By the time Faylan steps into the hallway, the house feels different.
Not louder.
Not darker.
Just more aware somehow, as if the walls themselves have been listening all evening and no longer have any interest in pretending otherwise. The quiet in the house is no longer the quiet of home. It is the quiet of things being held in place.
She closes her bedroom door behind her without really thinking about it and stands still for a second in the narrow stretch of hallway outside, her pulse not settled enough to call calm, her thoughts still catching on the same words over and over until they stop sounding like language and start sounding like a clock.
Twenty-five.
The number presses against everything.
Against the book.
Against the blood.
Against the look on Seina’s face when the classifications were read out like they were the weather and not lives.
Against the knowledge that her mother knew enough to hide something in this house and never once tell them what it was.
Faylan exhales slowly and tips her head back.
The attic door sits flush in the ceiling at the far end of the hall, almost easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. A pale square outlined by age more than design. The small pull-string hangs down from the center, still and ordinary, with a wooden bead at the end worn smooth from old hands.
For a second, she just stares at it.
How many times had she passed beneath it without thinking.
How many times had she looked right at it and seen nothing more than storage, dust, old boxes, the dead weight of things families stopped using but never quite let go of.
Not once.
Not once had she thought:
secrets.
Now it’s all she can see.
She walks toward it slowly, each floorboard creaking softly beneath her weight. The house has always had its own language—little knocks in the pipes, old wood settling at odd hours, the sigh of the windows when the wind shifts. She used to know what all of it meant. Used to hear it as background, the harmless voice of a house growing old around them.
Tonight every sound feels like witness.
When she reaches the center of the hallway, she stops directly beneath the string and looks up again.
The bead at the end hangs just above her eye level, innocent as anything else in the house.
A memory stirs so suddenly it almost makes her flinch.
Not a full scene.
Just the feeling of being younger, smaller, standing in this same hallway with her mother at the other end.
Faylan asking what was up there.
Elara smiling in that easy, absent way she used when she wanted something to sound unimportant.
“Just old things, love. Dust and boxes and a terrible place to sneeze.”
At the time, it had worked.
Of course it had worked.
Her mother had said it like sunlight says the day is fine even when rain is coming later.
Softly.
Convincingly.
And now, standing here with the handbook still burning in the back of her mind and the ghost of old answers pushing at every corner of the house, Faylan feels something bitter twist under her ribs.
That had not been casual at all.
That had been hiding.
She reaches up and wraps her fingers around the wooden bead.
The string is rougher than she expects.
A little dust comes away against her skin.
For a second, she hesitates.
Not because she has changed her mind.
Because this feels like the last second before something becomes real.
After this, whatever is up there is no longer mystery.
It becomes fact.
And she has had more than enough facts today.
Her grip tightens.
Then she pulls.
The response is immediate.
A hard wooden thud sounds overhead, followed by the dry, protesting groan of old hinges waking up after too long. The attic panel drops open with a stiff jerk, and the folded ladder slides down in stages, each section unfolding with a shaky collapse of wood and metal that echoes through the hall louder than it should.
Dust shakes loose in a soft pale cloud.
Faylan steps back instinctively, squinting as it drifts down through the thin hallway light, turning the air into something older, thicker, briefly visible.
The ladder hangs fully extended now, narrow and steep, its rungs darker with age than the painted trim around the opening. Above it, the attic waits as a square of dimness cut into the ceiling.
Not black.
Not empty.
Just hidden.
Faylan stares up at it, her pulse ticking harder in her throat.
She expects fear.
Or dread.
Or at least some clean, sensible hesitation.
What she feels instead is recognition.
Not of the space itself.
Of the moment.
Like she has been moving toward this without understanding it for much longer than tonight.
A floorboard creaks faintly below her as she shifts her weight.
The house settles again around her, but this time it doesn’t sound like warning.
It sounds like permission.
Faylan places one foot on the first rung.
The wood gives a quiet complaint beneath her weight, but holds.
She grips the sides of the ladder and starts to climb, slower than she wants to, each step carrying her higher into cooler air that smells faintly of cedar, dust, and something else beneath it—something dry and old and familiar in a way she cannot place yet.
By the time her head rises level with the opening, the hallway behind her already feels farther away than it should.
She pauses there for a second, one hand braced against the frame, and looks into the attic.
The dark inside is not total darkness. A small round window at the far end lets in the last weak light of evening, enough to sketch shapes out of shadow: trunks, boxes, draped furniture, slanted rafters cutting the ceiling low on both sides. Dust hangs in the air in long, pale threads. Nothing moves.
Nothing greets her.
And somehow that makes the whole space feel more intentional, not less.
This is not a room people forgot.
This is a room someone left exactly as they wanted it.
Faylan pulls herself up the rest of the way, knees brushing old wood before she straightens slowly into the dimness. Behind her, the open square in the floor frames a view of the hallway below—light, familiar, ordinary.
Above it all, the attic breathes around her in silence.
Cool.
Still.
Waiting.
And for the first time since the handbook, since the blood, since the number twenty-five lodged itself like splintered glass under everything she thinks, Faylan feels something cut cleanly through the noise.
Not certainty.
But direction.
Whatever her mother hid—
it started here.
The thought settles as Faylan steps fully into the attic, her weight shifting off the ladder and onto the old wooden floor with a soft creak that echoes through the space.
For a second, she doesn’t move.
Because this—
this doesn’t feel like entering somewhere new.
It feels like stepping back into something she was never supposed to understand.
The attic stretches around her in dim light, the round window casting a dull gray glow across the floor. Dust drifts slowly through the air, soft and weightless, like time itself got stuck here and never quite moved on.
She’s been here before.
That realization lands immediately.
Not as a memory.
As a feeling.
Standing here years ago.
Looking at all of this—
and seeing nothing.
Just boxes.
Just old things.
Just grief her father didn’t know where to put.
Faylan exhales slowly.
“…I’ve been up here,” she murmurs.
The words feel strange now.
Because if she’s been here—
then how did she miss all of this?
Her gaze sharpens.
Because now—
now she’s not just looking.
She’s seeing.
The arrangement.
The spacing.
The way nothing is stacked too tightly, nothing buried too deeply.
This wasn’t storage.
This was—
intentional.
Her chest tightens.
“You were working up here.”
The realization doesn’t surprise her anymore.
It settles.
Heavy.
Certain.
She steps forward slowly, her attention narrowing toward the center of the attic—the place that feels just slightly different from everything else.
The floor.
Worn.
Not from age.
From use.
Faylan’s pulse picks up.
That strange rhythm brushing faintly beneath her ribs again.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
She steps into the center—
and this time—
she sees it.
Not just the circle.
The details.
The symbols.
The truth.
The rug that once hid it is slightly off, just enough for the markings beneath to show through. Pale lines curve across the wood, layered rings intersecting with sharp, deliberate sigils burned deep enough to last.
Faylan crouches slowly.
Her breath catching.
Because this—
this isn’t random.
This isn’t decorative.
This was made.
For something.
For someone.
Her fingers hover over the markings—
and then she sees it.
The crescent.
Small.
Worked into the outer ring.
Not obvious unless you’re looking for it.
But once you see it—
you can’t unsee it.
Faylan freezes.
Her hand instinctively lifts to her collarbone.
To the place where her birthmark sits.
The crescent.
The same shape.
Her stomach drops.
“No…”
The word barely leaves her.
Because this—
this isn’t coincidence.
Her eyes move faster now, scanning the rest of the circle—
and she finds it.
The tree-like symbol.
Branching lines inside a ring.
The same pattern carved into the chest.
The same one that reacted to her.
And then—
smaller.
Softer.
Almost hidden in one section of the circle—
a butterfly.
Faint.
Delicate.
But intentional.
Faylan’s breath catches again.
“Seina…”
It clicks all at once.
Not slowly.
Not gently.
All at once.
This wasn’t just a circle.
This wasn’t just protection.
This was—
built.
Designed.
For them.
For both of them.
Her chest tightens sharply.
“You didn’t just hide us,” she whispers.
Her voice trembles now.
“You marked us.”
The realization hits deeper.
Because this means—
her mother didn’t just know what they were.
She knew exactly which of them they were.
Firstborn.
Secondborn.
Different.
Dangerous in different ways.
Protected differently.
Faylan’s gaze flicks back to the center of the circle.
To the crescent.
Her crescent.
And suddenly—
everything from before comes rushing back.
The book.
The words.
Instability.
Doesn’t live past twenty-five.
Her breath stutters.
Because now—
this wasn’t a warning someone wrote down.
This was something her mother knew.
And planned around.
Her chest tightens painfully.
“You knew,” she whispers.
This time—
it sounds like betrayal.
And love.
And grief.
All at once.
“You knew I wouldn’t—”
She stops.
Can’t say it.
Doesn’t want to make it real out loud.
Her hands curl against her knees, her gaze still locked on the crescent burned into the floor.
“And this was it?” she says quietly.
“This was your plan?”
Her voice cracks.
She doesn’t fix it.
“Hide me,” she continues, her breathing uneven now, “hide Seina—give us a normal life for as long as you could and just—what? Hope that was enough?”
The attic stays silent.
Still.
Holding everything she’s saying without answering.
Faylan lets out a shaky breath, her eyes burning now, her thoughts unraveling too fast to stop.
“Was I just supposed to be okay with that?” she whispers.
“A good childhood and then—what? That’s it?”
The words land harder this time.
Because now—
now she understands something worse.
This wasn’t meant to save her.
It was meant to give her something before she couldn’t be saved anymore.
Her throat tightens painfully.
“…you knew I’d die.”
The words come out soft.
Final.
And that—
that breaks something.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Her breath shakes as she pushes herself back to her feet, turning away from the circle like she can’t stand in it anymore, like it’s too much now that she understands what it was.
Her gaze lifts—
and lands on the chest.
Still there.
Still waiting.
The same one.
Her pulse sharpens again.
Because if the circle was this deliberate—
then whatever is in that chest—
is worse.
Her steps are slower now.
Heavier.
Because this isn’t curiosity anymore.
This is confirmation.
She stops in front of it.
Stares down.
Her jaw tightens slightly.
“…you better have left something more than that,” she mutters.
Her hand lifts—
hesitates—
Her hand settles against the lid.
This time, the warmth doesn’t startle her.
It meets her.
The wood beneath her palm is still faintly warm, still carrying that strange almost-living presence she noticed before, but now that she has seen the circle—now that she has seen the crescent and the butterfly and the branching tree worked into it like promises burned into the floorboards—the sensation doesn’t feel random anymore.
It feels keyed.
To her.
Faylan exhales slowly, her fingers curling over the edge of the chest.
“Okay,” she whispers, though she doesn’t know if she’s speaking to herself, to the attic, or to the woman who left all of this behind. “No more half-answers.”
The latch gives under her hand more easily now.
Not fully on its own.
Not with magic flaring or the dramatic resistance she half expected.
Just enough.
Like something already recognized her and decided it would not fight this part.
The lid lifts with a quiet creak.
The smell that escapes is old paper, leather, cedar, and faint lavender gone thin with time. Not dust exactly. Preserved age. Things kept closed because they mattered too much to leave open to the air.
Faylan leans over the chest slowly.
Inside, everything is arranged too neatly to be accidental.
No frantic hiding.
No mess.
Just layers.
A folded photograph at one side. Newspaper clippings beneath it. A bundle of ribbon tied around several pages that look like copied notes. And beneath all of that, resting flatter and heavier than the rest, is a dark leather journal with worn edges and a spine softened from use.
Not a keepsake.
A working thing.
Faylan’s pulse shifts again.
Because she knows immediately—
this is not the letter.
The letter was meant for her to read.
This feels different.
Older.
More dangerous.
Like something her mother wrote for herself first and left behind only because there was no other choice.
She slides the journal carefully from the chest, both hands under it now, and the weight of it settles into her palms more heavily than it should. The leather is smooth in some places, cracked in others, the corners worn pale where fingers must have worried at them over and over again.
Her throat tightens.
Because suddenly she can see it too clearly—
Elara sitting up here alone, writing by lamp light, crossing things out, starting over, trying to make an impossible life fit inside words.
Faylan swallows hard and carries the journal to the edge of the circle before lowering herself to the floor.
She doesn’t sit in the center this time.
Just near it.
Close enough to feel the old pull in the wood beneath her, not close enough to stand inside whatever choice her mother made there.
The journal rests in her lap.
For a second, she only looks at the cover.
No title.
No neat label.
Just a small pressed symbol burned into the leather near the lower corner.
The tree.
The same branching mark.
Faylan’s thumb brushes over it once, slowly, before she opens the cover.
The first pages are dense with notes.
Not diary entries.
Observations.
Dates.
Partial records in her mother’s precise hand, some written more neatly than others, as if certain pages were copied after the fact while others were written in moments she did not expect to survive with a steady hand.
Faylan turns carefully.
Lines about blood concentrations. Concealment failures. The name of the Veil written more than once.
Veil of Quiet Blood.
Her chest tightens.
There it is.
Real.
Not a theory.
Not something Emerson found in someone else’s book.
Her mother’s own hand.
Faylan keeps turning pages, faster now, until the writing shifts.
The notes give way to longer passages.
Paragraphs.
Thought, not just record.
And then—
a date.
No title beneath it.
Just words.
Her mother’s.
Faylan starts to read.
The first lines are calm in a way that makes them worse.
Measured. Controlled. Written by someone trying to keep the page steadier than her own thoughts.
Elara writes of the girls as if naming them outright might tempt fate, but it doesn’t take long for the meaning to become unbearable clear.
The secondborn can be hidden with concealment and patience. She bends more easily around the Veil. Her blood settles where her sister’s surges.
Faylan stops reading for half a second.
Her throat tightens.
Then she keeps going.
The firstborn does not settle. She gathers. Even sleeping, she gathers. I feel it in the house when she is still enough, as if the air itself waits around her.
Her fingers tighten on the edge of the page.
Because that—
that is her.
Not abstract anymore.
Not a category.
A child.
Her mother watching her sleep and already knowing what would one day begin to kill her.
Faylan inhales slowly, but the breath catches halfway in.
She keeps reading.
I have tried every spell I know. Every sealing pattern my line preserved. Blood circles, moonwater, ash-binding, name concealments, silence threads. I can hide her. I can delay them. I can soften the first waking signs. But I cannot unmake what she was born carrying.
Faylan closes her eyes.
Only for a second.
Because suddenly she cannot see the page without seeing her mother here, desperate and exhausted and still trying, still layering spell after spell over a future she already knew she could not change.
She opens her eyes again and keeps reading, though her vision is beginning to blur at the edges.
No matter how much love I pour into her, no matter how many spells I cast over her bones, her firstborn blood remains what it is. It will not spare her because I am her mother. It will not bend because I beg it to.
Her breath shakes.
Just once.
Faylan presses her lips together hard enough to hurt and reads on.
All I can do—all I have ever been able to do—is lengthen the road between her and the end of it. Give her years that are hers before the world names her for what she is. Give her laughter. Warm meals. Summer afternoons. Petty arguments with her sister. The illusion of ordinary time. A childhood full of love, so that if I cannot save her life, I may at least save her memories.
Something inside Faylan gives way.
Not cleanly.
Not all at once.
Just enough.
Her hand rises to cover her mouth before the sound can get out, but it doesn’t stop the tears that hit faster than she was prepared for, sudden and hot, blurring the ink so badly she has to blink hard just to keep reading.
Because that is the cruelest part.
Not that Elara knew.
Not even that she couldn’t save her.
It’s that she loved her while knowing.
Every birthday.
Every morning.
Every ordinary day in that house—
given shape by a grief her mother must have already been carrying.
Faylan bows over the journal slightly, one hand clenched against her mouth, the other gripping the page as if letting go would make it all less real.
“No,” she whispers, but there is no denial left in it now. Just hurt. “No…”
Her tears strike the page in dark spots.
She swipes at them angrily with the heel of her hand, then keeps reading because she cannot not know the rest now. That would be worse.
The next paragraph is shorter.
Sharper.
Written harder into the page.
I think often of Liora.
The name makes Faylan go still.
Because this was the girl in the fire they had talked about. Her aunt.
Her breathing slows despite the tears, her attention sharpening around the name like something instinctive in her already knows it matters.
She reads the next lines more carefully.
My sister died with terror where memory should have been. Hunted young. Loved too late by people who only realized what she was when the world had already marked her for death. She had so little gentleness before the end that I have never once forgiven those who failed her.
Faylan’s eyes move faster.
I will not give my daughter the life Liora was given. If I cannot save her body, then I will give her a life worth grieving. I will give her enough tenderness that death, when it comes, does not take everything first.
The attic goes utterly still around her.
Even the house below feels gone.
It is just the journal.
The circle.
The dim light.
And her mother’s love, written so plainly it hurts worse than any warning.
Faylan’s shoulders shake once, sharply.
Because now she understands.
Not just the spell.
Not just the attic.
Her mother had not been trying to defeat fate.
She had been trying to soften it.
And that—
that is almost unbearable.
“You should’ve told me,” Faylan whispers, though the words are wet and broken now, hardly more than breath. “You should have told me.”
But even as she says it, she knows why Elara didn’t.
Because what child could live under that number without turning into something desperate or frightened or half-dead before the danger ever arrived.
Because a normal childhood only works if the child believes it is normal.
Because love, apparently, sometimes looks like lying long enough for happiness to take root.
Faylan wipes furiously at her face again, angry at the tears, angry at her mother, angry at the world, angry at the neat, elegant cruelty of a fate that let Elara love her enough to fight and still denied her the power to change the outcome.
She turns another page.
This one is messier.
Less controlled.
Written later, perhaps, or on a worse night.
Emerson is safer away from the house. His blood thins toward witch inheritance and will not draw them as the girls will. He may hate me for it one day, but hatred is survivable. Burial is not.
Faylan’s eyes sting harder.
Of course.
Of course that had been love too.
Cruel in a different shape.
Separation as protection.
Her throat tightens so badly it hurts to breathe around it.
She keeps reading.
The secondborn I can hide beside her sister. The butterfly mark took cleanly. Soft concealment. Lighter anchoring. She will still be wanted if found, but not hunted with the same urgency. The firstborn required more. Crescent binding. Rooted line concealment. A stronger seal. Strong enough, I pray, to let her belong to the world before the world decides it owns her.
Faylan looks down at the page through tears she has stopped trying to control.
Butterfly.
Crescent.
Tree-rooted line concealment.
The circle below her had not just mirrored them.
It had named them.
Marked them.
Loved them in symbols because symbols could hold what ordinary hands could not.
She laughs once through tears, small and wrecked and almost angry.
“God,” she whispers. “You really thought of everything except how I was supposed to live with it.”
The words leave her and hang there.
Because that—
that is the question, isn’t it.
Not how to survive the truth for one hour.
How to live after it.
Faylan lowers the journal slightly and stares past it, out toward the dim round window where evening has gone softer and grayer, the outside world still existing in complete ignorance of the fact that hers has just been torn neatly in half.
Before.
After.
The years she thought she had.
The years she might not.
Her breathing slowly steadies, but not because she feels better.
Because something else is settling in under the grief now.
Something sharper.
Her mother could not save her.
The Veil was a delay.
The spells were a delay.
Love itself, apparently, was a delay.
And if all of that was true—
then what was the point of flinching from danger now.
The thought comes back quieter than before.
Less wild.
More solid.
If the end is written, then fear only wastes the time before it.
Faylan presses the heel of her hand hard against her eyes until sparks flare behind them, then lowers it again and looks back at the journal.
This time her tears have slowed.
Not gone.
Just… changed.
She is still hurt.
Still furious.
Still grieving a future she did not know she’d started losing years ago.
But beneath all of that, something else has begun.
A kind of terrible clarity.
Her mother gave her a childhood.
The rest, it seems, will be up to her.
Faylan draws in a slow breath and wipes her face one last time, then turns the page.
The paper shifts beneath her fingers with a soft, dry sound, the kind that feels louder only because everything else has gone so still.
Her breathing hasn’t fully steadied.
Her chest still aches in that deep, quiet way grief settles when it decides not to leave.
But her hands—
her hands don’t shake anymore.
The tears slow.
Not gone.
Just… no longer in control.
Because something else has taken their place.
Focus.
She leans forward slightly, her eyes moving over the next page more carefully now, no longer searching for comfort.
Just truth.
The writing has changed again.
Less emotional.
More structured.
Like Elara forced herself back into clarity after letting too much of herself spill onto the previous pages.
Faylan recognizes that.
That instinct to pull yourself together when you realize you’ve gone too far into something you can’t survive staying inside.
Her jaw tightens slightly as she reads.
The Veil holds. For now. Both girls remain unreadable to external senses when anchored within the house. Outside exposure increases risk incrementally. Time remains the deciding factor.
Faylan exhales slowly.
So that’s it.
Not permanent.
Not protection.
Just—
time.
Her eyes move faster now.
If the Veil weakens, the firstborn will be the first to surface. Her blood does not remain quiet. It gathers, even when suppressed. When it begins to breach, it will not do so subtly.
Her chest tightens again.
Not from surprise.
From recognition.
The feeling she’s had lately—
the way everything feels sharper, louder, closer to the surface—
that wasn’t random.
That wasn’t just stress.
That was this.
Starting.
“…of course it is,” she mutters.
Her fingers press slightly harder into the page.
She keeps reading.
Containment for firstborn blood requires one of three stabilizing conditions: ritual discharge, bonded channeling, or external anchoring through transformation.
Faylan stills.
Her eyes linger on the last words.
External anchoring through transformation.
Something about that—
catches.
Doesn’t fully make sense yet.
But it sticks.
Like a piece that will matter later whether she understands it now or not.
Her gaze continues.
No recorded case of natural stabilization without intervention. All known firstborn outcomes remain terminal without adaptation.
There it is again.
Not dramatic.
Not emotional.
Just written like fact.
Like something already decided.
Faylan’s jaw tightens.
“Yeah,” she whispers, her voice flat now. “I got that part.”
But it doesn’t hit the same way it did before.
Not like a blow.
Like something settling into place.
A soft creak from the ladder breaks the silence.
Faylan’s head lifts immediately, her body going still in a different way now—not startled, not afraid—
aware.
Footsteps.
Careful.
Not rushed.
She doesn’t turn right away.
Doesn’t close the journal.
Just listens.
The second step is lighter.
Familiar.
Seina.
Faylan exhales slowly through her nose.
“Door was open,” she says, her voice quieter now, steadier than it was before.
She hears the shift behind her as Seina steps fully into the attic, the faint rustle of movement, the soft pause that always comes when someone enters a space they don’t fully understand yet.
For a second—
Seina doesn’t speak.
And Faylan knows why.
Because the attic does that.
It makes you stop.
It makes you feel.
And Seina—
Seina feels everything.
“…it’s stronger up here,” Seina says softly.
Faylan glances back over her shoulder.
Seina stands just inside the space, her eyes already moving across the room, taking in the circle, the markings, the air itself like she can see something in it Faylan can’t.
“Yeah,” Faylan replies.
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“It’s all hers.”
Seina’s gaze shifts to the floor.
To the circle.
She steps closer slowly, her attention catching immediately on the markings the way Faylan’s had earlier.
“…I felt this before,” Seina murmurs. “I just didn’t know what it was.”
Faylan watches her for a second.
Then looks back down at the journal.
“Turns out that’s kind of a theme.”
Seina moves closer to her now, stopping just outside the edge of the circle.
Her eyes flick to the journal in Faylan’s lap.
“…is that—”
“Not the letter,” Faylan says.
Her voice shifts slightly on the word.
Still controlled.
But heavier.
“This is everything else.”
Seina lowers herself slowly to the floor beside her, careful, like she doesn’t want to disturb something she can’t see but knows is there.
“Is it bad?” she asks quietly.
Faylan lets out a short breath.
A humorless one.
“Depends,” she says. “Do you like knowing exactly how screwed we are or do you prefer guessing.”
Seina doesn’t smile.
She just watches her.
Carefully.
“…Fay,” she says softly.
And that—
that tone—
pulls something.
Faylan’s shoulders tighten slightly.
She doesn’t look at her right away.
Because she knows that tone.
It’s the one Seina uses when she’s worried.
Not about herself.
About her.
Faylan exhales slowly and finally turns her head.
Seina’s expression is gentle.
Too gentle.
“You’re not okay,” she says.
Not a question.
Faylan lets out a quiet breath.
“…no,” she admits.
The word comes easier than she expects.
Because there’s no point pretending here.
Not now.
Not after all of this.
Seina’s gaze softens slightly, but she doesn’t reach for her, doesn’t push—just stays there, present in that quiet way she always has been.
“What did it say,” she asks.
Faylan looks back down at the journal.
Her fingers trace lightly along the edge of the page.
“…it said Mom knew,” she says.
A pause.
Then—
“…everything.”
Seina goes still beside her.
Faylan swallows.
“For me,” she continues, her voice tightening slightly despite how controlled she’s trying to keep it, “she couldn’t fix it. She couldn’t stop it. All she could do was—” her breath catches for half a second, “—delay it.”
Silence settles between them.
Heavy.
Real.
Seina’s gaze drops.
“…and me?” she asks quietly.
Faylan glances at her.
Something shifts in her chest at that question.
Because even now—
even now—
Seina isn’t asking if she’s safe.
She’s asking where she fits.
Faylan exhales slowly.
“You’re stable,” she says.
The word feels strange in her mouth.
“She could hide you easier. Keep you… manageable.”
Seina nods once.
Not hurt.
Not relieved.
Just… understanding.
“That’s why they only wanted my blood,” she murmurs.
Faylan’s jaw tightens.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Then—
“for now.”
The words sit there.
Familiar.
Unwelcome.
Seina’s fingers fold together in her lap, her gaze still lowered.
“…what about you,” she asks.
Faylan doesn’t answer immediately.
Because this is the part—
the part she’s still deciding how to hold.
Her eyes drift back to the page.
To the lines about instability.
About needing an outlet.
About things that weren’t written as hope.
Just options.
“…I’m the problem,” she says finally.
The words come out quiet.
Flat.
Not dramatic.
Not emotional.
Just—
true.
Seina looks at her immediately.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” Faylan cuts in.
Still calm.
Still controlled.
“If I wasn’t what I am, none of this would be happening like this.”
The words land.
Harder than she intends.
Seina’s expression tightens slightly.
“Faylan—”
“I’m not saying it like it’s a bad thing,” Faylan says.
And that—
that’s the part that changes everything.
Because she means it.
Or at least—
she’s starting to.
She finally looks at Seina fully now, something sharper sitting behind her eyes.
“I’m just saying it’s the truth.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“If this is how it ends anyway…”
She stops.
Just for a second.
Because the thought—
the real version of it—
is still too raw to say cleanly.
But it’s there.
Seina hears it anyway.
Her expression shifts immediately.
“…don’t,” she says softly.
Faylan looks back down at the journal.
“…I’m not,” she replies.
But she doesn’t sound convincing.
Not even to herself.
The attic settles around them again.
Quiet.
Watching.
Faylan turns another page slowly, her expression no longer just hurt—
but focused.
Because now—
now this isn’t just about what her mother knew.
It’s about what she left behind.
And if there’s anything in this journal that can change what comes next—
Faylan is going to find it.