Chapter 156 Chains of truth

Chapter 156 Chains of truth
Zara’s POV

The infirmary smelled of herbs. I woke to hushed voices and the thrum of healing spells still faint in the air. My body felt heavy, my mind foggy, but the first words I understood shattered me awake:

“She’s leaving,” a voice murmured.

I blinked, the ceiling above me hazy, and turned my head. Principal Kieran stood at the foot of the bed, his arms folded, his gaze grim. Beside him, May—Aunty May—clutched a parchment, her signature ink-dark across the bottom.

“A petition has been signed,” Kieran said flatly. “For Zara Blackwood to return home until further notice.”

When I pushed up on shaky arms, May rushed to steady me. “It’s only for a little while,” she whispered. “Until things calm down.”

Whispers chased me through the halls as I walked out of the infirmary. Students gathered in clusters, their voices sharp as knives:

“Did you see her eyes—like fire—”

“She wasn’t human at all.”

“She’s dangerous…”

Dangerous. Monster. Hybrid. The words clung to me with every step.

Jace and Zarek were waiting at the gates. Their faces—one stormy, the other unreadable—nearly broke me.

“You don’t have to go,” Zarek said first, stepping forward, his dragon-marked arm flexing as if ready to fight anyone who tried to take me. “I’ll speak to Kieran. I’ll keep you safe—”

“This isn’t about safety,” May cut in, her voice sharper than usual. “It’s about order. She needs time.”

“Time?” Jace’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking to me. “Zara, do you want this?”

Want. As if I had a choice.

I forced a brittle smile, though my chest ached. “I’ll be back. Just… don’t fight each other while I’m gone, alright?”

Neither of them looked convinced. But when May’s hand pressed at my back, I didn’t resist.

I walked away, their eyes burning into me, and returned home.

And that night, in the kitchen’s dim light, I finally demanded the truth from May…

The walls of my room felt closer with every passing hour.

It was strange—how silence could feel so loud. The silence pressed against me like a second skin, suffocating in its weight. The once-familiar lilac curtains swayed faintly with the breeze, but even their softness did nothing to ease the gnawing ache in my chest.

I had refused food when May—Aunty May, as I had always called her—knocked gently and set a tray outside my door. The smell of roasted meat and warm bread had seeped through the crack, tempting, but my stomach churned too violently to even consider eating. I didn’t want food. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted answers.

But answers were what terrified me most.

Whispers of memory gnawed at me: fire swallowing the ballroom, Atlas’s sneer, Jace’s bloodied hands, the gasps when my Lycan form broke through. Mira Blackwood. That cursed name. My name.

I lay curled on my bed, staring at the ceiling until my throat ached from holding back screams. I thought of the woman I buried two years ago—the woman I had mourned, my mother. Her soft lullabies, her arms around me after nightmares, the way she brushed my hair with a gentleness that made the world feel safe. I had clung to her memory like a tether, believing she was my anchor.

And now… now I was supposed to believe she wasn’t my mother at all?

The thought cracked something inside me.

By evening, when shadows stretched long across the floorboards and the tray outside had gone cold, I pushed myself upright. My body trembled, whether from hunger, exhaustion, or the storm inside me, I couldn’t tell. But one thing had crystallized, sharp and unrelenting.

I couldn’t keep circling these questions in my head. I needed truth, no matter how ugly.

I found May in the kitchen, hunched over the sink. The light from the single bulb above painted her face in tired lines, though her back stiffened when she heard my footsteps.

“Zara,” she breathed, turning. Relief softened her eyes, but I could see the guilt threading beneath it. She had always been so composed, but tonight her hands trembled as they gripped the dishcloth.

I didn’t waste time. “I need you to tell me the truth,” I said, my voice brittle, sharper than I intended.

Her throat bobbed. “Truth about what, sweetheart?”

“Don’t call me that,” I snapped. The word cut deep, an echo of every lie. “Who was she? The woman I buried? If she wasn’t my mother, then who was she to me? And who are you really?”

The silence stretched, taut and suffocating.

May’s lips parted, but no words came. For a moment, I saw her searching—for a way to soften it, to ease me into the revelation. But I was done with gentle half-truths.

“Don’t lie to me,” I demanded, fists clenched at my sides. “Not anymore. Was she my mother or not? Because it seems like everything i thought i knew were all lies”

Her eyes glistened. Slowly, painfully, she shook her head.

I staggered as though she’d struck me. “So it’s true.”

“She was your aunt,” May whispered, her voice cracking. “My sister. She loved you as her own, and she raised you well. But she wasn’t your mother, Zara. I am.”

The words echoed in my skull, rattling me to the core.

I stumbled back, pressing against the counter for balance. My breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. “You’re lying,” I hissed. “You’re saying this now, after all these years? After letting me believe she was my mother?”

“I did it to protect you,” May said quickly, stepping toward me. Her hands reached out, but I flinched away. “If you knew the truth too soon, if you remembered—”

“Remembered what?” My voice was raw, a scream clawing its way free. “That I’m some cursed hybrid freak? That Mira Blackwood was never a ghost story, she was me all along?”

Her tears spilled freely now, streaking her tired face. “Yes. I wanted to spare you that pain until you were strong enough to bear it.”

My laugh was hollow, bitter. “Spare me? By chaining me with lies?”

May’s shoulders sagged, but there was steel in her eyes now. “You don’t understand the danger, Zara. The curse that runs in our blood is older than you can imagine. Hybrids like you… the word can’t tame them. You’ve already seen the whispers, the fear. If they had known when you were younger, you wouldn’t have lived long enough to fight back. I erased your memories, let my sister claim you, because it was the only way to give you a chance.”

Her confession twisted my stomach. Memories—false memories—flashed before me. On my first day of school, her face blurred into the background. Birthdays where she was simply “Aunty May,” smiling from the corner, never stepping forward. Always there, but never claiming me.

“Then why didn’t my father protect me?” I whispered, the question I had buried for years finally breaking free. “Why has he been cold my entire life? Why did he look at me like I was… a burden?”

May’s mouth trembled. She turned away as if the truth was too heavy to look me in the eyes while saying it.

“Because he knows,” she said at last. “He knows the dragon blood runs through you. And he thought if you were bound to Zarek, the curse would end. He thought he could bury it, hide it in marriage, and be free of the fear.”

The words struck like knives. My father. 

I pressed my palms to my temples, shaking my head violently. “So he gave up on me before I even had a chance. Pushed me toward someone else to solve his problem.”

Tears blurred my vision, but fury burned hotter. “I thought he was just cold. I thought maybe I wasn’t enough for him. But all along, he knew, and instead of standing by me—he tried to wash his hands of me.”

May turned back, desperate, reaching for me again. “He was wrong, Zara. I stayed because I knew you would need me when the truth surfaced. Everything I did—all the lies—was to keep you alive.”

Alive. But caged.

I met her gaze, and for the first time, I didn’t see the comfort of a mother’s arms. I saw chains. Chains disguised as love.

“I can’t forgive you for this,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Her face crumpled, but she didn’t argue. She only nodded, tears dripping silently into the dishcloth clenched in her hands.

I turned away before my resolve shattered, before the part of me that still longed for her embrace betrayed me.

In the reflection of the darkened window, I saw myself—not Zara, the girl who had believed in bedtime stories and motherly lullabies. Not the student struggling to hide her fire or her Lycan blood.