Allisiario woke before dawn, the valley still draped in moonlit frost. He slipped from his bed without waking the servants, stripped bare of armor and expectations, and carried his katana to the practice yard. Each swing of steel through cold air felt like a question unanswered:
Am I enough?
The blades arc traced a perfect curve, yet Allis's footwork faltered whenever he recalled the council's whispered warnings that demon blood brews violence. He struck a final blow into the wooden post, heart hammering with a truth he could not avoid—he was fighting more than empty air.
He cleaned his blade by the riverbank, where lilies leaned close as if to listen. Under the water's mirror, he saw a reflection split in half—one side familiar, one side alien. His father's lessons echoed in his mind: "Master the weapon, master the self." But mastery felt out of reach when every ripple reminded him of the war he inherited.
Allis pressed his palm to the old oak beside the bank, the tree he'd climbed as a child. Its bark was rough with age, and in that roughness, he recognized his own scars. If the oak could grow through seasons of fire and frost, perhaps he could learn to hold both halves of himself without shattering.
By midday, Ellinaskariya sat in the grand library of the Angel Court, her wings folded so precisely she might have been an arrow waiting to launch. She studied treaties and prophecies with disciplined focus, annotations in the margins like battle plans. Yet every time she lifted her quill; doubt stung her hand. In the council's debates she measured every word, but here, surrounded by ancient tomes, she felt foolishly new.
What if her arguments failed to sway minds? What if her voice cracked under scrutiny? Each unanswered question loosened the tight curve of her confidence.
She closed the book and wandered into the courtyards' rose garden, thorns catching the hem of her skirt. Every rose was a double-edged lesson: beauty paired with pain. Ellina knelt and pressed a finger to a bud's soft center, remembering the one she'd accidentally crushed in childhood.
She'd wanted to save it—and killed it instead. The memory charred her chest like old graphite. In that moment she admitted a secret fear: that precision could betray her, that control might mask cruelty. She rose with a trembling resolve to practice kindness like a craft, as meticulously as she practiced her feints.
Evening dinner arrived under soft candlelight, but the twins could not settle around the long table. Allis stared at the hearth's dying embers; Ellina traced patterns on her napkin. Their parents exchanged concerned glances. Irene reached for Allis's hand—he tensed and pulled away.
Daemon set aside his chalice. "Something burdens you," he said quietly to Ellina, whose lips pressed into a thin line. She stood abruptly and left the hall, feathers brushing the carved doorframe like a last note of music. Silence stretched between mother and father, then snapped into anxious questions.
Irene followed Ellina to the courtyard, where moonlight glimmered on dewy petals. Ellina's posture was rigid, as if she feared the night might unravel her. Irene knelt beside her and laid a gentle hand on her sister's shoulder. "Fear does not make you weak," she said in a voice soaked with her own memories of doubt. Ellina looked up, eyes shining with unshed questions. "Mother, what if I fail everyone who depends on me?" Irene gathered her daughter close and whispered that she'd nearly abandoned hope when Allis was born with purple eyes—so unlike any angel or demon. But love had taught her to be soft enough for miracles. Ellina exhaled, small wings stirring against her back.
Meanwhile, Daemon found Allisiario in the hall, practicing the kata his father had once demonstrated to him. Each movement echoed across the stones and stirred Daemon's memories of battles that had aged him before he learned mercy. "You're pushing too hard," Daemon said, voice low enough not to alarm the servants. Allis sheathed his blade and faced him. "I'm trying to earn my place." Daemon's gaze softened with both pride and regret. "My fear is that I cannot protect you from the storm coming for this bloodline," he admitted. Allis's shoulders tightened. "Then teach me to stand in the storm," he answered, and Daemon placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder, wordless promise passing between them.
Back in her room, Ellina opened a hidden journal and wrote a single line: I fear my heart cannot bend. She pressed her forehead to the page until the ink blurred. Fear had shaped her life—fear of failure, fear of weakness, fear that people loved the razor edge of her reputation more than they loved her. She traced her mother's words at the bottom of the page: Softness is strength when wielded with care. Ellina let the thought settle, a fragile truce between her ambition and her humanity.
Allis lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, replaying his father's warning: Love is often written in blood. He traced the hilt of his sword half-hidden beneath the mattress. His greatest insecurity was not the stigma of his birth but the knowledge that his own choices could either damn or redeem him. He turned toward the small wooden box Irene had given him—a keepsake from his cradle. Inside lay a silver feather, his mother's first gift. He closed his hand around it and vowed to earn the promise it represented.
When dawn broke again, both twins rose with their insecurities carried as quietly as breath. Ellina clipped a single rose to her belt, a reminder that beauty and pain coexist. Allis draped the silver feather across his katana's sheath, a symbol of the balance he sought. They met in the hallway—brief eye contact carrying more understanding than words could.
Each bore the weight of inner doubt, but they shared a silent oath to face those shadows together. The valley beyond awaited with new challenges, but for the first time, the twins felt their insecurities as tools, not chains—a foundation for the selves they were determined to become.