Written by:
CAV LASTER
In the memory of my aunt:
Catalina Viera
November 1948-January 2009
CHAPTER 1
Charis smiled as Argo snorted, one of his front hooves pounding the ground. She brought the brush down his mane in a slow, gentle stroke. She loved pampering him after a long, hard ride—tending to his sweaty, sore body the way he deserved.
"Okay, boy. Off you go," she whispered, giving him a soft slap on his hide.
With a neigh, the black beauty galloped toward his pen.
"Ben, I'm off for the night," she called. "See to the horses. If you need me, you know where to find me."
"Yes, ma'am," her mid-forties maintenance wrangler replied, tipping his hat.
Outside the stables, Charis stilled.
The sun's last rays stretched across more than fifteen hundred acres of the most beautiful land in all of Texas. She inhaled deeply, the fresh breeze brushing against her skin. She loved it here—but no matter how fiercely she fought the thought, deep down she knew she could not stay forever.
Her heart contracted when her gaze fell on the white gravestone beneath the oak tree.
Her lower lip trembled as tears threatened to spill. Step by step, she crossed the field, her chest tightening with grief until it felt impossible to breathe.
She sank to the ground before the stone and broke down.
Here lie the ashes of
Andrew Barry
March 10, 1993 – January 6, 2025
A beloved husband and an exceptional friend
"Why did you have to leave me?" she whispered. "I miss you so much."
"I miss him too," a voice said gently, "but he's not coming back, hun."
Charis wiped at her tears, keeping her head bowed. She hated the intrusion, but the woman standing behind her had every right to be there.
Valerie sniffled as she sat beside her and draped an arm around Charis's shoulders.
"I know it's hard," Valerie murmured. "But Drew wouldn't want you sitting here for the rest of your days, grieving. You took such good care of him while the cancer took him from us—but a year is too long to lock yourself away from life. We both knew my son. He would hate to see you like this."
Charis swallowed hard.
"You're twenty-six," Valerie continued. "You still have a long life ahead of you."
"I know," Charis said quietly. "But part of me died when he left. I could never love another. I don't want to."
Valerie brushed stray strands of hair from Charis's face and lifted her chin. Their eyes met. Grief shadowed Valerie's blue gaze.
"I'm not telling you to go find someone else," she said. "If that ever happens, I'll be happy for you. But it has been decided—you're taking a few weeks off and leaving this place."
"What?" Charis pulled away and stood.
"I'll make sure the ranch and spa run smoothly while you're gone," Valerie said firmly. "No arguments. If you can't do this for yourself, do it for Drew. I promised him I'd look out for you—and today, that means forcing some sense into you."
Charis let out an exasperated breath. "Fine. But where would I even go?"
Valerie reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out a white envelope. Dressed in her checkered long-sleeve shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, she looked every bit at home here.
"This came for you today," Valerie said. "I can't tell you where to go—but I want you gone in two days. Take a vacation of a lifetime. For God's sake, child, just take a trip."
With that, she turned and headed back toward the ranch, her blond curls bouncing with every determined step.
Charis smiled faintly before looking down at the envelope in her hand.
A letter—but from whom?
Her heart quickened as curiosity pushed her to tear it open.
My Dear Charis,
I imagine you are wondering who I am. My name is Adam Blair. I was your grandfather's butler and dear friend. It is my misfortune to inform you that Mr. Iason Driscol passed away on November 16, 2025.
Your grandfather owned a castle here in the Highlands of Scotland. His home and fortune were left to his next of kin—Sandros Driscol, your father. I am aware that your father passed away five years ago, and my heart goes out to you, especially after learning of your husband's death.
I am an old man, child, and before I die I wish to keep a promise I made to Iason: that only his descendants would ever claim what he left behind. I ask that you at least visit and see the place for yourself. I have taken the liberty of booking a flight for you. Please contact the airline to confirm your travel dates; all expenses have been arranged.
All I ask is one chance to show you why you might choose to stay.
I promise you will not regret it.
We shall meet at the Cambusmore Estate. I eagerly await your arrival.
Sincerely,
Adam Blair
Charis read the letter again—and then once more—until the truth finally struck.
He lied.
Her fingers shook as she flipped her phone open and dialed. It rang several times before a middle-aged woman answered.
"Mom," Charis said sharply, "why did Dad lie to me?"
"Hun," her mother replied, "if you explain what you're talking about, maybe I can answer you. And I did not raise you to be rude—what has your panties in a twist?"
Charis closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe.
"I'm sorry. I just received a letter. Nothing offensive—it's just… disturbing."
"From who?"
"Adam Blair. He was Iason Driscol's butler and friend."
Silence filled the line.
"Mom—you knew he was alive," Charis said. "Why did you both lie to me? What's going on?"
"Come over," her mother said finally. "We'll talk about this in person."
The call ended.
Charis stared at her phone, unease settling deep in her chest. Never in her life had her mother ended a conversation so abruptly.
Whatever this was—it was bigger than she'd ever imagined.
And she was no longer willing to ignore it.
CHAPTER 2
After a twenty-minute drive, Charis pulled into her mother's driveway.
Gabrielle sat on the front porch, rocking gently on a wooden swing. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, hands tucked beneath them as she stared toward the rising moon. She looked lost—hollowed by memory.
Charis watched her for a moment before stepping out of the truck. When Gabrielle noticed her, a faint smile curved her lips. She patted the empty space beside her. Long black hair framed a face shaped by grief.
"Mom," Charis said softly as she sat and wrapped her arms around her, "what's wrong? You look so sad."
"I just miss him, honey," Gabrielle replied, forcing a fragile smile. "Hearing your grandfather's name brought back memories I thought I'd buried."
"I understand missing Dad," Charis said. "But I don't understand why he lied to me. He told me his father died when he was young."
Gabrielle looked away.
"It's complicated," she said quietly. "And you may not believe what I'm about to tell you. But—" She lifted a finger, silencing Charis before she could speak. "I will tell you what I can."
She exhaled and stared up at the moon.
"Long ago, I met your father in the Highlands of Scotland. I was twenty-two when I stayed at the Cambusmore Estate for a holiday."
Charis stiffened. "That's where the letter wants me to go."
Gabrielle nodded.
"I couldn't sleep that night. I snuck downstairs for a muffin and a glass of milk—and found someone else already there. Your father stood in the kitchen, tall and brooding, staring out the window. When he turned and caught me staring, I knew my life was about to change."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"He offered me half his muffin. I took it… and everything that followed."
"Mom," Charis groaned. "Please don't."
Gabrielle laughed softly. "You're grown. You can handle it. Besides, your father was unforgettable—dressed in black, a cloak over his shoulders, red curls I couldn't resist touching."
"Please get to the point."
Gabrielle's smile faded.
"Your father wanted to marry me. But Iason Driscol had already planned his son's life—and I wasn't part of it. Then I became very sick. No doctor could explain it. I was dying."
Charis's breath caught.
"Sandros refused to accept that. He stayed by my bed, chanting, brewing potions. He mixed his blood into a concoction and made me drink it."
"Mom," Charis whispered. "You're making Dad sound like—"
"A warlock," Gabrielle said calmly. "That's what he was."
Charis stared at her.
"Iason had cast a death spell on me," Gabrielle continued. "Your father shielded me—and bound the curse to himself so that any harm meant for me would hurt Iason instead. A parent cannot kill their own child. Iason backed down."
Charis sat frozen.
"When Sandros left Scotland, he vowed you would never meet his father. He feared what you might become."
Gabrielle reached beneath the swing and pulled out a small book and a black box.
"He told me to give you these when the truth found you."
Charis took them with trembling hands.
Inside the box lay a ruby medallion shaped like an eye, dangling from a gold chain. The name Driscol was engraved on its back.
"It was your father's," Gabrielle said. "The last time it glowed was the night he saved my life. Since he renounced his place, it has slept."
Charis swallowed hard as she traced the stone's smooth surface before closing the box. She tried to read the strange symbols etched into the book's cover, but they refused to make sense.
"He said you would know how to open it," Gabrielle added gently. "I know this is a lot. But now you understand why we stayed silent."
"I think so," Charis said, though uncertainty lingered. "But now I don't know if I should go."
"If Iason were alive, I'd beg you not to," Gabrielle said. "But he isn't. And not everything there is dark. If I hadn't gone, I would never have met your father."
She squeezed Charis's hand.
"Go, child. Live. Maybe something good waits for you."
"Come with me," Charis said quietly.
Gabrielle shook her head. "Too many ghosts."
They sat together in silence, rocking beneath the moon.
Charis knew then that her mother was right. She needed answers. She needed the truth of who—and what—she was.
Her decision settled deep in her chest.
Tomorrow, she would call the airline.
Whatever awaited her in Scotland, she would face it.
Chapter 3
Charis stood motionless, breath caught in her chest, as the land opened itself before her.
A river curved through the valley like a silver vein, threading between mountains thick with wildflowers. Wind skimmed her skin—cool, deliberate—lifting strands of her hair as if the land itself were welcoming her. Greens and golds stretched endlessly, quieting the ache she hadn't realized she carried.
She told herself she would explore all of it. Every inch of the Cambusmore Estate's twelve thousand acres. She would memorize the land the way one memorizes a body.
Turning, she faced the lodge.
White stone. Gray rooftops. Grandeur softened by age.
The mansion was immaculately kept, but no amount of care could hide its centuries. The walls bore history like scars—silent, watching.
Her belongings had been placed in the west wing. An entire section of the estate, meant to house seven guests, reserved for her alone. From its elevated position, Loch Fleet unfurled below—a vast, living mirror nestled within the national reserve.
Beautiful. Isolated.
She had asked for Adam Blair.
Only two answers existed: a boy of sixteen… and a man dead barely a month after her grandfather.
Now she sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion weighing her limbs, confusion tightening behind her eyes. If Adam Blair was gone, then who had summoned her?
A crash echoed from the kitchen.
Charis stiffened.
Someone was inside.
She moved quietly, heart thudding as she crept down the hall. Peering around the doorway, she saw chaos—plates strewn across the table, cabinets gaping open, the refrigerator yawning wide as if gutted.
"Yeh have no food!"
The voice sounded directly behind her.
Charis yelped and spun—
—and found herself face-to-chest with a towering man dressed in black.
He loomed impossibly close. Long ebony hair cascaded over his shoulders and down his back, framing a face too sharp, too deliberate to be ordinary. His eyes—dark as a starless sky—locked onto hers with unsettling focus.
Before she could step back, he seized her, pulling her against him. His breath brushed her skin as he inhaled deeply at her neck.
"Yeh smell delicious," he murmured. "Maybe I'll have a bite o' yeh."
Panic surged.
"Hey!" She shoved him hard, barely steadying herself as her knees threatened to give. "Don't touch me. Who are you, and what are you doing here? Answer me—now—or I scream."
He smiled.
Not kindly.
Leaning back against the wall, he studied her like a curiosity. "I wonder if their old legs would carry them fast enough," he mused, "before I'd steal yeh away."
Her hand flew to her throat. "You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, I would," he said, stepping closer. "Try me. But relax, woman. I'd rather have yeh willing than thrashing." His gaze sharpened. "I'm the so-called Adam Blair who sent fer yeh, Madam."
He bowed.
Her stomach dropped. "So-called means you're not him. So who are you?"
"All in good time, Charis." His voice lowered, thick with intent. "Yeh may call me Sophus. I've come ter collect yeh—ter take yeh where yeh belong."
A nervous laugh escaped her, brittle and hollow. "I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me where that is—and why."
The humor vanished from his face.
"Donna provoke me." His tone darkened. "Get yer things now, or I'll sling yeh over me shoulder and take yeh regardless."
"No!" She stamped her foot.
Sophus reached for her—
—and recoiled with a sharp howl.
He stared at his hand, skin blistered as though burned. His nostrils flared.
"Yeh wear the medallion," he said.
Her brow furrowed.
With care, he lifted the chain hidden beneath her nightshirt. The gem pulsed softly, alive.
"It protects yeh when yeh feel threatened," he said. "Only another warlock could kill yeh while yeh wear it. Donna fear me—yet. Me kind is… volatile."
Her pulse raced. "Are you a warlock?"
"No." The word snapped out of him. His gaze shifted, restless. "I don't have much time. I need ter take yeh ter yer grandfather's place before I'm summoned elsewhere."
Something in his urgency unsettled her—but it also convinced her.
She gathered her bags quickly and followed him outside, the memory of his earlier complaint surfacing.
When she offered him a wrapped bar, he arched a brow.
"I heard you were hungry."
He inspected it warily, then bit straight through the wrapper.
"Wait!" She laughed despite herself. "You have to unwrap it."
"If yeh know I'm starving, why wrap it at all?"
He tore it open. "'Tis sweet… and nutty."
"It's chocolate."
"I've had chocolate. Just not this." He nodded once. "Thank yeh. I've nothing ter give yeh in return—unless yeh—"
"Don't," she warned. "Just take me where you said."
His low chuckle followed them.
They reached a hidden boat and slipped into the dark waters of Loch Fleet.
"How can you see anything?" she asked.
"I know these waters better than me own shadow."
They disembarked on the far shore.
The air was thick with salt and earth. Waves crashed nearby. Seals cried in the distance. Old cottages loomed, abandoned and watchful.
As they neared the ruins of a castle, a roe deer stepped into view, unnervingly still.
"Stay," Sophus whispered.
He approached it, his stride faltering into a limp as strange words fell from his lips. The deer moved closer, unafraid, allowing his touch.
They were speaking.
When it bounded away, he returned as if nothing had occurred.
"What was that?" Charis asked.
"Nothing meant fer you." He lifted the bags. "Come."
Inside the ruined fort, he dropped them at her feet.
"Welcome home, Charis. Donna wander. 'Tis dangerous."
Before she could speak, he produced a small box and murmured foreign words.
The ground shifted violently.
Stone rebuilt itself around her—walls rising, ceilings sealing, warmth replacing night.
She stood inside a magnificent castle.
Alone.
Sophus was gone. The box lay abandoned.
"Hello?" Her voice echoed uselessly.
Her skin prickled.
She turned.
A portrait loomed on the wall.
A centaur, dagger raised—eyes dark, knowing.
Identical to Sophus.
And suddenly, Charis understood:
She had not been brought here.
She had been returned.
Chapter 4
Charis didn't want to believe what had just happened—least of all the possibility that the centaur in the portrait was Sophus.
"Sophus!" she shouted, hysteria clawing up her throat as she spun in place. "Stop playing games with me. Where am I? Where have you brought me? Where are you?"
Her voice echoed through the vast halls of the castle, unanswered.
She froze.
The centaur's face in the portrait was no longer turned toward the painted sunset. It was looking directly at her.
Her breath caught.
"It's really you, isn't it?" she whispered. "Well, get out! How could you do this to me—drag me to this God-forsaken place and disappear?" Her voice cracked. "At least shake your head or something! What good are you if you're just going to stare at me?"
Anger surged. She snatched up the small box Sophus had used to transport them and muttered every word she could think of, hoping one might send her home. Nothing happened.
With a frustrated cry, she hurled the box through an open window and collapsed onto the floor, her strength finally giving out.
"God… why me?" she sobbed. "Where am I?"
A flicker of movement caught her eye.
She looked up and noticed a writing table tucked into the far corner of the room. A quill with a golden feather gleamed softly atop it, drawing her closer. Her heart pounded as she approached.
There was a letter addressed to her.
Hands trembling, she sat and began to read.
Dear Charis,
It is I—Sophus, war chief of the Evamor tribe… or rather, what once was my tribe.
If you are reading this, then I am trapped within the portrait. I regret that I could not explain everything to you in person, but this letter will have to suffice.
I will begin at the beginning.
My twin brother, Athanas, and I were once known as the darkest and most ruthless warriors of our kind. Where there was war, we brought ruin. But destruction was never enough—we wanted more. Power. Greatness.
That is where your ancestor entered our fate.
Nazrin Driscol was a warlock of the darkest order. I was wary at first, but Athanas convinced him to grant us gifts of power. In exchange, we would serve him. Over time, Nazrin's cruelty grew unbearable, and Athanas's greed eclipsed all reason.
One night, Athanas orchestrated Nazrin's downfall. He used a woman to distract him, steal his medallion, and then slaughtered them both. Athanas drank Nazrin's blood, claiming power beyond imagining.
But Nazrin's maid witnessed everything.
War followed—centaur against warlock. With Nazrin's stolen magic, Athanas was unstoppable. We won.
While searching Nazrin's home for his book of spells, I encountered his wife, Helena. She was with child. I could not harm her.
That mercy sealed my fate.
Mistaking me for Athanas, and weakened by her pregnancy, she cursed me into this portrait instead of killing me outright. Only a descendant of Helena can break the curse.
Each year, I am granted one month of freedom—in human form only. I spent that time searching for you.
Not only for my freedom.
An elf named Valin came to me with dire news. Athanas continues to kill to strengthen his immortality. In two months' time, he plans to attack the Elven folk. They fear they cannot stop him.
Charis, you are the last of your bloodline. The last hope.
You must awaken your magic, learn to wield it, and—if you can—free me before it is too late.
You now stand in Kalador, a realm where the beings of legend truly exist. Do not wander far. It is not safe.
I have gathered food, wood, and supplies from your world. I have also left lists and drawings of safe berries and herbs for potions. Though I cannot speak to you, I can hear you.
Talk to me, Charis.
Solitude is a curse of its own.
Sincerely yours,
Sophus
Charis sifted through the remaining papers, finding the lists he mentioned.
"Kalador…" she muttered. "I thought centaurs were Greek—Arcadia, Thessaly. Were they all lies meant to deceive us?"
She shook her head sharply and turned back to the portrait.
"No. I'm not believing this." She laughed bitterly. "You're playing with my mind. And even if this were true, why should I trust you? You'd probably switch places with me the second you could."
She grabbed her bags and stormed outside.
The world beyond the castle stole her breath.
Trees shimmered in impossible colors, their twisted forms glowing softly. Butterflies fluttered past—until she realized they were fairies. The farther she ventured, the more undeniable the truth became.
You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.
She returned not long after, slamming the door behind her and stomping back toward the portrait. Vines tangled in her hair and clothes; she tore them away and flung them aside.
"You—you fool!" she shouted, jabbing her finger at Sophus's painted form. "How dare you bring me here without asking! I almost got crushed by a giant, and then gremlins chased me halfway back! I swear, if I could, I'd zap your ass into oblivion!"
The ground trembled.
The walls groaned.
The medallion at her throat flared with blinding light—then slowly dimmed, falling dormant once more.
Her heart raced. "What… was that?"
"You fueled the medallion with your rage."
Charis spun toward the voice.
A tall man dressed in white leaned casually against the wall. His blond hair framed a serene face, and his pointed ears caught the light.
"You must be Valin," she said.
He bowed with a faint smile.
"The one and only," he replied. "At your service, my dark lady."
Chapter 5
"Contrary to what you've been told," Charis snapped, "I am not aligned with the dark side, nor do I come from nobility. So you can toss the dark lady nonsense aside."
Valin arched a brow, clearly amused, as he sauntered closer.
She took a cautious step back. "Why are you here?" she asked. "You can see Sophus is nowhere around."
He stopped just inches from her.
"I am here to help you."
"Help me with what?" She planted her hands on her hips, unimpressed.
A slow smile curved his lips as he lifted a finger, tracing the edge of the medallion resting against her chest. The gem pulsed faintly beneath his touch.
"I am going to help you unleash your power."
Her breath caught as she stared into his mercury-colored eyes.
You must not fight me, Charis. Let me guide you through your first steps.
His voice slipped into her mind, echoing softly. Her head tilted as dizziness washed over her. Her body went slack, and the world folded into darkness.
* * *
Charis gasped and bolted upright.
She lay on a bed surrounded by gothic furniture—dark wood, crimson drapery, candlelight flickering against stone walls. A dull buzzing throbbed behind her eyes.
"I feared you would never wake."
She turned to find Valin lounging in the shadows, relaxed as though the room belonged to him. She rose quickly, only then noticing the black gown she wore, trimmed in red and gold lace.
Her breath hitched. "What is this? Who dressed me in this?" She narrowed her eyes. "Oh God—please tell me it wasn't you."
"And why not?" He stood, clearly offended. "Do you find me unpleasant, my lady? I am considered quite desirable among my people."
"So what?" She waved her hand dismissively. "That doesn't give you permission to play dress-up with me, boy." She grimaced. "And what is that noise? It's driving me insane."
"You hear it?" His eyes gleamed. "Good. Your power is awakening. I unlocked the door—you must now learn to walk through it."
"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"
Valin placed a small book into her hands.
Her heart stuttered.
Her father's book.
"How do I open it?"
"You already know how," he said gently. "The answer is bound to your blood. Connect to the past, Charis. Trust it."
He stepped back. "I must leave. I have been summoned to my father's gathering."
"Oh." She hesitated. "Well… I can at least see you out."
"That would be most kind, my lady."
She walked him to the door and watched him vanish into the night. On her return, she stopped short before the portrait.
Sophus glared out at her, outrage etched into his painted features.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," she scoffed. "If anyone's entitled to that expression, it's me." She paused, eyes widening. "Wait—do you think Valin and I had sex?"
She laughed.
With a mischievous smile, she leaned closer. "Guess you'll never know. What happens in the bedroom stays there."
Humming lightly, she headed for the kitchen.
* * *
Hours later, Charis sat cross-legged before the portrait, the book lying stubbornly closed on the floor.
"Alright, Sophus," she sighed. "I've tried knives. I've tried abracadabra, hocus pocus, and something that sounded vaguely magical. Nothing."
She glanced up. Sophus appeared to be smirking.
"Yes, yes—I know. I'm not taking this whole I-have-magic thing seriously enough." She rolled her eyes. "I've never even watched whatever that movie is—Harris Plotter? And here I am, talking to a very attractive centaur trapped in a painting." She winced. "Right. You can hear me. Forget I said that."
She stood, grabbing the book.
"I'm exhausted. I'm going to sleep. And don't get your hopes up about me freeing you—at this rate, it's not happening."
* * *
Sleep came fitfully.
Visions bled into one another—fire, voices, symbols she didn't recognize. She woke gasping, heart racing.
Without thinking, she reached for the book on her nightstand and placed it on her lap.
She unclasped a gothic brooch from her dress and pricked her finger. Blood beaded and fell onto the cover.
"Velich Akarik Sani Malak Charis Driscol."
The symbols shifted.
The lock snapped open.
Inside lay a letter.
Dear Charis,
It is I—your father.
I am proud beyond words that you have completed your first trial. This book holds wonders and dangers alike. Use its knowledge to aid others, not to follow the path of our darkest ancestors.
I love you, my child. It grieves me that I could not witness the woman you have become, but know this—I felt your power long before you were born. You will be great.
Trust your instincts. Do not resist your gift.
The time for your training has begun.
Make me proud, my princess.
Sincerely,
Sandros Driscol
Chapter 6
Charis paced before the portrait, book in hand, her voice echoing softly through the chamber.
"Wow, Sophus. I can't even wrap my head around this." She flipped a few pages back. "These spells… they go back generations. And the last twenty pages—those were my father's."
She glanced up, catching the eager expression frozen on Sophus's face.
"I know what you're thinking. Helena's magic." She sighed. "There's nothing here. This book was passed through the male line—Nazrin's spells only."
The disappointment in his eyes pierced her.
"Oh, Sophus… don't lose hope." She stepped closer. "There has to be something else. Hidden chambers, lost writings—this place is full of secrets. I promise I won't stop looking. Besides," she added lightly, "we still have a world to save."
His smile returned—slow, devastating.
She shook her head. "And there it is. That smile. Dangerous."
Then softer, to herself, "I keep forgetting you can hear me."
Sophus's grin widened.
She stomped her foot. "Stop that. Back to work."
Weeks passed.
Charis learned discipline the hard way—through failure, exhaustion, and persistence. Potions that smelled like rot. Spells that fizzled into nothing. One moment she nearly gagged over a brew, the next she gasped as a rose bloomed warm and perfect in her palm.
"Look! I did it—"
The flower wilted instantly.
"…Still learning," she muttered.
One evening, a shimmer caught her eye near the portrait. The wall sounded hollow beneath her knock. After searching, she discovered a narrow door—hidden, ancient.
Inside lay a forgotten study.
Stacks of papers filled the room, written in elegant, deliberate script. Her breath hitched when she saw the name:
Helena Driscol.
Hours passed as she read.
And then she found it.
The curse.
Not only had Helena forged it first—breaking it would exact a terrible price.
Charis stood before the portrait once more.
Sophus arched a brow.
"You're not going to like this," she said quietly. "The curse breaker has to bare their soul completely before you. Every wound. Every truth." Her lips curved faintly. "She truly hated you."
She inhaled deeply.
"Here goes nothing."
Her voice trembled. "I lost my husband… to cancer."
Silence filled the room.
"I watched it strip him away—day by day. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't ease his pain." Tears slid down her cheeks. "I felt useless. Broken. I wished I could trade places with him."
Her knees buckled.
"He was good, Sophus. He didn't deserve that." Her voice shattered. "Why did it have to happen?"
Strong arms caught her before she fell.
She pressed her face against a bare chest, sobbing.
"It's not fair… it's just not fair."
A torn voice whispered above her, "It's alright, Charis. Let it out. There's no shame in loving deeply." His grip tightened. "I wish yeh had never known such pain."
She pulled back.
Sophus's eyes—once hard and merciless—now shimmered with grief.
"At least yeh got ter say goodbye," he murmured. "I never told me son I loved him."
Her breath caught.
Without thinking, she reached for him.
The moment lingered—charged, aching—before the world narrowed to the closeness they shared. Whatever followed belonged only to them, beyond words, beyond the room itself.
Later, Charis turned at the sound of hooves against stone.
"How do you change like that?" she asked softly.
Sophus wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin near her shoulder.
"Change how?"
"You were a centaur… then human… and now—this again."
"Our kind adapts," he said gently. "Some truths are practical."
She snorted. "I'll be sure to record that for future historians."
His laughter warmed her.
Then she turned serious. "These weeks… everything here—it scares me. I don't know when I'll wake up." She swallowed. "And I don't want to lose this. You."
"So have I," he admitted.
They stood quietly.
"Do yeh trust me, Charis?"
She searched his eyes. "I want to."
He stepped back, gripping the railing. "What I do next—what I must do—it will be for you. For redemption."
"I don't understand."
"One day yeh will."
He cupped her face. "Yeh are everything me heart sought—long before I knew yer name."
He removed a gold armband etched with ancient symbols and placed it in her hands.
"Would yeh accept me bond, Charis?"
Her chest tightened. "It's too fast. I feel something—deeply—but I need time."
He stilled her hands. "Then keep it. If I fail to earn yer heart, return it."
She nodded.
"May I kiss yeh?"
She smiled through tears. "You already know the answer."
And when he changed once more, it wasn't magic that bound them—
—but choice.
Chapter 7
For the past few days, Charis and Sophus had taken the rare gift of time to truly know one another. He taught her the laws of the land and offered a hurried but thorough history of Kalador. He spoke of her ancestors—their traits, their temperaments, their darkness—and she ached for the family she had never known. Each one sounded formidable in their own right.
He told her of Valin, son of King Arikos, heir to the throne. They waited for Valin's signal to strike Athanas, though with each passing day Sophus grew more restless, his patience thinning like a fraying rope.
They lay naked together on a lounge chair beneath the open sky. Her head rested on his chest, soothed by the steady rhythm of his heart. Her body relaxed against his powerful form, comforted by the knowledge that she was safe in the arms of a lethal warrior.
His fingers traced over her like a spell. Even the simple act of braiding her hair left her breathless. When he brought the end of the braid to his lips and kissed it, her fingers drifted over the scrollwork tattoo etched into his shoulder.
"Yer hair feels like silk," he murmured. "I could play with it all day."
She shifted against him, smiling. "I believe you enjoy playing with my body more."
"Aye, that's true," he admitted softly. "But I love the whole of yeh. I love yeh, Charis."
He pulled her closer and claimed her mouth. Her heart swelled with every touch, every word. She didn't understand how, but Sophus had reached deeper into her soul than anyone before him—even deeper than her late husband had.
As their mouths explored one another, her body burned, her need growing unbearable. And then the truth settled in her chest, heavy and undeniable.
She loved him.
He had torn down the walls she had built to survive grief, and now she knew—without hesitation—that she would give him her life if he asked.
"I love you too, Sophus," she whispered. "Please don't hurt me. I need you so much."
His body stiffened. He pulled away, pain flashing across his face.
"I would never wish ter hurt yeh," he said quietly. "But yeh need ter know—"
A thunderous sound shattered the moment.
Sophus sprang to his feet, every inch the warrior. In an instant, he shifted back into his centaur form. Explosive lights flared across the night sky in the distance.
His jaw tightened. "Get dressed. Our time has come. Valin calls. We must stop Athanas before tis too late."
Not long after, Charis clung to Sophus's waist as he rode hard toward their fate.
They reached what remained of an Elven city. Hundreds of bodies lay strewn across the ground, the air thick with death.
Ahead, Athanas's centaur army waited.
Sophus halted abruptly.
Before Charis could react, he pulled her down and lifted her by the throat. His expression twisted into something cruel and unfamiliar.
"Athanas," he called. "Me brother. I bring a gift fer yeh."
Athanas stepped forward, identical to Sophus save for the jagged scar slicing his cheek.
"So," Athanas said, grinning. "Me long-lost brother returns at last. Where have yeh been?"
"Trapped in a portrait by Nazrin's witch."
"Ah… Helena. I remember her. And the human?"
"She's Helena's descendant," Sophus sneered. "Thought I wanted ter kill yeh meself. Humans are the most foolish race ever created."
Charis's heart shattered.
"You lied to me," she cried. "You said you loved me."
Sophus threw his head back in laughter—cold, cruel.
"All yeh human whores believe whatever we tell yeh. Yeh truly thought I'd choose yeh over power? Over me brother?" He laughed again. "Thank yeh fer me freedom, human whore."
He kissed her harshly and shoved her forward.
"Tis was enjoyable while it lasted."
Rage ignited inside her, eclipsing the pain.
"I hate you, Sophus," she screamed. "You will pay for what you've done!"
Her medallion burned against her skin. Power surged through her veins. She raised her hands and spoke the death chant.
Sophus cried out and collapsed.
She turned at Athanas's anguished scream as he too crumpled to the ground.
And then she understood.
"Sophus—no!"
She ran to him, cradling his head.
"Why?" she sobbed. "Why would you do this?"
"The only way ter kill Athanas," he whispered, "was by killing me as well. I never wanted ter hurt yeh. I only wanted ter save our world. Forgive me, lass."
His breath faded.
Sophus was gone.
Charis wept amid the ruin. The centaurs stood silent, awaiting command. She stroked Sophus's hair as his head rested in her lap until a hand touched her shoulder.
Valin.
"Thank you, Charis. Not all is lost. Look."
The centaurs bowed.
Her gaze fell to the glowing armband on her wrist.
"Did he not tell you?" Valin asked gently. "Sophus was second in line to the throne. The armband has chosen you."
"Why me?" she whispered.
"You carry his children," Valin said. "A son who will unite our worlds. A daughter whose voice will bring peace."
Charis pressed a hand to her stomach, tears slipping free.
She looked down at Sophus once more.
For him—and for their children—she would rise.
She was no longer alone.
And whether dream or destiny, she would endure.
Chapter 8
A broad smile curved Cherise's lips as she watched her five-year-olds, Sadin and Lamira, chase a frog through the grass. Their laughter rang clear and bright as they tried—unsuccessfully—to keep hold of the slippery creature.
Exotic birds called to one another as dusk settled, their wings carrying them home for the night. High-pitched voices caught her attention. Two fairies hovered nearby, locked in a furious tug-of-war over a male's affection.
Cherise laughed softly, shaking her head as they pulled at one another's hair, wings beating frantically to stay aloft.
With a flick of her finger, she stunned them midair.
"Girls," she said calmly, power threading her voice, "you will obey me. Stop fighting and go home. Let the male choose for himself. The other will accept his decision. Do you understand?"
They nodded, eyes glassy with enchantment. A moment later, they blinked, released each other, and drifted off together, chattering about something entirely different.
Cherise turned as she sensed Valin approaching.
"Hello there," she said lightly. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
He bowed. "I came as quickly as I could, my lady."
She grimaced. "Valin, how many times must I tell you? Call me Cherise. And stop bowing—it gives me the creeps. Now… what's this surprise you promised?"
Valin's gaze slid past her shoulder.
She heard it then.
"Daddy! Daddy—you're here!"
Her breath caught. Her heart thundered wildly as a familiar scent reached her—pine, spice, and earth.
Sophus.
Her vision blurred with tears. She was afraid to turn around, terrified that hope would betray her again. Valin's face remained carefully neutral, offering no answers.
Then she heard it.
That deep, unmistakable laughter.
Slowly, she turned.
A man stood before her, clad in a black cloak, the hood fallen back to reveal a familiar mane of dark hair. He held both children easily, as if they belonged there—because they did.
He set them down, whispered something that made them giggle, and they hugged him before racing toward the house.
He walked toward her.
His eyes swept over her with heat and possession, a smile curving his lips.
"I'll leave you two," Valin said quietly, his footsteps retreating toward the children.
Cherise couldn't speak. Emotion crashed over her in waves—hope, fear, disbelief. She had learned to numb her heart, to still her longing. And yet, with each step the man took toward her, those defenses unraveled.
This was Sophus.
Not centaur—but wholly him.
"Sophus?" she whispered. "Is it really you?"
"Yes, me love," he said softly. "Tis I. I've returned fer the woman I love—and fer me children."
Tears spilled freely as he pulled her into his arms. His breath warmed her skin before his lips found hers, stealing the air from her lungs.
She clung to him, afraid to let go.
"I saw you die," she sobbed. "We buried you. How is this possible?"
"Valin found a way," he murmured.
She shook her head. "The children—how did they know you? How did he bring you back?"
He kissed the tip of her nose.
"I never left yeh," he said gently. "I stayed with yeh—in spirit, in thought. I visited the children through their dreams. Their blood and their voices called me home. They sang fer me return, and I answered."
She trembled.
"I am no longer a centaur," he continued. "But I would have given up far more ter be by yer side."
His kiss deepened, fierce and consuming.
She pulled back with a breathless laugh. "The children—I should—"
She squealed as he scooped her into his arms.
"Nay," he said firmly. "Valin watches them tonight. Attend ter me, wife. We have five years ter make up fer."
She laughed, kissing him as she glimpsed Valin leading the children away. She whispered a quiet thank you. Valin smiled and inclined his head before continuing on.
Cherise wrapped her arms tightly around Sophus's neck as he carried her home.
"I love yeh," he murmured. "And I intend ter show yeh how much fer the rest o' me life."
Epilogue
The Weight of Crowns
The night was quiet—but not peaceful.
Cherise stood on the balcony overlooking Kalador, the wind teasing strands of her dark hair loose from their braid. Below, the land slept under her rule, unaware of the fractures still forming beneath its soil.
Peace was never permanent.
Behind her, Sophus watched in silence. No armor. No weapons. Just the man who had died for this world—and returned changed by it.
"You're thinking too loudly," he said at last.
She smiled faintly. "You always could hear me."
"The bond made it worse," he replied, stepping beside her. "Or better. Depends on the moment."
She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. "Valin's council meets again at dawn. They want treaties with the human kings. They want borders, laws, names carved into stone."
"And yeh want time."
She nodded. "Time to make sure we don't repeat the mistakes that destroyed us before."
Below them, centaur guards shifted at their posts. Not out of threat—but vigilance. They answered to her now. To her blood. To the children sleeping two floors beneath them.
Sophus glanced toward the distant forests. "Athanas is gone. But his kind of hunger never truly dies."
"No," Cherise agreed quietly. "It only waits."
She placed a hand over her abdomen, where once life had begun—and where legacy still pulsed through her veins, carried forward now in two beating hearts elsewhere in the castle.
"They will inherit all of this," she said. "The good and the ruin."
Sophus turned to her, his expression grave. "Then we teach them better."
She met his gaze. Strong. Certain. Still scarred.
"I don't believe this was ever a dream," she said. "Dreams don't demand sacrifice."
He smiled, brushing his thumb along her jaw. "Nor do they crown queens."
Far below, bells rang—low and solemn. A reminder. A warning.
Cherise straightened, her posture instinctive now, forged by grief and power alike.
"Let them come," she said. "With treaties. With threats. With hope."
Sophus bowed his head—not as a subject, but as her equal.
"For this world," he said.
"For both worlds," she corrected.
Together, they watched the horizon—where dawn would soon rise, and with it, the next war waiting to be written.