The Ember and the ash

The Letter

Chapter 11: The Letter

Elara

I stared at the photograph until my eyes burned.

Seraphina and Dorian. 1987.

My mother. And the man she'd warned me about. Standing together. His arm around her. Her head tilted toward him, a soft smile on her face.

They looked close.

Intimate.

I turned the photograph over again, searching for more writing. Nothing. Just the faded ink and the weight of its mystery.

I heard a soft knock on the door.

"Elara?" Kael's voice. Low. Hesitant. "Can I come in?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat was closed, my chest tight.

The door creaked open. He stood in the doorway, his grey eyes soft with concern.

"I brought you some tea," he said.

"I don't want tea."

"I know." He set the mug on the bedside table anyway. "You don't have to drink it."

I looked at the photograph, then at him. "I found something. In the box."

He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to the image in my hands. "What is it?"

"A photograph. Of my mother. And Dorian Cross."

Kael's jaw tightened. He took the photograph from me, studying it under the lamplight. His expression shifted recognition, then concern.

"This was in the box?"

"Yes. Hidden beneath the letter."

He was quiet for a long moment. "They look close."

I nodded. "I know."

"Did your mother ever mention him?"

I shook my head. "Never. I didn't even know his name until last night."

Kael set the photograph down on the bedside table. "What did the letter say? Exactly?"

I reached for the letter, my hands trembling. I read the words aloud, my voice shaking.

He is not who he seems.

He knows what you are. He knows what you can become. He will stop at nothing to use you.

I tried to protect you. I tried to hide you. But I couldn't do it alone.

Kael was quiet. Then he spoke, his voice low. "She was afraid of him. But she was also close to him."

"It doesn't make sense."

"It does if she was trying to protect you from something she couldn't control."

I looked at him. "What do you mean?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice careful. "What if your mother wasn't running from Dorian? What if she was trying to protect you from what he knew?"

I stared at him. "What he knew about me?"

"Yes."

I looked at the photograph again. My mother. Dorian. His arm around her.

He knows what you are.

I felt something cold settle in my chest.

"Kael," I whispered. "What if he's my father?"

The question hung between us.

Kael's face went pale. "Elara"

"What if my mother was close to him because he was my father? What if the Nacht family wasn't the only danger? What if" I stopped, my voice cracking. "What if everything my mother told me was a lie?"

Kael stepped closer, his grey eyes fierce. "Your mother loved you. She died trying to protect you. Whatever happened between her and Dorian, she was trying to keep you safe."

"Then why did she hide him from me?"

"I don't know."

"Kael"

"I don't know, Elara." His voice was soft, but firm. "But I do know that you can't make assumptions without proof."

I stared at the photograph. My mother. Dorian. 1987.

"You're right," I whispered. "I can't."

I set the photograph down and reached for the letter again. I read it one more time, searching for answers.

He knows what you are. He knows what you can become.

What could I become?

We sat in silence for a long time.

The tea grew cold. The night deepened. I couldn't bring myself to move.

Kael sat beside me, his presence steady. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

But the question burned in my mind.

Who was my father?

I looked at the photograph again. Dorian. His arm around my mother.

He is not who he seems.

He will stop at nothing to use you.

If he was my father, why had my mother warned me against him?

If he wasn't my father, why had she hidden him from me?

"There's something else," I said slowly.

Kael looked at me. "What?"

"The letter. She said 'You are not the daughter of Seraphina Vance and Michael Vance.' She didn't say I wasn't her daughter. She said I wasn't the daughter of both of them."

Kael's grey eyes widened. "You think your father isn't Michael Vance?"

I shook my head. "I don't know what to think. But there's a difference between 'you are not my daughter' and 'you are not the daughter of Seraphina Vance and Michael Vance.'"

I looked at the photograph again. My mother. Dorian. 1987.

"What if she's my mother," I said slowly, "but Michael Vance isn't my father?"

Kael was quiet. Then: "You think Dorian Cross is your father."

"I don't know." I shook my head. "But it would explain the photograph. It would explain why she warned me about him. It would explain why he's been hunting me."

"It would explain a lot."

I looked at him, my heart pounding. "How do I find out?"

Kael was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke, his voice low.

"Your father's grave. Michael Vance's grave. There might be something there."

"What kind of something?"

"I don't know. But if you want to know the truth about your parents, that's the place to start."

I looked at the photograph again. My mother. Dorian. 1987.

Then at the letter. You are not the daughter of Seraphina Vance and Michael Vance.

I set both items down and met Kael's eyes.

"Then we go. Tomorrow."

He nodded. "Tomorrow."

I didn't sleep that night.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the photograph and the letter spread out before me. My mother. Dorian. 1987.

The year my father died.

I thought about Michael Vance. The kind-eyed man in the photographs. The flash of warmth I'd felt when I saw his face.

He'd raised me. Loved me. Died trying to protect me.

But was he my father?

I looked at the photograph again. Dorian. His arm around my mother.

He knows what you are.

He will stop at nothing to use you.

I closed my eyes, trying to reach through the fog.

Fragments came to me. Flashes of memory I couldn't fully grasp.

A man's voice, low and urgent. She can't know. Not yet.

A woman's voice, soft and warm. You're going to be safe. You're going to be okay.

A door closing. Locking.

I opened my eyes, my heart pounding.

The memories were there. Buried beneath years of fear and silence.

I just had to find a way to reach them.

I looked at the photograph one more time. My mother. Dorian. 1987.

Then I reached for my phone. I'd find his grave. Michael Vance's grave.

And I'd find out the truth.

The next morning, I woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains.

I sat up, my heart pounding. The photograph and the letter were still on the bedside table. I reached for them, my fingers closing around the worn paper.

I found Kael in the kitchen, making coffee.

"Did you sleep?" he asked.

"A little."

"Liar."

I almost smiled. "Not much."

He handed me a mug. "We should leave soon. It's a long drive."

"Where are we going?"

He was quiet for a moment. "To the place where Michael Vance is buried."

I blinked. "You know where he's buried?"

"Your mother told me. Before she died. She said if anything ever happened to her, I should take you there."

I stared at him. "She told you that?"

He nodded slowly. "She was preparing for the worst. She knew she might not be there to tell you herself."

I felt something twist in my chest. My mother. Planning for her own death. Making sure I'd find the truth.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He met my eyes. "For what?"

"For keeping your promise."

His grey eyes softened. "I'll always keep my promises to you, Elara."

I looked away, my heart pounding. I didn't know what to say to that.

So I said nothing.

The drive to the cemetery was long.

I sat in the passenger seat, the photograph and the letter clutched in my hands. Kael drove with one hand, his grey eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"Tell me about my mother," I said suddenly.

He glanced at me. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. What was she like? Before everything?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice soft.

"She was brave. Strong. She'd do anything for the people she loved." He paused. "She was funny, too. She had this laugh—it was loud and warm and filled the whole room."

I smiled despite myself. "I don't remember her laugh."

"She laughed less, after she married Magnus. But before..." He shook his head. "Before, she laughed all the time."

I looked at the photograph in my hands. My mother. Dorian. 1987.

"Did she ever talk about Dorian?" I asked.

Kael's jaw tightened. "No. She never mentioned him."

"Then how do you know his name?"

He was quiet for a long moment. "I found it in her things. After she died. She had a box of letters, hidden away. They were all addressed to him."

I felt something twist in my chest. "Letters?"

"Yes. I never read them." He glanced at me. "I thought they were private. But maybe they'll help you find the truth."

I stared at him, my mind racing.

Letters. Between my mother and Dorian. Hidden away.

"Where are they now?" I asked.

"Hidden. Somewhere safe."

I looked at the photograph again. My mother. Dorian. 1987.

"I want to read them," I whispered. "I want to know what they said."

Kael nodded slowly. "I'll find them. Tonight."

The cemetery was smaller than I expected.

Quiet. Peaceful. Surrounded by trees that swayed in the breeze.

I walked through the rows, my eyes scanning the names. Michael Vance. I'd never visited his grave before. I'd never known where it was.

Kael led me to a simple gravestone. Weather worn. Faded.

Michael Vance.

Beloved husband, devoted father.

1960–1987.

I knelt in front of the grave, my hands pressed against the cold stone.

"I'm here, Dad," I whispered.

The words felt strange on my tongue. Dad. I'd never called him that. I'd never known him.

But I felt something. A connection. A warmth.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the photograph. My mother. Dorian. 1987.

I set it on the grave in front of me.

"Who is this man?" I whispered. "Who is Dorian Cross?"

The wind rustled through the trees, carrying my words away.

And then I heard something.

A footstep. Behind me.

I spun around.

A figure stood at the edge of the cemetery, half-hidden in the shadows.

Tall. Broad shouldered. Watching me.

I couldn't see his face. But I knew, with a certainty that made my blood run cold.

It was him.

Dorian Cross.