Chapter 5: A Mother’s War
1936 Words
The afternoon light spilled lazily through the cracked windows of the kitchen. Outside, the trees stood still, as if holding their breath. The wind carried no laughter, no scent of stew or baking bread. Only silence. An eerie, pressing kind of silence that made even the shadows feel heavy.
Zira and Micah were not home.
They were still out, walking back from the market—a lazy, familiar path that should have been safe. That had always been safe.
It had been one year.
Zira, now fifteen, no longer stumbled through her training. Her limbs had lengthened into lean strength, her steps silent and sure. The lightness in her eyes had dimmed, shaped into something more thoughtful—more wary. Her hair was longer now, tied back in a tight braid that whipped against her back when she ran. She had learned to strike without hesitation, to breathe like a fighter, and to mask her fear behind carefully measured calm.
Micah, now eighteen, walked beside her with a quiet intensity. His features had sharpened—jaw more angular, eyes sunken slightly from sleepless nights and heavy thoughts. He moved with grace, not from vanity, but necessity. His shoulders had broadened, his arms corded with muscle. His hand often rested near the hilt of the blade Liora gave him on his last birthday—Kael’s blade. The one he hadn’t dared sharpen, but cleaned every night as if it could still protect them.
He gave it to Zira on her birthday—“Dad would’ve wanted you to have it,” he said, no longer hiding the c***k in his voice.
Zira and Micah are walking home from the market. Micah is teasing her. They are laughing and playing. Suddenly Zira stops and faces Micah.
“It feels too peaceful today”. She says.
Micah doesn’t reply—his eyes flick to the sky.
He had noticed the mood shift in Liora the past few days. He also noticed Silas' and Rowan’s behavior the last summer they came to spend the holidays.
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Micah remembers the last time Rowan and Silas visited. They had been unusually quiet. Rowan seemed distant. Silas barely teased zira.
He would sometimes catch Silas glancing at Liora with an expression Micah couldn’t place—something like guilt—something mournful in his eyes. Rowan, even more reserved, barely made eye contact with any of them.
Micah remembered what Silas told him a few days before they left.
“One day, he’s going to make me do something I’m scared to do.”
Micah didn’t ask who “he” was. He didn’t need to.
“Something that’ll haunt me. Something I’ll regret for the rest of my life,” Silas added, his voice shaky, eyes damp.
Micah remembered sitting beside him, unsure of what to say. He just listened, hoping it would be enough.
Rowan, during that visit, had kept watching Liora—never directly. Just brief glances, unreadable expressions. Like he was saying goodbye.
They hadn’t hugged when they left. Just quiet nods and a promise to visit again.
Back in the present, Micah shook off the memory. Maybe he was overthinking.
They had been gone less than an hour.
And still—it was enough.
Inside the house, Liora stood by the kitchen window, barefoot, wearing one of Kael’s old shirts. It hung loosely on her now. Her face had thinned, her skin pale beneath the golden hue of dusk. But her eyes—her eyes still burned with the fire of a woman who had survived too much to let go quietly.
She stood still, her hand frozen over a journal page.
Outside, she heard the creak.
Not the house settling.
Not the wind.
A door.
The back door.
Liora’s expression didn’t change. She moved slowly, calmly to the drawer beneath the sink. Her fingers closed around the cool steel of a hidden dagger.
Then came the second sound—heavier, closer. A footstep on old floorboards.
Her heart didn’t race.
It steadied.
She moved with the silence of someone who had once trained ghosts. Every movement, precise. Every breath, measured.
She glanced at the kitchen clock—2:47pm.
Too early for the children to return.
Suddenly, the phone rings. She reaches for it. A private number.
“Liora—they’re coming. You need to get out of there.”
A voice behind the call says. Breathless. Panicked.
Liora’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile.
“It’s too late.” She said gently and hung up.
She dials another private number.
“It’s happening. It’s up to you now.” She says. Then she ends the call.
She stepped toward the hallway.
And they came.
Five men, cloaked in dark gray—faces half-covered, steps light but not light enough.
The first didn’t see the dagger until it was buried in his side.
He crumpled.
The second lunged. Liora spun, using his momentum to throw him into the kitchen counter. Glass shattered.
The third came from behind.
She twisted—too slow.
He slammed into her back, knocking the wind from her lungs. She gasped, rolled, kicked up at his face and scrambled to her feet.
He slashed at her leg—her thigh opened, blood warm against her skin.
She didn’t scream.
She moved.
Liora fought like someone who knew she wouldn’t win—but would not lose easily. Her body remembered what her soul had buried long ago.
A pan clattered.
A vase smashed.
And still she fought.
One man dead. Another groaning on the floor. But more came.
Too many.
One pinned her against the table—another held her arms.
She thrashed, kicked, head-butted. Blood splattered across the kitchen wall.
She broke free—only to be slammed into the shelves again.
Then it happened.
One blow—low and sharp—caught her in the ribs.
Her breath vanished.
The room tilted.
She staggered back.
Then—another attacker drove a blade into her stomach.
The air escaped her lungs with a small, strangled gasp.
But she didn’t fall.
Not yet.
She looked up—eyes dazed, tears starting to spill, mouth trembling.
And then she sees them.
Two shadows in the hallway. Silent. Familiar.
“No.” She says in weak gasps.
“Please. No.” She says. This time with hot tears falling freely down her cheeks.
Silas emerges from the dark void of the hallway. Holding a b****y knife in his hand. His chest rising and falling like a drowning man. His eyes locked onto hers, filled with tears, pain, guilt and regret. Almost like he’s apologizing. Rowan stands behind him, his face shows no emotion, but tears are threatening to fall. They look angry.
Their faces weren’t cold—they were broken.
And she knew.
Not that they had done it—but that they were there.
And that they weren’t supposed to be.
Her lips formed silent words.
“It’s okay. Don’t let them know.”
She says with a weak smile.
Then her knees buckled.
Her body hit the floor.
And the room went still.
Micah and Zira returned minutes later.
They were laughing.
Micah carried a fruit basket. Zira was humming under her breath.
Then Zira stopped walking.
Micah looked at her.
“It feels too quiet,” she said.
Micah didn’t reply. His eyes scanned the sky, the fence, the front porch.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it.
But as they approached the house, he felt it.
The stillness. The silence.
Zira stopped at the door. It was ajar.
Zira froze.
“Micah… the door—”
He didn’t let her finish. He dropped the basket.
They stepped inside.
The smell hit first.
Iron.
Thick and sharp.
Then silence.
Too complete.
And then—
Zira screamed.
Liora lay crumpled in the middle of the living room. Blood pooled around her. One hand stretched toward the door. Her eyes open. Empty.
Zira dropped to her knees, shaking.
“Mama… Mama, please—please, wake up…”
Micah couldn’t speak.
He stood frozen, his fists clenched, teeth grinding.
He heard something—faint. A creak. A breath.
He turned sharply and followed it, stepping into the backyard.
He moved like a predator—quiet, focused.
He moved, instinct driving him.
Through the hallway.
Toward the backyard.
In the storage shed, shadowed and cold, he saw a figure.
He didn’t hesitate.
He raised Kael’s blade.
“I knew it was you.”
He didn’t kill them.
Whoever it was—he let them go.
But he didn’t return the same.
His hands were shaking. His eyes—dark, unreadable.
His clothes were stained.
Zira doesn’t ask what he saw. She only looks at him, eyes red and unfocused.
Zira hadn’t moved.
She lay beside Liora, weeping silently, holding her hand like she could will her mother back.
Micah knelt beside her. “Zira…”
She didn’t look up.
He swallowed. “She knew.”
He stood and moved to the stove.
Pulled up the loose floorboard.
Micah scanned the room.
The journal.
He moved to the stove, crouched, and pried up the floorboard. Just as she’d shown him once.
He pulled out the leather-bound book.
Worn leather. Faint ink. Blood at the corners.
He opened it.
Pages had been torn out.
One page remained.
He read it.
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Notes:
Iron Hall—movement detected in the east region.
Kael—still alive. Captive. Coordinates unclear.
Do not engage until you are ready.
Contact: Elara Vane – Grathmore City
If I don’t make it:
Elara will come for you. Trust her. Stay quiet. Let her lead. Save your father.
Do not run. Wait for her. Save him.
A number was written on the back. Barely visible. Tiny.
Micah memorized it.
He closed the journal and turned to Zira.
“She left us this.”
Zira’s voice was hoarse. “What do we do now?”
Micah clenched his jaw.
“We finish what she started.”
An hour passed.
They cleaned the blood in silence.
Wiped the walls.
Folded the old blankets.
Zira changed her mother’s clothes and tied her hair back.
Micah wrapped the body in linen.
The house smelled of vinegar and soap.
But the silence remained.
Zira paused as she scrubbed the rug.
She touched the edge of it gently, her fingers trembling.
Liora had once braided her hair right there, humming softly as the mango leaves rustled outside.
Now the rug was soaked with blood.
Just as dusk fell, a car pulled up outside.
It was black. Sleek. Silent.
A woman stepped out.
Tall. Regal. Dressed in all black. Dark skin. Coiled hair tied up in a scarf.
Her eyes—sharp. Familiar.
Elara Vane.
She looked at the house. At the open door.
At the siblings waiting on the porch.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
Then, quieter, “I told her not to stay behind… but she always chose love over safety.”
Zira clutched the journal to her chest.
Micah said nothing.
They got in the car.
As it pulled away from the only home they’d ever known, Micah looked back one last time.
The wind rustled the mango tree.
And somewhere in that quiet, a war had begun.
A glimpse of Liora’s hidden strength, now passed on to her children.
- Writer
