Vengeance

Chapter 13

I drift back into consciousness slowly, as if rising from deep water. The world is muffled at first, blurred around the edges, until a sound begins to filter through—the faintest hum. Soft, low, achingly familiar.

It’s the melody of my childhood. A lullaby woven into the bones of my memory, one I thought I’d lost forever. My throat tightens, the notes wrapping around me like a blanket I thought had been burned away by time. Gentle fingers stroke through my hair, untangling the knots with patient care, and for a fleeting moment I let myself believe this is a dream.

But when my eyelids flutter open—she’s there.

My mother’s face fills my vision, radiant in the dappled sunlight that spills through the trees above us. She looks impossibly alive, her skin flushed with color, her eyes soft and warm. Her lips curve in a small, weary smile, but it’s real—more real than the air in my lungs.

I can’t breathe. My chest tightens painfully, and hot tears blur my vision. “I… I did it,” I whisper, the words breaking apart in my throat. “You’re alive.”

Her smile deepens, her eyes crinkling at the corners in that way they always did when she laughed at one of my clumsy childhood jokes. She helps me sit, her hands steady and strong, grounding me. I can’t look away, terrified that if I blink she’ll vanish into mist.

“Master.”

Ewen is suddenly there, kneeling at my side. His small hand clamps around mine, tight enough to hurt, his shoulders trembling with emotion he can’t contain. His eyes shine with unshed tears, relief raw in every line of his face. But then—his expression fractures, and guilt seeps in like a shadow.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice breaking. “I failed. I couldn’t save her. And because of me… you—you had to—” His voice collapses into silence, trembling under the weight of words he doesn’t want to say. “You fell into dark magic.”

The phrase jolts me, sharp as a lash. I blink at him, confused. “Dark magic?”

He swallows hard, and with trembling fingers, he lifts my hand.

The sight steals my breath.

My skin is no longer my own. Black veins bloom across my palm and creep along my fingers, delicate as spiderwebs but terrible in their beauty. The mark pulses faintly, as though alive, each throb sending a cold shiver rushing through my veins.

“You’ve been marked,” Ewen says, his voice raw and heavy with sorrow. “The darkness has claimed you now. It never leaves once it takes root. No one escapes it.”

For a long time, I can only stare at my hand. The mark feels alien, wrong. Yet beneath the revulsion, something in me stirs—an echo of recognition, as if a hidden part of myself has been exposed.

Slowly, I pull my hand from his trembling grasp. Instead, I cup his cheek, brushing away the tears streaking his skin with my thumb. “No, Ewen. You didn’t fail me. You gave everything you had. You never failed me.”

For just a heartbeat, he leans into my touch, eyes closing as if clinging to the comfort. But then he pulls back sharply, as though afraid of letting himself linger.

When I lift my gaze, I see the others. They stand just beyond us, silent, watching. Some with guarded eyes, some with open fear. Hela, though—Hela’s stare is a blade. Cold, calculating, sharp. And when her gaze locks with mine, she tilts her head ever so slightly toward the treeline. A summons.

I rise on shaky legs and follow.

The forest swallows us, muting the noise of camp until only the rustle of leaves fills the silence. In a clearing, she waits, her back resting against a twisted oak, arms crossed, eyes raking over me with a predator’s patience.

“How did you know?” she asks finally, her voice low but edged with steel. “No one commands the dark without years of blood and study. It doesn’t bend. It doesn’t answer. Not to anyone.”

She pushes from the tree, closing the distance with deliberate steps. “So tell me, Calista… who taught you?”

The words catch in my throat. I shake my head slowly, my voice barely more than a whisper. “No one taught me. I didn’t—”

Don’t tell her about me.

The voice slides through me like smoke over steel. Smooth. Dangerous. If she learns you can hear me, she’ll try to cut you down before the mark settles. They all fear what they don’t understand. But I am not the monster they told you of. They twisted me into their nightmare, but my gift is older, purer. Don’t betray me, child.

I fight to keep my face still, my voice steady. “I heard her heart stop,” I say, my chest constricting at the memory. “And something inside me… broke. It was like a dam bursting. The magic, the words—it wasn’t knowledge. It was instinct.”

Her eyes narrow at the word. Instinct.

“So you’re telling me—” Hela begins, but the snap of a branch cuts her short.

Her head whips toward the sound. Her whole body sharpens, tense, coiled like a bowstring.

From the trees, a figure stumbles into the clearing. Zion. His steps falter, his breath ragged, but his eyes lock on me with startling clarity through their haze.

“Khalida…” His voice is hoarse, his body trembling, but he speaks my name as though it’s a prayer.

He sways, and I rush forward instinctively, catching him just as his body crumples. His weight presses into me, heavy and fevered, but the instant our skin touches—a shockwave tears through me.

Raw. Electric. Violent.

It slams into me so hard my knees buckle, and before I can cry out, the world shatters.

The forest blinks away.

Light floods in, golden and warm, smelling faintly of spiced wine and polished oak. I stand in a vast hall, banners of gold-threaded silk hanging from towering walls, tall windows spilling sunshine across marble floors. Music hums softly beneath the murmur of laughter and clinking goblets.

“Khalida, my lovely daughter,” a voice booms, deep and resonant with pride.

I turn—and freeze.

The king. Younger. His face is smooth, untouched by age, his dark hair free of grey, his eyes alight with tenderness I’ve never seen directed at me.

“To see you cherished by a man worthy of you…” His lips curl in a smile, warm, fatherly, impossibly gentle. “…fills my heart with joy.”

Another man steps forward—tall, broad-shouldered, bearing himself with ease and confidence. He raises a silver chalice, light glinting off its polished surface.

“May the union of Prince Luka and Khalida,” he declares, his voice echoing through the vaulted chamber, “be long, and joyous.”

Applause thunders, ricocheting off the high arches.

And then—

A hand slips into mine. Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that steals my breath.

I turn, and my heart stutters violently in my chest.

He stands there, dark hair falling in careless waves, his face strikingly handsome, his eyes a blue so vivid they feel carved from the summer sky itself.

He smiles at me, his gaze brimming with such fierce devotion that the ache in my chest feels unbearable.

And in that instant, I know him. Not as one meets a stranger. But as one remembers a piece of themselves they thought had been lost forever.