, but it pauses—for a heartbeat—as I walk over to him and wrap my arms around him.
He hugs me back, warm and firm, and his voice is surprisingly soft. "I see you got the dress I gave to Mark to give you."
I nod, stepping back with a small smile. "Yep. I love it."
My dad approaches then, face unreadable, but his tone calm and firm. He extends his hand. "Good to see you again, Nicholas."
Nicholas shakes it. "You too, John."
And just like that, my dad turns, his voice rising slightly as he addresses the room. "Alright, everyone—mind your own business."
The murmurs start up again, more hushed this time, but the message is clear. The tension breaks—at least a little—and the party continues.
As Nicholas and I head toward the corner of the room, a sudden burst of shouting cuts through the hum of conversation.
Nicholas sighs, already annoyed. "Thomas."
I can't help but laugh. "It's always Thomas."
We both turn toward the noise, just in time to see my dad and Ryan leaving through one of the side doors. Nicholas follows without hesitation, and of course, I trail behind him.
Outside, chaos waits.
Nicholas and a man I don't recognize are in the middle of an argument. Ryan stands between them, clearly trying to keep things from getting worse.
"It's fine," Ryan says, trying to calm the tension. "He's invited."
"But sir, he is—" the man starts, then suddenly stops when he notices who's beside me.
His eyes widen as they land on the Baron.
"Why are they here?" he demands, like we've just ruined the guest list.
My dad steps forward, his tone sharp. "They're my daughter's guests. Please… let Thomas go."
The man reluctantly releases his grip, and Thomas brushes himself off, muttering something under his breath as he walks away.
My dad looks between them. "What happened?"
Thomas throws his hands up. "I don't know! One minute I'm on the phone to my husband, and the next—bam! The ginger prick tackles me to the floor!"
My dad rubs his temples and sighs. "I'm sorry about that."
And he says, 'I will just chalk it up to my good looks,'" Thomas says, grinning.
I chuckle, rolling my eyes. "Your dad wasn't tackled to the floor."
He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You cheeky little bitch, he is—"
I tease back, "A handsome man. Count yourself lucky you look like him."
I catch a glimpse of a smile tugging at my dad's lips, but Ryan's face is as serious as ever. Thomas pauses, looking between us, before asking, "So because I look like him, I'm also handsome?"
Nicholas laughs, shaking his head. "Now that's far-fetched."
I can't help but laugh along with them. Just as we're getting comfortable, Xavier steps up, his eyes scanning the group. "Is everything okay?" The sharp tone of his voice makes me pause, and I think to myself, What's with him?
We all turn to face him, and I smile reassuringly. "Yes, everything's fine."
Xavier glances at Ryan, a brief, almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes, before Ryan gives a brief nod. Then, we continue heading back to the party. But as we walk, I can't help but think to myself: Why wouldn't he take my word for it? Some people can just be so rude
As we get closer to the hall, an unsettling feeling grips me, something is terribly wrong. I stop in my tracks and say, "Dad."
He stops too, turning to look at me. "Yes, Shay?"
"I feel… something's wrong. I feel—" I cut myself off, my breath catching.
"Shay, you feel what?" he presses, his voice tinged with concern.
I start to cry, the words choking me. "Death. I can feel death."
Xavier steps forward, his voice flat, almost dismissive. "I doubt that."
Without thinking, I turn and run toward the doors.
I push them open, and that's when I see it.
Blood. Everywhere.
My scream rips through the air, a raw, uncontrollable sound that makes the very stones of the walls shudder.
The walls crack, lines of darkness spreading through the ancient stone, as if my voice is tearing the world apart.
The lights overhead flicker wildly, casting long, distorted shadows that dance and writhe, making the scene even more unsettling.
Whispers rise from all around, a chorus of voices, each one a desperate plea, a tormented echo of something trapped within me.
Blood leaks through the cracks, thick and dark, seeping into the floor like a living shadow.
The darkness deepens, a heavy, oppressive presence that feels like it's consuming everything, including me, pulling me under.
I stumble, my knees weak, and as I collapse to the ground, my gaze locks onto the blood-soaked walls.
There, reflected in the crimson stains, is something I can't understand—gold and black, dagger-like wings.
They stretch from my back in the reflection, grand and ominous, as though they're a part of me that hasn't yet manifested, a power waiting to be unlocked.
The wings seem to mock me, like a sign of something I'm destined to become, something I haven't fully embraced yet.
The sight sends a chill down my spine, as if the blood itself is speaking to me, warning me of what's coming.
The sound of footsteps halts behind me, and I know, even before I turn around, that Xavier is standing there.
His presence is palpable, like a heavy weight in the air.
I can feel his gaze on me, sharp, intense, full of understanding—and maybe a touch of something deeper.
It's the only gaze that matters, the only one that could pierce through this overwhelming moment.
As my vision fades, the reflection of the wings remains, haunting me even as the world around me slips into darkness.
The wings aren't real—not yet.
But they're coming.
And I'm not sure if I'm ready for them.