Richard’s shadow fell over her. He smelled of old clothes and the sticky wine from supper. He held the small, dark bottle steady. Elara did not move. She did not breathe. No one would hear her anyway, not with the thick temple walls, not with the locked door, not with Grenn outside. She whispered for her mother, and the necklace, a desperate breath. Her bandaged hand began to warm. The cut on her palm throbbed, a dull ache that spread through her arm. Then a faint, pale light bloomed from the bandage. It pushed back the shadows under Richard’s chin. He blinked. The bottle in his hand dipped a fraction of an inch. The light grew, steady and bright, pulsing from her wound. It was not a lamp, not a candle. It was a soft, pale glow that filled the small room, wiping away the dark corners where she usually hid. It smelled like summer rain and the wild roses that grew outside Eleanora’s window. It was the same light she saw when the wolf went away. The light came from her blood, from the cut itself. It was almost too much for her eyes, but she did not look away. It pushed at the heavy air, at the smell of Richard, at the fear in her own chest. Richard took a step back. His eyes were wide now, not looking at her, but at the light. The bottle trembled in his grip. Elara felt brittle, like thin glass. Every part of her felt stretched and used up by the light that poured from her. But it was beautiful. It was the prettiest thing she had ever seen. It smelled like home. --- The light gathered, rising from the floor, pulling itself from the air around her. It shimmered in front of Elara. It took the shape of a woman, tall and slender, standing between Elara and Richard. She was made of the pale light, see-through like a wisp of smoke, but strong enough to block Richard from sight. Her long, dark hair flowed around her shoulders, not quite real, not quite visible. Elara knew her. It was the lady from the necklace, the one who smelled of rain and roses. Her mother. The lady looked at Richard. She did not speak. She did not move a hand. Her face was full of a sadness so deep it made Elara’s chest hurt. Not anger, not vengeance, but a grief that was eight years old and knew it had arrived too late. Richard made a small, choking sound. He dropped the bottle. It hit the stone floor with a soft thud and rolled, unbroken, into the corner. He backed away, stumbling over his own feet, his eyes fixed on the shimmering figure. His breath caught in his throat. He tried to speak, but no words came out. He looked like a frightened rabbit caught by something too big and too fast to understand. The lady’s light brightened, just for a moment, like a single, quiet heartbeat. --- Richard made another sound, a small gasp. He clutched at his chest, his face suddenly gray. His knees buckled. He fell to the floor, not with a shout, but a soft, heavy slump. He did not move again. The air in the room felt still. The threat was simply gone. The lady of light turned. She looked at Elara, and the deep sadness on her face was still there, but now it was for her. Elara felt a tremor pass through the light-woman. She flickered, like a candle about to go out. She was thinner than before, barely a shape, like the memory of a person. What she had done, whatever it was, had cost her almost everything. Elara watched her, eyes wide, a strange quiet filling her. It was not a happy quiet. It was the quiet of something ending, something that had barely begun. --- The lady knelt, or tried to, her form shimmering closer to the floor. Her eyes, made of pure light, met Elara’s. There was a wordless message there: forgiveness, regret, a terrible, profound love. Elara felt it, like a warm breath on her cheek, even though no breath stirred. She wanted to reach out, to touch the shimmering hand, but she knew it would pass through. The lady was fading fast. The light around her grew dim, pulling inward, becoming smaller, less substantial. Elara saw the faint outline of stars through her mother’s chest, through her shoulders. She was becoming nothing but memory. Tears pricked at Elara’s eyes, hot and sudden. Her mother was leaving her again. The light receded completely, shrinking to a tiny, bright spark that hovered for a heartbeat, then winked out. The room plunged back into shadow, darker now than before, as if the light had taken some of the brightness with it. Richard lay still on the floor. Elara was alone again. Her bandaged hand still felt warm, but the light was gone. She was empty. She remembered her mother’s face, clear as the temple bell. --- In the grand hall, Kael, Elias, Orion, Aeron, and Lucian sat around the carved stone table. They were debating the exact wording of the coronation oath for Lydia, the fake daughter. Elias was arguing for tradition. Aeron was laughing at his stuffiness. Orion had been still for a full minute, staring at a pattern only he could see, a strange disruption in the eastern wards. He had just opened his mouth to speak. Then it happened. A wave of pure, ancient energy crashed over them. It was cold and bright and searing all at once. It tasted of wild roses and summer rain. It was the presence of a soul, strong and unmistakable, yet impossibly frail. It was a ghost, a legend, a memory made real. Kael Dragonheart was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping back with a deafening screech. His face was a mask of shock and sudden, terrible hope. Lucian was already moving, before Kael had even fully risen. He did not speak. He did not hesitate. He simply turned and sprinted towards the eastern corridor, his dark coat flowing behind him. Kael roared Selene’s name. Lucian was already running.

What Was in Her Blood