Deep in the forest, moonlight twisted through an ancient stone chamber, casting long shadows across blood-stained walls. The air was light and chilled, almost as if it were about to rain, and the essence of mud mixed with crimson blood lingered in every bone of the place. The ground beneath was made of black, shiny marble—almost translucent—and if you looked closely, it told a story: murals painted beneath showed a majestic winged creature with sharp talons and curled, serpentine tails flying freely. But its expression wasn't pleasant—it looked like it was waiting for something… or someone.
Along the walls, intricate runes etched in gold and red pulsed with energy, like they'd been waiting centuries to come to life. These runes glowed faintly whenever the air shifted, activating as if responding to someone's presence in the chamber. They all pointed toward the same black-polished stone table in the center.
At the heart of the room stood a massive altar carved from stone and black marble. Atop the altar rested a large, translucent orb, flickering with a firelight glow, as though it held the last breath of a person inside—waiting for its master to awaken the power.
The room was eerily quiet, only the occasional drip of water echoing from somewhere deeper within the chamber. The air smelled faintly of incense and wet earth, mingled with something old—like the scent of forgotten power that hadn't been disturbed in ages.
Every wall of the chamber depicted the majestic creature in a different form, painted in black and red strokes with big, shiny eyes. When the moonlight hit them, it looked as if the portraits were trying to indicate something—smiling proudly above the bodies of countless fallen foes painted beneath them.
Beneath the dim candlelight, the shadow of a woman stood by the altar, wearing a long black gown. Her jet-black hair shimmered, her sharp violet-red eyes glowing with a cruel glint, and her lips curled into a knowing smirk. Power seemed to linger around her hands as she flipped a pendant with a long silver chain wrapped around her wrist. Her posture was rigid, eyes focused on the hooded figure bowing before her. A low murmur of wind rustled the trees outside, but inside, the stillness was absolute.
"You were right," the hooded figure said in a low voice, not daring to lift their head.
"My lady… her powers are different from the others we've tested."
The woman didn't move.
Only the soft click of the pendant flipping around her fingers filled the silence—click, whisper, click.
"Did you doubt me?" she asked at last, her tone light, toying. Her jet black hair shimmered faintly in the candlelight—wild like flame, her eyes glowing with an unnatural hue.
The figure swallowed hard.
"My lady… I never—" He bowed deeper, his head nearly touching the ground.
"Very well," the woman said smoothly. "I want her before she transforms."
She stepped closer to the altar, brushing her fingers along the orb's surface. It pulsed beneath her touch, as if responding to her presence.
"And her transformation isn't far off."
The hooded figure hesitated.
"And if she doesn't transform soon?"
A slow smile spread across the woman's lips.
"Then I'll make her."
The orb flared blood-red. Her smile twisted—deepened—as if she'd seen something no one else could.
She leaned in closer, her voice a whisper:
"Easy there. It's not your turn yet."
Then, her bitter laugh echoed through the chamber—high, cold, and ancient. It spread through the bones of the place like frost through cracked glass.
In the distance, creatures howled in delight at hearing their Queen laugh. They stirred in the dark—rustling, watching, waiting.
And somewhere far above, thunder rumbled low, as if the sky itself were holding its breath.
***
Akira sat at the dining table. The room was softly lit by the warm glow of lights. The table was large and polished, with a wooden centerpiece and intricate carvings along the edges. The scent of freshly cooked food mingled with the earthy aroma of spices, creating a comforting atmosphere that felt almost sacred.
On the table were a variety of dishes, each one showcasing rich, vibrant colors—a steaming bowl of rice, a plate of grilled vegetables, and a savory meat stew that filled the air with its fragrant scent.
When Akira was younger, she always had bad experiences with food. She used to think it would be better to eat outside or hire someone to cook. But her father was obsessed with homemade meals. He tried countless dishes, and Akira had been the earliest victim of his kitchen experiments. Occasionally, Austin and Isabella suffered with her—their loyalty rewarded with burnt curries or over-salted soups. But slowly—miraculously—his cooking got better.
Akira now loved her father's homemade food, especially his meat stew. He rarely made it, and once when she asked him why he put so much effort into the stew, he smiled and said, "Your mother loved it… even though it tasted bad at first." The sorrow in his eyes deepened every time he remembered.
The windows were open, letting in the cool evening breeze, but there was an uncanny stillness in the air, as though the night was holding its breath. Outside the window, the sky still grumbled faintly, gray clouds rolling above the city rooftops, but down here, everything felt still.
Akira's father sat across from her—calm and composed, a figure of quiet strength. His eyes, though tired, radiated warmth. It was the same scene as always—weeknight dinner, eyes on the newspaper beside his plate, as if these routines had become second nature. A way to ground himself in peace.
Across from him, Akira sat, her posture a little stiff. There was something almost fragile in the way she held herself tonight. She kept glancing up at him—like she was preparing to ask a question that had been gnawing at her for a long time. Her mind, usually filled with curiosity and quiet wisdom, was burdened tonight by something deeper.
Then her father shifted the newspaper and looked at her. She hesitated, smiled awkwardly, and dropped her gaze to her plate, as if gathering the courage to speak. She wasn't in the mood to eat, even though she was happy whenever he made stew. She kept playing with her spoon, occasionally putting an empty one in her mouth, lost in a mess of confusing thoughts.
Then a voice broke through Akira's inner turmoil.
"Kiddo, do you not like the stew today?"
Akira froze at the question. She shook her head and quickly shoved a mouthful of rice into her mouth. "No, it's delicious… I love it," she muttered, laughing dryly like nothing was wrong.
Joseph put aside the newspaper and fixed his gaze on her. "You want to ask me something, don't you?"
Akira almost choked on her food. She coughed and drank water from her glass for a long time, trying to avoid his gaze. But Joseph's eyes stayed on her, steady and patient. She laughed again and said, "What gave you that idea? I don't want to ask anything."
"Kiddo, come on. I'm your father—I know when something's on your mind."
Akira sighed. "Okay…" she said, closing her eyes. "But you have to promise me you'll answer me this time… and you…" she hesitated, "you won't be sad."
"Okay… speak," Joseph said softly, reading the seriousness on her face.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
The spoon in her hand trembled slightly.
Then, in the softest voice—
"I was wondering about… Mom."
Joseph's smile faltered, just slightly. He looked down at his plate for a moment, then back at her.
"All right," he said quietly. "Ask me."
Akira stared down at her plate, the steam from the stew blurring her vision as much as the thoughts clouding her mind. A hundred questions rested on her tongue. She wanted to ask what her mother's laugh sounded like. If she liked sweet tea, or if she hummed while cooking. She wanted to know if her mother would have loved her the same way her father did—fiercely, unconditionally.
But then she looked up and saw the soft sadness etched into her father's face. The way his eyes dimmed slightly, even while smiling.
It was enough to silence her.
She swallowed a spoonful of stew instead. Warm. Heavy. Familiar.
And then, without meeting his eyes, she asked the only question that made it past the lump in her throat.
"Do you think she ever missed us… the way we miss her?"
After those words, a long pause settled between them. Akira hadn't expected an answer—not really. And now that she'd spoken it aloud, she wasn't sure she wanted one.
She thought:
Maybe it's okay not to know everything.
Maybe it's okay to leave some things as they are.
Not everything needs to be said out loud—some truths make more sense when left in silence.
She slowly lowered her gaze from her father's face to her plate, her eyes narrowing gently as if trying to tuck the moment away.
Joseph was still looking down. His hands—calloused and steady—rested beside his plate as he let out a sigh that carried years of pain. The stew had long gone cold, but he didn't seem to notice. A long breath escaped him, soft but heavy.
Then, after a silence that felt like the pause before a storm, he finally spoke.
His voice was low but steady.
"I like to believe she did."
He looked up at Akira, and there was no hiding the emotion glinting in his eyes.
"Some days, that belief is all I have. That… wherever she is, whatever happened, a part of her still remembers us. Still… loves us. You."
He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line before he added,
"Especially you."
He smiled—gently, faintly—the kind of smile that carried a thousand unsaid things.
"Sometimes, sweetheart," he murmured,
"It's okay to believe in something even when your mind tells you not to. And always trust the destiny that drew our paths together and tangled our fates."
Akira's expression softened into a small, bright smile.
It meant something, hearing that—those few, fragile words about her mother. After so long, her father had finally spoken of her.
She always knew her father carried pain he never said aloud.
And tonight, she silently wished she could grow up faster—so he wouldn't have to keep being so careful with her feelings.
But after tonight, she decided not to bring up her mother again. She would hold onto his words instead—"It's okay to believe."
She would believe him.
Joseph cleared his throat and muttered,
"Um… if you're done playing with your food, go to sleep. Don't you have school tomorrow?"
Akira stood, smiling, ready to head to her room. But halfway down the hallway, she paused, looked back, and said:
"Dad… I love you the most. Even though your stew was a little salty again."
Joseph sighed, but the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable.
"You… little monkey," he groaned, shaking his head.
"Go to sleep."
Akira gave a sleepy grin, her heart a little lighter than before. She padded back to her room and curled beneath the worn quilt. After her conversation with her father, the house fell into a soft, familiar hush. For a moment, she forgot about being followed—forgot that something was wrong. Or maybe she was just pretending.
Sleep didn't come easily—not at first.
But eventually, like a soft melody, it carried her under.
By the next morning, though, the comfort had already begun to fade.
She didn't even want to wake up, but forced herself to get out of bed and get ready for school. When she arrived, she had no intention of attending any of her classes—nor did she want to be seen by anyone. She just wanted to avoid everything, at least for a little while.
Later, the sun hung lazily in the afternoon sky, casting a drowsy golden light over the schoolyard. The soft rustle of leaves overhead mingled with the distant chatter of students, none of whom noticed that Akira had slipped away from class again.
She lay under her favorite tree near the edge of the school park, backpack tossed beside her, one arm draped over her eyes to block the light. The grass was cool beneath her, and the breeze carried the scent of chalk dust, sunlight, and the faint trace of jasmine from a nearby bush.
Her thoughts drifted in a quiet haze—still tired from the night before, still carrying a strange ache she couldn't explain. And then, without realizing it, Akira dozed off.
At first, she felt at ease—the kind of ease that made her think things would be okay.
But then… she heard something odd.
A lullaby.
A hum.
Low. Melodic.
Eerily gentle, like a mother soothing a child.
It curled through the trees like smoke, rising and falling with aching familiarity.
She didn't recognize the tune.
But her body did.
A chill traced her spine.
The hum dipped into a minor note—sharp, wrong, almost mournful.
Then it stopped.
A heartbeat later, the voice whispered—not in words, but in sound. Like a memory pressing against her skin.
The melody, once comforting, now felt wrong. Haunting. The voices were soft but chilling. The sounds were blurred, like whispers through fog.
Akira stirred in her sleep, her brows knitting, fingers twitching.
In her dream, the world had turned pale and gray. Shadows stretched too long. The breeze had gone still. And somewhere in that muted, almost lifeless place, the lullaby played on.
Then, suddenly—a pair of hands shook her awake.
Akira woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, her breath short and sharp.
"Are you okay, Duncan?" said a familiar voice.
It was Austin, crouching beside her, concerned in his eyes. Isabella stood next to him, frowning with worry.
Akira nodded slowly, still catching her breath.
"Yes," she murmured. "Just… a nightmare."
She wiped the sweat from her brow and forced a small, shaky smile. But inside, a storm was brewing.
She brushed off the incident like it was nothing, but over the next few days, her behavior began to shift. She became more aggressive and unpredictable—one moment cheerful and excited, the next withdrawn and irritable, like a complete stranger.
Austin and Isabella were left confused and concerned by her sudden change. On some days, they tried to talk to her, but Akira completely shut them out. She began isolating herself, always with her earphones in, refusing to respond or even acknowledge them. It was as if they, or the entire class, no longer existed.
One afternoon, Austin found her standing alone on the school roof, eyes fixed on the sky.
He approached slowly, saying her name.
She didn't respond.
When he touched her arm gently, she flinched.
"Akira, talk to me," he said softly.
She turned to him, and for a brief moment, her eyes looked lost—like she didn't recognize him.
"I'm fine," she muttered and walked past him without another word.
It was small, but something about the way she said it chilled him more than if she'd screamed.
Then, one particular day, Austin and Isabella walked into class only to find Akira in a heated argument with another girl. The tension was high, voices raised. In the middle of it, the girl snapped:
"Brats are made when there's no mother at home to take care of them."
Without thinking, Akira slapped her—hard.
The classroom fell silent. Shock rippled through the air.
Realizing she had snapped, Akira quickly grabbed her bag and rushed out.
Austin called after her and ran to follow, but she didn't stop or look back.
She just disappeared through the school gates.
She went straight to a nearby park, desperate for fresh air, still confused by her behavior. Akira wasn't usually the aggressive type, but when she heard someone mention her mother—for the first time in years—something inside her snapped.
She looked down at her trembling hand, then turned her gaze to the sky, trying to steady her breath. Closing her eyes, she attempted to calm herself.
Before she realized it, the sun had begun to rise. With a deep breath, she stood up and started walking home. As her footsteps echoed in the quiet streets, one thought settled in her mind:
She needed to talk to her father. Whatever was happening to her — the changes, the emotions, the strange energy — she couldn't keep it inside anymore.
The moon hung high in the sky, bright as always, while a chilly breeze drifted through the streets. The sound of heavy traffic slowly faded as Akira walked toward her house. That's when she felt it—something was off. Someone was following her.
She turned around.
Nothing.
Just an empty street with flickering street lamps and silence.
Akira shook her head, brushing off the feeling, and continued walking. But as she passed an alley close to her house, she heard—footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
From the darkness, a figure emerged under the streetlight.
Tall. Shadowed.
His smile sent a chill down her spine.
Akira swallowed hard. She wanted to run—run fast, like a flash—but her legs froze. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't move.
"Why struggle," the figure said, his voice low and heavy, "when you can't escape your end?"
Her breath caught in her throat. Her mind screamed, but her body wouldn't respond. As the figure stepped closer, panic rose in her chest—but so did something else. Something strange. Something… powerful.
With a steady voice, Akira said, "What do you want from me?"
"Oh, that?" The shadowed figure tilted his head, studying her. "I was hoping you'd tell me. Maybe we'll both get our answers tonight."
And with that, he charged.
Akira dodged him—barely. She didn't even know how. Her body just moved, fast, like lightning. The figure smiled, amused, and approached again. This time, he drew a long, gleaming blade.
He lunged.
Akira gasped, eyes wide, and instinctively raised her arm to shield herself. Just then, a burst of energy surged from her palm, crashing into the attacker and knocking him to his knees.
Without waiting, Akira turned and ran—faster than she'd ever run before—toward home, never once looking back.
Behind her, the figure chuckled and picked up his blade from the ground.
"You're not just some ordinary fox girl… are you?" he muttered, eyes gleaming in the dark.
Akira barely made it to the house gate. She flung it open, slammed it shut behind her, and leaned against the door, gasping for breath like she had just seen a ghost.
She stumbled inside and called out, "Dad!" Her voice was panicked and shaky.
No reply.
Instead, a calm female voice came from the kitchen, replying in an ordinary tone,
"Your father… he had urgent matters to attend to. He'll be back in a week."
She didn't recognize the woman's scent. It wasn't the familiar lavender and cinnamon her father wore. This was different—too sweet. Too perfect.
Akira froze. That felt... odd. Her father never left without telling her first. But with everything happening, her mind was too scrambled—and her body too tired—to question it deeply.
"Okay," she replied awkwardly.
A woman stepped out from the kitchen. She wasn't old—probably around thirty-five—with soft features and a bright, beautiful smile. She walked toward Akira, who stood trembling, still drenched in sweat and visibly shaken.
The woman looked at her gently and said, "He left a note…" She handed a folded letter to Akira. "Here."
Akira stared at the letter in her hand. Something inside her snapped. Her discomfort swelled into anger.
Why didn't he tell me himself?
Why her—of all people—why does she have to be here?
She didn't respond.
After a pause, the woman asked softly, "Are you okay? What happened? You're all sweaty…"
Akira answered coldly, "Nothing. I was running."
Then, without another word, she crumpled the letter in her hand and stormed straight to her room, not even glancing back at the woman.
***
Moonlight spilled across the balcony, casting a silvery glow over the pendant the woman held in her hand. She stood motionless at the edge, her long hair stirring in the night breeze as she gazed up at the full moon hanging low in the sky. The forest below lay quiet and dark, but something in the air was shifting—an old magic waking from its slumber.
Behind her, the heavy velvet curtains rustled as a shadowed figure stepped forward. He knelt and said quietly,
"Her powers have awakened, my lady. What do you suggest we do next?"
The woman did not turn. Her gaze remained fixed on the moon, as if reading an omen in its glow. A pause stretched long enough to silence even the wind. Then, her voice—low and sharp as a blade drawn in the dark—broke the stillness, laced with an eerie smile:
"It's time to see for myself the strength she hides."