THE NEXT DAY, I learned that our housemaid had been told by Dad to take some time off. It didn't surprise me, honestly. If I were in her shoes, I'd be rattled too, especially after claiming she saw something as ridiculous as a floating, glimmering bubble around me. Still, I couldn't help thinking this was less about giving her a rest and more about silencing her.
I mean, I'd known her for years, long enough to recognize that she was a chronic loudmouth, the sort who could turn a small mishap into a whispered scandal before the day was over. I could practically hear her now in the marketplace, clucking away about "the strange thing I saw in the Whitlock girl's room" while buying fresh bread. It wasn't hard to imagine how quickly that kind of gossip could spread.
And yet, oddly, I felt calm. Not because I believed she'd keep her mouth shut, but because of the way my parents had handled it. There was no visible panic, no desperate attempt to deny her claims in front of me. Instead, they moved with certainty, as if they'd been expecting something like this to happen. As if this had been part of their plan all along. And that should have unsettled me. But it didn't.
I sat there on my bed, absently twisting a strand of hair around my finger while wondering if maybe I should have been more concerned. Was this just another one of those "political family cover-ups" I'd grown accustomed to seeing from the sidelines? Or was it something entirely different?
My thoughts were then interrupted by a flicker of movement near the window. I then looked outside.
The morning light was unusually dim. The kind of muted gray that made it feel like the sun had simply decided it couldn't be bothered today. To be fair, the sky wasn't storming, but it was heavy, like it was bloated with thick clouds that loomed so low I half-expected to see them brush against the tops of the old oak trees.
And the air itself felt strange. Not cold. Not warm as well. Just still.
No rustling of leaves. No distant rumble of carriage wheels or the hum of morning chatter from the street beyond the estate walls. Even the birds that normally flitted about the garden seemed to have vanished. It was the kind of silence that wasn't peaceful. It was the same silence that happened before I was attacked by those strange men back then.
My stomach tightened without my permission upon remembering them.
I tried to shake the feeling off, muttering to myself that I was being dramatic. Maybe the weather was just being indecisive. Or maybe I was reading into things because of everything that had happened in the past few days.
Still, my eyes lingered on the sky.
It wasn't just gray. It had that strange yellowish tint, like parchment left too long in the sun. A sickly color that made me think of fever and dust. I leaned closer to the glass, pressing my fingertips against the cool pane. For a moment, I thought I saw the faintest shimmer pass over the clouds, almost like heat waves on stone. But when I blinked, it was gone.
Stop it, Alice.
The air in my room suddenly felt too thick, and I pulled away from the window, pacing once. Twice. If I let my mind wander too far, I'd start making up monsters in the shadows. And if there was one thing I knew about myself, it was that I had a bad habit of imagining the worst when there was nothing else to explain the unknown.
I told myself it was nothing. Just a gloomy day.
But somewhere deep down, beneath all my reassurances, a quiet voice I didn't like to listen to whispered that something felt wrong.
I ignored it. Or at least, I tried to.
***
When I stepped into the dining hall, I found Dad alone at the head of the table, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He wasn't reading the paper or scanning documents like he usually did in the morning. Instead, he just sat there, elbows resting on the armrests, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. The sight of him like that made my eyebrows furrow.
"Where's Mom?" I asked, hesitating a few steps from the table.
"Hey, Alice," he said without looking at me, his voice low, almost tired. "Your Mom's upstairs. Probably resting."
Something about the way he said it told me she wasn't simply sleeping in. I was about to ask if she was sick when his eyes finally lifted to meet mine. They were sharp, but not in the cold, businesslike way I'd seen him use in political meetings. This was different—like he was weighing something, deciding how much to say.
Then, without preamble, he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled something out.
He set it on the table between us and slid it toward me. It was a photograph. The edges were worn and the gloss dulled with age. I picked it up while studying the man in the picture. He had shoulder-length dark hair, a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and a posture that looked both casual and ready.
"Ryan Dawson," Dad said. "An old friend."
The words felt heavier than they sounded, as if 'old friend' was code for something else entirely.
I looked from the photograph to him, unsure where this was going. "And… why are you showing me this?"
Dad leaned back slightly, folding his hands together. "If anything were to happen to me or your mother, you find him, Alice. No matter what. You find him and you trust him."
I stared at him, the photo still in my hand. "What are you talking about?"
"Listen to me, Alice," Dad said. "I don't know what else to do at this point. I feel like they're up to you already."
"Who?" I asked. " Dad, you're freaking me out. Nothing bad is going to happen to you."
But he didn't even flinch at my attempt to brush it off. His eyes—those steel-gray eyes that had intimidated more political opponents than I could count—held mine with unwavering seriousness.
"This isn't a conversation about what we want to happen, Alice," he said quietly. "It's about what might."
There was something in his tone that made my chest tighten. I wanted to laugh it off, to tell him he was being paranoid, but the weight in his gaze made the words stick in my throat.
"Dad…" I said softly, "you're scaring me."
"I'd rather scare you now than leave you unprepared later." His voice didn't waver, but there was an undercurrent there—a strain, like the words were harder to say than he'd admit. "Ryan will know what to do. He can protect you."
"From what?" I asked before I could stop myself.
A shadow flickered in his eyes, quick and unreadable. "The kind of people who don't knock on the front door."
It was such a simple answer, but it felt like there was an entire ocean of meaning beneath it. I thought about the men in black, about the protests at the gates, about the constant guarded expressions on my parents' faces these past few days.
"Dad," I said again, more firmly this time, "if something's wrong, you need to tell me. What kind of danger are we talking about? Political rivals? Or something else?"
He looked at me for a long moment, and I almost thought he would tell me. But then he glanced toward the window, as though checking for shadows that weren't there before shooking his head.
"Not now," he said. "The less you know about them, the safer you are."
Frustration flared in me. I hated being treated like I was fragile porcelain. "I'm not a child, you know. If you'd just tell me—"
"No," he cut me off sharply, his tone slicing through my words like a blade. "This isn't about what you can handle, Alice. It's about what they can use against you."
I fell silent, my grip tightening on the photo. For a moment, the only sound between us was the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. After a few seconds, he reached across the table and tapped the picture in my hands. "If the day ever comes, you go to Willowmere. That's where you'll find Ryan. You don't wait. You don't hesitate. You go."
I swallowed hard, the name etching itself into my mind like an unwelcome brand. "Willowmere," I repeated quietly. That's the same exact place Sebastian mentioned when he swooped in my room.
"Yeah."
Dad leaned back, his expression softening only slightly. It was in that moment I realized something that sent a cold wave through me—Dad wasn't speaking hypothetically. He expected something to happen, and whatever it was, I wasn't sure either of us could stop it.
***
The mansion had always been a place of constant noise—guards shuffling about in their heavy boots, the low murmur of the staff exchanging words in the halls, and the occasional faint hum of the city bleeding in through the gates. But that evening, the silence was unnatural, the kind that settled deep into the walls and made the air feel heavier with every passing second.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the window without really seeing anything beyond it. The sky outside had long since slipped into twilight, the dim light spilling in like diluted ink. After a while, I noticed orange flickers heading toward the gate. When I realized what that was, it was only when the silence broke, shattered by a faint but urgent noise that I realized how tense I'd been.
At first, it was just a hum, indistinct. Then the sound grew, swelling into a chorus of shouts carried by the wind. My heart skipped. I knew that sound. I had heard it before, only days ago.
I shot up from my seat and darted to the window, my breath catching as I pressed my palms to the glass. Beyond the estate's iron gates, the same angry crowd had gathered. The same exact people from last time. I could see the familiar faces of men and women I'd glimpsed before—faces twisted with rage, lit faintly by the swaying glow of torches. But this time, something was different. The shouting was sharper and more frenzied, like a storm that had reached its breaking point. I could see the guards lining the gates, their hands gripping their rifles tightly.
Then, a sharp crack split the air. The sound echoed in my bones before I even processed it. One of the rioters dropped to the ground as he clutched his side. For a moment, the crowd seemed stunned into silence. Then, as if someone had poured gasoline on an already blazing fire, the noise exploded. Screams and curses pierced the night air. The mob surged forward, slamming against the gates with a force that made the metal groan.
I stumbled back from the window, my pulse hammering in my ears. This wasn't like last time. This wasn't just a protest—they were going to break in.
The first Molotov cocktail flew through the air in a slow, terrifying arc. I followed its trail with wide eyes until it shattered against the front steps below in a burst of orange flame. The fire spread hungrily, licking at the edges of the ornate wood and stone. Another came, and then another, the explosions of heat and light painting the night in chaos.
I bolted from my room, my bare feet slapping against the polished floors as I flew down the stairs two at a time. My mind was a blur, but one thought was clear—find Dad.
I found him in the main hall. He didn't look panicked. If anything, his expression was a mask of cold precision, the kind he wore in meetings when the stakes were high.
"Alice," he said, striding toward me, "take this."
He shoved something into my hands—a folded map, thick parchment worn at the edges, and the very photo of the man that he mentioned earlier, Ryan.
"What—?" I started, but he cut me off with a single word, his tone brooking no argument.
"Willowmere."
I blinked at him, my voice trembling. "Dad, what's—"
"Go to Willowmere. Find Ryan." His eyes locked on mine with a fierce urgency.
My fingers tightened on the map. "But—"
"No buts, Alice." His voice rose, slicing through the sound of chaos creeping closer. "Go. Use the back door and don't look back. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
The way he said it, it was as if his words were final. Absolute. My feet refused to move. My chest ached with the weight of questions I couldn't ask, not now.
"Dad—please, just tell me what's happening—"
"Alice!" His shout cracked like a whip, and I flinched. "Move!"
The thundering of my heart drowned out the roar of the crowd outside. My legs finally obeyed, carrying me toward the corridor that led to the back of the mansion. But the moment I stepped outside, I realized the danger wasn't only at the front gates. They were here.
Several men in black suits emerged from the shadows as if they had been part of the darkness itself. Their movements were swift, precise, like they were trained for this. Briefcases hung from their hands, but the cold focus in their eyes told me they weren't here for business. Pale skin. No eyebrows. No emotion.
My lungs froze for a second. It felt as if they entered the gate after the protesters barged into the mansion. It felt as if they'd used the riot as a distraction.
I then took a step back, my mind screaming at my body to run, but the shadows shifted again—more of them were closing in from the other side. I felt hopeless. Defeated. Weak. But out of nowhere, the air erupted with a rush of wind.
A blur of feathers swooped down from above, slamming into two of the men with the force of a hammer. I stumbled back as one of them dropped to the ground, his briefcase clattering open.
Even in the chaos, I recognized the spread of Sebastian's brown wings, the sharp glint of his owl eyes catching the firelight from the front of the estate. He wheeled back into the air and dove again, knocking another man off balance before circling to land just ahead of me. His talons scraped the ground, and his gaze was locked on me like a beacon.
"Run!" he yelled—his voice still carrying that crisp, uncanny British edge even in his owl form.
I didn't think. I ran.
My feet pounded against the gravel path with my breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. The back gardens blurred at the edges of my vision, every shadow suddenly a threat. Something made me look back, and honestly, I wished I hadn't.
Through the gap in the trees, the mansion, my home, bathed in fire. Flames climbed up the walls like greedy fingers, spilling from shattered windows, devouring the drapes and the carved wood. Smoke churned upward in thick, dark plumes that swallowed the sky.
I slowed, unable to tear my gaze away. My chest tightened into knots—not from running, but from the sight of everything I'd ever known turning to ash before my eyes. The smoke grew heavy in the air, curling through the broken windows and spilling into the garden like dark, reaching hands. My lungs burned with every breath, but I barely noticed. When I was about to move away, I saw Dad. I mean, he was about to head to my direction, half-silhouetted by the inferno behind him. But someone knocked him off balance. He glanced at me as the crowd and the men in black closed in. His coat whipped behind him with each movement, his stance rigid, defiant.
"Dad!" My voice ripped from my throat, raw with smoke and desperation.
He turned for just a fraction, enough for me to see his face. Even from this distance, I could see the steel in his expression, but also something else. Something I didn't want to name.
I took a step forward, ready to run to him, to shove past anyone in my way. But then, three men in black suits appeared through the smoke with an eerie, practiced calm, as if the fire and screaming around them meant nothing. Their skin was pale like the rest, and their eyes were dead, empty.
One of them moved first, his hand darting from his coat. I caught the gleam of metal—a syringe, the needle long and sharp. Before Dad could react, it plunged into his arm.
"Dad!" My cry broke into a sob.
His body jerked at the injection. I saw his hand twitch, as though he meant to reach for me, but it faltered. His knees bent slightly, his movements slowing, the fight draining from him as whatever they'd given him took hold. The second man stepped in. The gun was already in his hand.
The shot rang out after, louder than the fire before, and definitely louder than the screams. It tore through the air and through me. Dad's body crumpled after the shot sliced through the air, folding into itself before hitting the ground.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped. The fire seemed to freeze mid-flicker, the shouting turned into a muted hum, and all I could hear was the thunder of my own pulse.
No. No, I didn't just see that.
My legs refused to move. My hands were trembling so violently that I nearly dropped the map clutched against my chest. Every inch of me screamed to run to him, to throw myself between him and those men, to do anything but stand here useless. But my feet were anchored in place, as though the earth itself was holding me there to watch. And swear, I could feel my chest closing, each breath harder to take than the last. But then…
"ALICE!"
Sebastian's voice cut through the paralysis. His wings beat the air above me, the gust strong enough to push against my frozen stance. "Run!"
I blinked hard, my vision swimming with tears. The fiery light blurred into streaks of gold and red as I cried. When Sebastian yelled once more, my body finally obeyed after being paralyzed due to the trauma.
The night swallowed me as I left the estate behind, my feet pounding against the dirt path, slipping on loose gravel. The cold air hit my face, mixing with the heat of my tears until I could no longer tell where the smoke ended and the salt began. Each step felt heavier, as though grief itself was pulling me down. The firelight faded behind me, replaced by the oppressive dark of the countryside. My lungs screamed for air, but I didn't stop—not until my legs felt like they would give out.
When I finally slowed, the world was silent again, but it wasn't the eerie stillness from before. This silence was hollow, like the ringing emptiness that follows the shattering of something precious.
My eyes then caught the outline of a willow tree after hours of running—a massive thing, its drooping branches swaying gently in the cold breeze.
I stumbled to its base, the map still crumpled in my grip, and let my back slide down against the rough bark. My knees gave way completely, and I pulled them close to my chest, curling in on myself as if I could shield my heart from the ache consuming it.
It was no use. The pain surged all at once, crashing over me like a wave too strong to fight. A sound broke from my throat—half sob, half gasp—as the images replayed in my mind. Dad's face in the firelight. The syringe. The gunshot. The way he fell.
I pressed my forehead against my knees, my tears soaking the fabric of my dress. The air was cool now, the heat of the flames far away, but inside, everything burned.
It wasn't just grief—it was disbelief, too. My mind kept trying to twist the memory, to tell me it couldn't have happened, that I would wake up and find him in the study, sipping tea as though nothing had changed. But reality was relentless, forcing me to see it over and over.
I don't know how long I sat there. Minutes, maybe hours. My sobs came in uneven waves, each one leaving me weaker, more drained. I also felt Sebastian perching atop the tree, but I was too weak to even care. I could only hear my own ragged breathing and the faint rustle of the willow's leaves, whispering above me as though mourning too.
The weight in my chest was unbearable, but exhaustion crept in like a shadow, dulling the edges of the pain. My head grew heavy, my body sinking further against the trunk. The adrenaline that had carried me this far was gone, leaving only the hollow ache and the fatigue pressing down on me. I clutched the map to my chest like it was the only solid thing left in my world. My eyes closed, though the images behind them didn't fade. The last thing I remember before sleep claimed me was the soft sway of the willow's branches overhead, their shapes blurring into darkness, and the taste of salt on my lips from tears that hadn't stopped falling.
Then, at last, the blackness took me—restless, but merciful enough to give me a moment's escape from the truth.