The grandmother's staff struck the marble once more, but instead of turning back to Owen, her eyes—piercing and ancient—softened unexpectedly. Slowly, with deliberate grace, she stepped down from her seat. Every gaze followed her, hushed, confused.
Her footsteps echoed, steady and slow, until she stopped before Isabella.
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
Then, in a voice that no one had ever heard from her lips before, the woman spoke—sweet, melodic, almost tender.
"Child," she said, her tone like velvet, "you must be tired in this chaos. Such delicate features… such rare eyes."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
For decades, the old woman had been known for her cruelty, for her sharp tongue that even warriors dreaded. To hear her speak softly—especially to a mere human—was nothing short of blasphemy to their understanding.
Even Owen's other children exchanged horrified glances.
"What… is happening?" one whispered.
"She never speaks like that. Not to us. Not to anyone," the other muttered, their jealousy twisting darker.
The grandmother bent slightly, brushing a strand of hair from Isabella's face with startling gentleness.
"These eyes," she murmured, her smile unreadable, "I have not seen them for decades… Eyes like twilight fire. Eyes of Crimson."
The hall fell utterly silent.
From across the chamber, Theodore stiffened. His sharp gaze locked on Isabella's violet irises, a storm flickering in his own eyes.
Purple eyes.
The mark of the Crimson bloodline.
The bloodline thought to have perished generations ago—wiped out, vanished, erased from history.
And yet here they were, shining back at him.
Theodore's breath caught, though his face betrayed nothing but calculated calm.
Could she be…? he wondered.
No. It's impossible. And yet…
At the far end of the hall, another figure stirred. Dante—the Enemy Alpha. His presence was already a shadow lingering in the edges of the gathering, but now his eyes sharpened like steel as he watched the impossible unfold.
The grandmother. Speaking kindly. To a human girl.
Dante's lips curved into the faintest smile, though his heart thundered with a pulse he could not suppress.
So… she awakens.
His instincts whispered truths his mind dared not yet accept. If the whispers of old bloodlines were true… if the Crimson's heir truly lived… then she was not merely a girl.
She was potential.
She was power.
She was threat.
She was destiny.
The air itself seemed heavier, as though the hall was no longer rooted in the mortal world but drifting into some dreamlike realm of fate. Faces blurred at the edges; the only clarity belonged to Isabella, the grandmother's smile, and the unblinking stares of those who knew too well what purple eyes once meant.
For the first time in decades, fear and reverence blended into one.
And Isabella—clueless, trembling—could feel the weight of a hundred gazes upon her, each one carving her into something she did not yet understand.
Something she was never meant to escape.