CHAPTER SIXTY NINE

A full week passed.

Alva and Cody had not spoken. Not once.

They hadn't even seen each other.

The silence between them wasn't just cold—it was dead.

In Alice's room, the light from the window cast soft glows across the wooden floor, and every morning, Alva sat beside her daughter's little bed, brushing her fingers gently through Alice's long silver strands. She had started braiding them softly, humming lullabies under her breath—songs with no beginning or end.

"You're going to wake up soon," Alva whispered one morning, voice tight with emotion. "Mama's right here. I promise… I'll never leave you."

She paused.

"I won't let anyone take you away."

Alice didn't stir. Her tiny chest rose and fell steadily, like someone sleeping peacefully. But there was something unearthly about the way she lay—still glowing faintly, her hands occasionally twitching as if her dreams were more alive than the world outside.

Each day blurred into the next. Alva rarely left the room.

Until one morning—she did.

She opened the door slowly, her feet cold on the marble floor as she stepped out for the first time in days. Her heart beat faster, not from fear… but something worse: dread.

The mansion was quiet.

Too quiet.

"Cody?" she called, her voice echoing. "Tim? Sam?"

No answer.

She checked their bedroom—empty. The beds were made. No trace of life. She checked Tim and Sam's room—nothing. The whole place felt like a frozen castle.

A chill passed through her spine.

Then—a knock.

Sharp. Soft. Once.

Alva froze.

No one ever came to the mansion uninvited. The gates were protected. Entry required a special card. No one could just walk in. And yet… someone had.

She walked slowly to the front door. Every step felt like a hammer to her heart.

Knock.

She reached for the handle.

Click.

And opened it.

There, standing calmly at the threshold, was a woman.

But not just any woman.

She was breathtaking—tall and elegant, with an otherworldly glow to her. Her skin was pale but smooth like moonlight on water. Her eyes were a shimmering violet, piercing straight through Alva like glass. Her lips, a soft wine red, curled into a faint, unreadable smile.

And her hair…

It was silver.

Long, thick, and smooth, falling over her shoulders like silk spun from stardust—the exact same color as Alice's.

Alva's voice caught in her throat. "Who… who are you?"

The woman didn't answer.

Instead, she stepped inside—graceful, almost floating. The moment her heels touched the marble floor, the chandelier above flickered once, casting broken light across her face.

She looked around slowly, as if she'd been here before.

Then, her voice echoed softly:

"Alva."

Alva's blood ran cold.

She stepped back. "How do you know my name?"

The woman turned to face her fully now, her expression unreadable. "Because I knew you long before you were born."

Alva's throat tightened. "What do you want?"

"I came," the woman said calmly, "to see your daughter."

Alva's eyes widened. "No."

"She's not just your child. She is the Tree's blood. And I need to wake her."

Alva's voice turned sharp. "Get out. You don't belong here."

The woman's eyes softened a little. "If I leave now, your child may never wake up."

Alva's lips parted—shaken, but silent.

Then the woman leaned in slightly, voice as soft as wind in the leaves. "If you want to know the truth about Cody, then you'll listen. I can tell you everything. Who he is. What he was. And what he still hasn't told you."

Alva froze.

Every part of her wanted to scream, to push this woman back out the door.

But another part—the wounded part—desperately wanted to know. She looked down at her hand. It trembled.

"I don't trust you," Alva whispered.

"You shouldn't," the woman replied, "but you should trust the truth."

Alva's jaw clenched. "And what's the price for waking her?"

The silver-haired woman looked at her calmly.

"One truth. That's all I ask. One truth you're not ready to hear."

Alva felt the world spin slightly beneath her feet.

"…Then say it," she whispered.

Alva's fists clenched at her sides. The soft breath of wind from the open doorway whispered through the hall, but the chill she felt had nothing to do with the breeze—it came from Seren.

Her beauty was unnatural. Her presence… suffocating.

Seren stepped further into the mansion, her heels making a soft click with each step against the marble. She passed by the chandelier as if it bowed slightly to her presence, the crystals swaying without wind.

"Who are you really?" Alva asked, her voice low and guarded. "What are you to Cody?"

Seren stopped at the foot of the grand staircase.

"I am memory," she said simply. "And Cody is forgetting."

Alva stared at her, uncertain. "What does that mean?"

Seren turned, violet eyes glowing under the golden light.

"Cody is not the man you think he is. You love his kindness. His strength. His pain. But all of that... is built on what was taken from him."

She raised a hand, and slowly a thin, silver mark lit up across her palm — the same shape as the Tree's roots.

"He was never meant to live this life peacefully. That peace was stolen. Buried. And now that the Tree has bloomed again, so has the truth."

Alva's chest tightened. Her voice trembled. "And what truth are you giving me now?"

Seren stepped forward, gaze never wavering.

"The man you sleep beside… the man you kissed, married, held your child with..."

She paused, and then said it:

> "He was once the Witch King's heir."

Alva's world tilted.

She shook her head. "That's not true. Cody isn't—he's not—he wouldn't—"

Seren's voice grew calm, but firmer. "He was born of shadow, raised in a realm ruled by death. His soul was touched by a curse so dark that even the gods turned their eyes away."

Alva's lips quivered. "No. No, he saved me. He protected me. He would never be like that."

Seren lowered her hand. "Then tell me, Alva. Has he told you why your daughter's hair turned silver? Why she can freeze time? Why your tattoos vanished the night she screamed?"

Alva looked away, struggling.

"He said he didn't know."

Seren's smile was faint. "Then he lied. And that is your one truth."

Silence fell.

The house seemed to sigh with the weight of that revelation.

Alva took a deep breath, then raised her chin. "You said you can wake Alice."

Seren nodded once. "But only if you let me place my hand on her heart. Only I know the words that can reach her through the seal."

"And what happens to her?" Alva asked, voice trembling. "What does she become?"

"That is not up to me," Seren said quietly. "It will be up to her. But if you don't act soon... her spirit will begin to fade."

Alva's fingers dug into her palms.

Then she turned, walking quickly upstairs.

Seren followed, calm as moonlight.

They entered the glowing bedroom.

Alice lay exactly as before—peaceful, otherworldly, glowing gently from the inside out.

Alva knelt beside her daughter and whispered, "I'm here, baby… I'm always here."

Seren stood beside the bed, looking down at the child with what almost looked like… reverence.

Then she knelt.

Without touching her yet, Seren said gently, "She is the root and the flower. The curse and the cure. And now—she must choose."

Her fingers hovered just above Alice's heart.

"Alva," she said, not looking up, "this moment is not without cost. Once I touch her, the Tree will awaken fully. And your husband… may never be the same again."

Alva looked down at Alice.

Then back at Seren.

"Do it."

Seren closed her eyes, whispered words in a forgotten tongue—and pressed her glowing hand to Alice's chest.