YOUR BLOOD AND MY SOUL

X Chapter one X Wren pressed her forehead against the cold car window, letting the glass numb the ache behind her eyes. Trees rushed by in tall, green smears, bending and blending as if the whole world had begun to spin without her permission. Her legs were cramped, her throat tight, and the worst part the part she couldn’t ignore was that her grandmother hadn’t spoken in almost half an hour. Felicia Frenard was never quiet; silence from her was like snow in summer—wrong, unnatural. “Grandmother…” Wren whispered, forcing her voice to stay steady. “We’ve been driving for hours. What…what destination are we headed?” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, pretending it didn’t matter. Grandmother’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel until her knuckles blanched. “Wren,” she said sharply, “we’ll be there soon. Don’t ask me any more questions, please.” It wasn’t the words that punched fear into Wren’s stomach—it was the tone, flat and cold, as if someone had scraped the warmth out of her grandmother and left a stranger wearing her face. Wren’s heart thudded painfully. She turned back to the window, watching the world smear by, every tree and road feeling like an invisible border she hadn’t agreed to cross. Then the car slowed—no, stopped. Wren lifted her head. Before them stood a mansion so enormous, so old, it didn’t feel real. Tall iron gates towered, covered in twisting vines; ivy clung to stone walls like claws. The windows reflected the cloudy sky in cold, glassy patches, watchful and judging. “Where…where are we?” she breathed. “Come on, Wren,” her grandmother said quickly, stepping out of the car before Wren could meet her eyes. A tall man in a sharp suit approached, posture rigid, expression unreadable. “Good day. You must be Mrs. Frenard. I am Willom,” he said, bowing stiffly. “Pleasure, Mr. Willom,” Grandmother Felicia murmured with a half‑smile Wren had never seen—a strained smile that didn’t belong to her. “This way, then,” Willom said, his voice calm and too controlled. He led them past trimmed hedges and dry fountains, through a heavy wooden door carved with strange, prickling symbols. Inside, a hallway stretched forward, lined with portraits of forests, moonstones, and stern‑eyed women. The air smelled of old wood, lavender, and something metallic—like centuries‑old dried blood. Wren hugged herself tightly. Was everything okay? It suddenly didn’t feel like it. “Please take a seat,” Willom said. “Mrs. Ronoarh will be with you shortly.” Wren sat on the edge of an antique couch; the fabric was stiff beneath her hands. Her grandmother remained standing, hands clasped so tightly her fingers shook, eyes fixed on the staircase. Soft footsteps echoed above. A pale woman descended slowly, her presence heavy. Sharp cheekbones, dark hair pulled tight, a smile that never reached her eyes. “Mrs. Felicia Frenard,” she said, “a pleasure.” Her gaze slid to Wren, scanning from sneakers to brown hair. “And you must be Wren… your eyes are quite blissful.” Wren’s stomach twisted. The woman’s stare evaluated her, as if measuring her for something unknown. “Willom,” Mrs. Ronoarh said gently. “Yes, Mrs. Ronoarh?” “Get some refreshments for Wren. I need a word with Mrs. Frenard.” Her grandmother followed the pale woman into a study, and the door clicked shut. Willom returned with a glass of orange juice. “Here you are.” Wren took it gratefully; her throat felt like sand. The juice was oddly sweet, and she drank it too fast. “Would you like something else?” Willom asked. “No, sir. I’m fine,” Wren replied, wiping her mouth. Willom held the empty glass, eyes lingering. “Is that woman really your grandmother?” he asked quietly. “Yes. Why…?” “You’re naive, young lady. You shouldn’t let people deceive you. This is not a world for the innocent.” He whispered the last sentence, then walked away. Before Wren could process anything, the study door creaked open. Her grandmother emerged, eyes red, face pale; Mrs. Ronoarh followed, expression smooth as stone. “Grandmother?” Wren rose quickly. “Are we leaving now?” “No, Wren. I’m leaving,” her grandmother said, voice quivering. “What?” “I’m leaving you here. Don’t struggle. Do as you’re told.” Wren felt the world tilt. “You’re joking, right?” she asked with a laugh that sounded unreal. Her grandmother’s face remained indifferent. “Grandmother, what do you mean?” Wren shouted, but Felicia Frenard stayed silent. Mrs. Ronoarh placed a hand on Felicia’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.” Grandmother turned, walking toward the entrance as if escaping a burning house. “Grandmother?” Wren screamed, lunging forward. A sudden, deafening ringing exploded behind her eyes—a sharp, metallic sound that clawed through her skull. Her vision wavered; the walls rippled, melting into shadows. Her knees hit the ground. “No.. no, Grandmother!” Wren gasped, reaching blindly. Through the haze, she saw only one thing: her grandmother’s back, walking away, not looking back. She’s leaving me. She’s leaving me here. Mrs. Ronoarh stood, arms crossed, watching as Wren fell unconscious beside her.