THE SECRET
916 Words
Lysandra brought Zephyra to the Velmora Realm.
She used her powers to weaken the force field just enough for Zephyra to pass through. As far as Lysandra knew, Zephyra was human—fragile, mortal, and dangerously close to death after the explosion near the wastelands.
After laying Zephyra gently on her bed, Lysandra called for a maid to fetch the magic herbs she needed.
Outside the room, the maids and guards whispered among themselves.
“How foolish the future queen of Velmora is,” one maid muttered.
“Bringing a human here? What if she’s a spy?”
“The king will never allow this.”
Lysandra ignored them. She closed the door and turned back to the bed.
Lysandra’s Point of View
Zephyra looked so weak.
How did she get involved in this accident? Lysandra wondered, heart aching.
She reached forward and moved Zephyra’s hair away from her face. Her fingers hovered over Zephyra’s skin, ready to heal her with celestial magic—but she stopped.
If she used her powers directly, Zephyra might find out she wasn’t human.
But she couldn’t let her die.
So she called for the herbs instead.
“What she couldn’t sate had died.”
Lysandra stepped back to proceed with the ritual, her hair glowing like a splinter of golden fire. Her eyes went numb, their color draining completely. Veins showed red beneath her skin, as if they might bulge and burst. Her white robe—once shining—was now stained red, b****y red.
She tried to absorb the fire’s pain. She used all her power to heal Zephyra, but nothing changed.
I’m not ultimate, she thought bitterly. The magic herbs will have to be enough.
Her maid hurried in with a bundle of herbs. Lysandra crushed them and pressed them into Zephyra’s mouth. When she looked back at Zephyra’s face, the woman seemed… a lot better.
Relieved, Lysandra decided to go visit her father.
Zephyra’s Point of View
Zephyra pushed herself up from the bed and wiped her mouth.
“What in the realms did that girl feed me?” she muttered. Her whole body still hummed from the herbs; every bone seemed to react to her powers.
She looked around the room and noticed just how obsessed Lysandra was. Every one of Zephyra’s paintings was displayed here, hung with careful precision.
She smirked. “What an obsessed chick.”
She decided to snoop through Lysandra’s room.
The room was elegant, smelling of old money and polished wood. In one corner, she saw a canvas covered with a cloth.
“Wait. The future queen of Velmora… draws too? What madness.”
She pulled the cloth away.
The image looked familiar. A woman, bleeding, blindfolded with a red cloth. The colors were too vivid, the pain in the brushstrokes too real.
Zephyra’s breath hitched. She knew this image. She felt it. But she couldn’t remember properly.
She stood there, staring, trying to force the memory into place.
Then realization hit.
If I’m in Lysandra’s room, in Velmora, why am I wasting this opportunity?
She could find anything she could use to destroy Nitoryron—and Caelvorn.
She couldn’t let this chance slip.
Zephyra slipped out of Lysandra’s room and began exploring the palace she had never been in before.
The royal chambers.
The King’s Throne Room
The king sat on his throne.
He looked like Lysandra’s older brother—older than her father should have been, somehow. When Lysandra entered, he tried to embrace her, but she stepped back.
“Dad,” she said, voice shaking. “Tell me. What did you do to her? Why does she keep coming to me? Why does she keep saying, ‘Save him, he did nothing’?”
Her father stayed silent.
“Your father is guilty,” Lysandra pressed. “Why won’t you tell me? I know she isn’t Mom. Dad, who is she?”
He refused to answer.
“You know, Dad,” Lysandra said, voice breaking, “I hate you.”
She turned and ran.
Her father lifted a hand, about to bind her with his powers, but one of his mistresses entered, wearing a sheer robe. She whispered something in his ear. Anger and desire flickered across his face. He stopped chasing his daughter.
The Storm
Lysandra ran through the hallways, tears streaming down her face.
Outside, the sky grew scary. It crackled. It thundered. It had always been this way—whenever her mood went bad, the weather followed.
And this time, it was extremely horrible.
It began to rain. Not ordinary rain. This rain could kill humans, even Velmorians who weren’t extremely powerful.
In the streets, innocent people died. They cursed. They wailed. But nothing changed.
Zephyra, still wandering the palace, felt the sudden shift in the air. The windows rattled. The torches flickered.
Then she saw Lysandra running toward her.
Before she could react, Lysandra hugged her.
Zephyra tried to pull away, but Lysandra held her tight, shaking with sobs.
Zephyra felt something she hadn’t expected: sadness. Pity.
This had never happened before.
Then, in that embrace, she caught a glimpse of a vision.
A little Lysandra, starving for love.
A little Lysandra, crying over her mother’s body.
A girl who longed to be loved after the demise of her mother.
It reminded Zephyra of her own childhood pain.
Without thinking, Zephyra hugged her back. Harder.
Outside, the storm raged—but in Lysandra’s sniffles, it almost sounded like the sky was crying with her.
- Writer
