Chapter 83 | Mother | Leah
Christina arrived in the capital on the day I was making my tenth attempt at cooking oatmeal in the kitchen.
The kitchen was filled with the sweet smell of milk and oats mixing together, plus a faint burnt odor—the aftermath of nine previous failures. In the pot on the stove, white liquid was bubbling. I gently stirred it with a wooden spoon, feeling that thick, sticky resistance. Cooking oatmeal seemed simple, but getting it just right—not too runny, not too thick, not burnt, not undercooked—required perfect timing and temperature control.
"Leah."
Kael's voice came from the doorway, carrying something I rarely heard from him—nervousness. Not the nervousness of battle, not the nervousness of parliament, but something more personal, closer to how a child feels facing their parent.
"What's wrong?"
"My mother is here."
My hand froze. The oatmeal in the pot started bubbling harder, making gurgling sounds as if rushing me.
"Right now?"
"Right now," he said, his voice higher than usual. "In the living room."
I turned off the heat, quickly straightened my clothes, and wiped the flour off my face. The moonstone necklace swung against my chest. I adjusted it, took a deep breath, and walked toward the living room.
Christina sat on the sofa, as elegant as ever. Deep blue dress, silver-white shawl, pearl earrings glowing softly under the light. But her expression was different—not examining, not judging, something closer to—
warmth.
"Leah." She stood up and extended her hand. That hand was pale and slender, like a carefully carved work of art.
"Ma'am." I gave a slight bow.
"Call me mother," she said.
My face flushed. But this time, not from nervousness. Because—
because I was being accepted.
"Mother," I said. The word felt strange on my tongue, carrying an unfamiliar warmth.
She smiled. That smile was so much like Kael's—the corner of her mouth curved first, then her eyes, and finally her whole face softened. In three thousand years, she must not have smiled like this very often.
"I've come," she said, "for two things."
"What things?"
"First—" She pulled a small box from her bag, made of sandalwood with delicate vine patterns carved on its surface. "This is a de Noct family heirloom. Every generation of women has worn it."
She opened the box. Inside was a brooch—shaped like a silver-white bat, with two small moonstones for eyes. They glowed softly under the light, like two living creatures looking at me.
"Second—" She took my hand, her fingers warm and strong. "I want to invite you and Kael to come back to the castle for a while."
I looked at her.
"The castle?" I asked.
"De Noct Castle," she said. "Where Kael grew up. There is—"
She paused. Outside the window came the laughter of students, someone practicing flying in the distance, their wings cutting through the air like a soft song.
"Three thousand years of his memories," she said. "His father's portrait, his mother's room, his—"
She glanced at Kael. Those ice-blue vertical pupils were exactly like Kael's, but with three thousand more years of life behind them.
"A private study that he hasn't let anyone enter in three thousand years."
Kael's body tensed slightly. It was subtle, but I noticed—his fingers clenched, his spine straightened, his breathing stopped for a moment.
"Mother—"
"She should see it," Christina said, her voice gentle but firm, like an unstoppable river. "She chose you. She has the right to know everything about you."
I looked at Kael. Something flickered in his ice-blue vertical pupils—
fear?
Not fear of battle, not fear of death. Fear of being seen. For three thousand years, he had hidden himself inside that icy shell, not letting anyone get close. And now—
"Kael?" I asked.
He was quiet for a long time. Then—
"Okay," he said, his voice soft, as if sharing a secret. "We'll go back to the castle."
Christina smiled. That smile was exactly like Kael's—the corner of her mouth curved first, then her eyes, and finally her whole face softened. In three thousand years, she must not have smiled like this very often. For three thousand years, she had been guarding a secret, a family, a study that no one had ever entered.
And now, she was handing me the key.
I looked at them—mother and son, silver and dark red, past and future. Their wings reflected each other under the light, like an ancient painting being given new colors.
Then I remembered the oatmeal in the kitchen.
"Wait," I said. "Let me turn off the stove first."
My tenth attempt at oatmeal.
Finally not burnt.