Chapter 20 | The Test, The Choice | Leah
The clinic is small, tucked away in a narrow alley on the east side of the city.
The sign says "Bloodkind Health Consultation," the letters faded like a tired face. The paint on the door frame has almost completely peeled off, showing the rotting wood underneath. There's a spiderweb in the corner of the wall, with a huge shadow spider sitting still on it, like some kind of decoration. Ivy pulls me inside. A half-blood woman behind the counter looks up at us. Her eyes are pale purple, like two wilted flowers.
"Student?" she asks, her voice flat, like she's seen countless faces just like mine.
"Yes," Ivy says. "Confidential test."
The woman nods and hands me a small cup. White ceramic, with a thin crack along the rim. "Go to the back, blood sample. One drop is enough."
I take the cup and walk into the back cubicle. My fingers are shaking so badly I almost drop it. The cubicle has a foggy mirror, a dim blood-light lamp, and a worn-out chair. I prick my fingertip with the needle and squeeze out a drop of blood—deep red, swirling at the bottom of the cup like a tiny ruby.
"Wait ten minutes," the woman says.
Those ten minutes are the longest of my life. Ivy sits next to me, holding my hand. Her palm is warm and dry, which calms me down a little. I stare at the blood-crystal clock on the counter, watching the second hand move tick by tick, like some kind of torture. Each tick feels like it's counting down to my fate.
The clinic smells like old medicine mixed with something else—something fishy and sweet that I can't quite place. There's a painting on the wall of a night owl with its wings spread, two blood crystals set into its eye sockets. Those crystal eyes glitter under the lamplight, like they're watching me.
"What if it really is?" I ask.
"If it is," Ivy says, "you have two choices."
"I know."
"No, you don't." She turns to look at me. "First choice: keep it. But you'll face endless problems. The Council's laws, the academy's rules, society's judgment—all of it is real."
"And the second?"
"Second: don't keep it. But the cost of that is something you'll face every morning when you wake up."
I look at her. Her amber eyes hold something deep, like an ancient well.
"How do you know?" I ask.
"Because my mother made the second choice," she says, her voice calm, like she's telling someone else's story. "She told me it was the biggest regret of her life."
The woman behind the counter coughs. "Results are ready."
I stand up and walk over. She hands me a small slip of paper with just two words and a symbol.
"Positive. Confirmed pregnancy. Approximately two weeks."
The paper shakes in my hand. Ivy comes over, looks at it, then squeezes my hand tight. Her fingers press hard, like she's saying: I'm here.
"Let's go," she says. "Let's go back."
When we leave the clinic, the sunlight is so bright I can barely open my eyes. People walk by on the street, bats fly overhead—everything looks the same as always. But I know my world has just split in two. Before and after.
"What are you going to do?" Ivy asks.
I look at the distant spires of the academy. "I don't know."
"Are you going to tell him?"
"Kael?"
"Who else?"
I don't say anything. What does telling him even mean? It means admitting this relationship exists, it means facing the Council's investigation, it means putting both of us in danger. And not telling him? Dealing with it alone, facing my mother's scheming, struggling alone under the academy's rules and society's stares.
Two choices, two paths. Neither one has an end.
"I need time," I say.
"You have time," Ivy says. "But not much. The sweetness will get stronger and stronger. Eventually everyone will notice."
I nod, my fingers unconsciously touching my lower belly. There's a life growing there, a life made from silver moonlight and blackwood blood oranges. A life that's both mine and his.
Back at the academy, the blood-light clock strikes four. I walk into the dorm building, shut myself in my room, sit on the edge of my bed, and stare at that slip of paper.
"Positive. Confirmed pregnancy. Approximately two weeks."
Two weeks. That night in the Forgotten Walk.
My hand reaches for my communicator, then stops in mid-air. Kael's number flashes on the screen, like a box waiting to be opened. I know that once I hit send, there's no going back.
But I also know the days of dealing with this alone are over. Whatever his reaction is, whatever happens next, I can't do this by myself anymore.
I press the button and type:
"Tonight, 8 PM. Entrance to the Forgotten Walk. I need to tell you something."
Send.
Then I lie down on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and wait. Wait for his reply, wait for tonight, wait for whatever fate has in store.
The communicator buzzes in my pocket.
"Okay."
One word. Simple, direct, nothing extra. But I know what that one word holds. A promise, waiting, something I can't quite name.
I close my eyes, my hand resting on my belly. Tonight I'll tell him everything. The blood bond, the baby, all of it. And then I'll let him choose.
Ivy sits across from me, her hands folded on the desk. Her expression is serious enough to scare me.
"Are you sure you want to tell him tonight?" she asks.
"No," I say. "But I can't wait any longer."
"What if he reacts badly?"
"Then I'll deal with it alone," I say, my voice calmer than I expected. "Like I always have."
Ivy looks at me for a long moment, then sighs. "Leah, you know what? Sometimes I think you're too strong. So strong you don't seem to need anyone. But that's not true. Everyone needs help, even the people who seem the strongest."
"I'm not strong," I say. "I'm just used to it."
"Used to what?"
"Used to facing things alone."
Ivy reaches out and covers my hand with hers. Her palm is warm and dry, with a faint smell of blood roses.
"Tonight," she says, "you don't have to face it alone. Whatever his reaction is, I'll be here."
I look at her, something catching in my throat. Not fear—gratitude. The kind of gratitude that makes you want to cry.
"Thank you," I say.
"Don't thank me," she smiles. "Thank my blood cakes. Greta's secret recipe. They make people brave."
I smile too. A small, tired, but real smile.
Outside, the sky is getting darker. The blood-light lamps turn on automatically, casting an orange glow across the room. I sit on the edge of my bed, my fingers unconsciously touching the communicator. The screen is still lit, showing his reply: "Okay."
One word. But in that word, I hear something. A promise, waiting, some kind of anticipation I can't describe.
Eight PM. Two hours to go.
I stand up, walk to the mirror, fix my hair, straighten my skirt, adjust my scarf. The person in the mirror looks exhausted, but there's a light in her eyes. Not hope—determination.
Whatever happens tonight, I won't regret it. Because I finally told the truth. Because I'm finally not alone.