Chapter Twenty-Six: Intruder (II)

Madeline's gaze swept across the dining table, narrowing at the faces of the anxious young ones.

They hardly touched their food—just pushed it around with their forks like it might bite back. The clinking of silverware against porcelain echoed louder than any silence.

Myra’s chair sat empty.

The cushion still held the shape of her, but the warmth was long gone.

Madeline frowned. “Eat,” she said softly. “Worrying on an empty stomach won’t fix anything.”

Arielle looked up, wide-eyed, then stared back down as if expecting answers from her plate. Ezra, stiff beside her, radiated quiet panic. He knew the truth better than anyone: he and Myra weren’t just part of the Thorn family—they were the future of it. And that made them targets.

Arielle wasn’t Thorn responsibility anymore. She had her mate. Her freedom. Lisa’s father would never force her into anything. She had joined this journey for the thrill, nothing more.

Ezra’s eyes kept flicking to the doorway, like he was waiting for Myra to walk in and fix everything with one of her sharp, clipped commands.

Madeline exhaled slowly, glancing at her husband. He said nothing, but his eyes mirrored her thoughts: Myra’s leaving. And we might not get her back.

The thought stung more than she expected.

Convincing Thomas to let Myra stay would be close to impossible. No—it would be war.

But Thomas didn’t know what they knew. The secret only a few living souls still remembered.

Madeline bit the inside of her cheek. At first she needed time. A day or two. Just enough to keep Myra away from the estate. Away from Damian. But it didn't mean she was going to let Thomas take her—no never.

Thank god her husband had stopped her from saying too much to Damien that day. Or God knows what he had done.

She stood, trying to focus her mind. She plated a small meal and poured a glass of blood.

“Myra must be hungry. I’ll take this up to her,” she said, not waiting for a response before leaving the room.

She climbed the stairs, careful but quick. Stopped outside Myra’s door and knocked gently.

“Myra, honey... are you in there?” Her voice softened, coaxing. “Open the door so we can talk.”

Silence.

Madeline leaned her ear to the wood, listening. There was movement, her heart beat slightly steady. The whistle of wind. She was on the balcony.

Madeline opened the door—and froze.

Thud.

She watched, horrified, as Myra jumped from the balcony.

The plate crashed from her hands. Glass and porcelain shards crashing on the marble floor.

Heart hammering, moving before her brain could comprehend, Madeline ran to the railing and looked down.

Myra landed smoothly, crouched like a predator, then darted into the shadows.

Her gaze followed.

A man in black. Moving through the garden.

And Myra was tailing him. Madeline's stomach dropped. She knew who she was following, and this was bad.

“Oh no.”

___

The marble chilled her hands as she crouched low beneath the hedges, every breath curling like smoke in the cold air. The night was silent except for the faint rustle of grass beneath the man’s boots—measured, deliberate, like he knew the ground was listening.

He moved like he belonged here.

But Myra knew every man who ever set foot on this estate. She knew how guards walked, how spies snuck, how nobles swaggered. This wasn’t any of that.

This was Aphelion. But that didn't make sense, she didn't recognize his scent.

And was that a sword wrapped tightly in his arms?

Even covered from the weight and length she could recognize it was a sword. A powerful one at that. It hummed a sort of dark ancient energy that seemed to call her name, like it knew her.

Her chest tightened, What was the intruder doing with a sword heading to the annex?

He glanced back.

Myra ducked quickly behind the nearest bush, heart in her throat. Did he see her? Something about the way he moved—unbothered, steady—said yes.

She hesitated. Maybe she should call one of the Aphelions. Or Madeline. Or anyone.

Then—

Myra.

A voice. Eerie, soft, longing.

She turned sharply. No one. Just the intruder, continuing on.

Then again:

Come for me, master.

The voice slithered into her head. Hypnotic. Familiar. Like something she’d heard a thousand times in a dream she could never remember.

Master...

Her head snapped toward the annex. Her instincts screamed to follow.

And so she did.

The man entered the old building like it was his own home—unafraid, steady. The door creaked open. He vanished inside.

Myra slipped in behind him, silent as shadow.

The air inside the annex was thick—dust, rot, old paper, and something more ancient. Cobwebs dangled like forgotten memories. White sheets covered long-abandoned furniture. The wooden floor groaned beneath her feet, every step soft but full of weight.

Her guard was up. Heart racing. Muscles tense.

Master... please come.

The voice again.

Not demanding. Begging.

She followed it, like a siren's call leading her deeper into the dark.

And then—she saw it.

Enclosed in a thick glass case at the far end of the room:

The most beautiful sword she had ever seen. It radiated a dark, ominous energy.

It was what was calling her.

It was a beautiful combination of artistry and destruction. Gleaming under the beam of moonlight that filtered through the crack in the roof.

The large blade, crafted from an otherworldly black steel, shimmered under the light with an eerie silver glow. Along its razor-sharp edge, intricate engravings of twisting rose vines curled and bloomed, their delicate petals stark against the dark metal, it almost looked so real.

Running along the fuller was an inscription, etched in an ancient script—words of power, of legacy. "Sanguine Florebit"—"In Blood, It Shall Bloom."

The hilt mirrored the blade’s artistry. Forged from dark, burnished metal, it bore the shape of intertwining stems, curling seamlessly into a crossguard adorned with two symmetrical roses in full bloom. The grip, wrapped in deep crimson leather, was designed for both comfort and control.

I have been waiting for you master.

Her fingers twitched. Her body moved on its own. She stepped forward, hand reaching for the case.

It felt right. Like this sword was a part of her she'd forgotten existed.

She was inches away, when.

“Careful now, that sword has a taste for blood.” a smug unfamiliar voice cut through her trance, jolting her out of the spell she had been put on. Her hands fell to her sides, curling into fist.

She took a deep breath in and turned to face the intruder.

She was now face to face with him, he was tall, dark brown hair with magenta highlights, so she wasn't wrong. The intruder was an Aphelion. Damien Aphelion from his uncanny resemblance to his father.

Guess he wasn't an intruder after all.

But then why was he looking at her like that.

“Emily?” his face laced with pain, hurt and longing. Myra looked back thinking maybe there was someone behind her that he was talking to, but no, just the sword which she swore was slightly shaking.

She squinted a bit, but before she could fully make out it it was shaking Damien yanked here back.

His grip tight on her wrist, digging into his flesh, she could feel he was in pain. But why? His other hand cupped her cheek and thumb gently stroking.

“Please tell me I am not dreaming, Emily” his voice cracking slightly, Myra tried to pull out of his hold. Something wasn't right. Why was he looking at her like she was his long lost love? And why in hell's name was he calling her Emily.

“Let me go!” his grip tighter than she had expected.

“What? Why? Don't you recognize me?” he sounded like her words had stabbed him right in his heart. To his question she did recognize him, she recognized him as Damien Aphelion.

“Let me g–” that's when Lady Aphelion rushed in, she looked scared, her feet bare meaning she had rushed there. She stopped a few steps away from them.

“Damien honey, let Myra go” though her tone stayed soft, panic trembled beneath it.

Myra's gaze moved between them, what was happening right now? Everything was so chaotic. One moment she was trying to find out why the sword was calling her and now–

The sword—

Myra’s head snapped toward it. It was still locked in the glass case, but now it trembled violently. Shadows bled from its edges, dark mist coiling around the glass like smoke seeking oxygen.

A deep pulse throbbed in the air—boom... boom... boom—like a second heartbeat had entered the room.

Wrong. Very wrong.

“You knew she was back, didn’t you?” Damian’s voice cut through the thickening air, sharp and accusing. Myra’s eyes darted back. He still had her wrist—his grip iron-tight.

She didn't have time for this now. She would demand for answers later, after this was over.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said tightly, yanking her arm back, “but that thing’s about to break loose.”

They turned just as the sword slammed itself against the inside of the case—crack. Again. CRACK.

Lady Aphelion’s face drained of color. “Rosa Noctis is reacting to her,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Get her out—before the barrier fails!”

Reacting to her?

Myra barely heard them. The sword's voice was drowning everything out now.

Master... don’t leave me again.

The mist spread across the floor, curling around her ankles like it recognized her. Her heart raced. Her body was frozen—torn between terror and longing.

Damian grabbed her arm. “We need to go—now!”

But Myra’s feet moved before her mind could stop them. Her wrist slipped from his grip, her legs carrying her forward—straight to the case.

Hold me. I’m yours.

“MYRA!” Madeline’s voice snapped through the chaos.

Myra didn’t turn. Her eyes locked onto the blade, now smashing against the glass with furious strength. Her fingers twitched.

“I must reunite with my other half.”

She didn’t even recognize her voice—it came out lower, distant, warped like a fading echo through time.

CRASH.

The glass exploded outward.

Shards scattered across the floor like ice. The mist surged. Rosa Noctis rose into the air, glowing faintly, suspended by some unseen force.

It hovered, waiting.

They tried to stop her, but some sort of barrier stoped them from reaching her.

Myra reached out, and the world dropped into silence.

The second her fingers wrapped around the hilt, light burst from the blade—blinding and warm and terrifying. Ancient symbols spiraled up her arm, glowing gold black and red, circling her like a crown of fire.

And then—

Memory.

A vision, so clear it wasn’t just remembered. It was relived.

A throne. A blade. A curse.

A name.

Nyxaria Ashbane.

___

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