Chapter 66

Chapter 66
Emilia stood at the edge of the balcony, one hand over her softly rising stomach. The air was cool and fragrant with the garden roses blooming below. She could feel the baby flutter, a tender, shifting motion that made her close her eyes and smile.

Behind her, the door opened with a familiar creak.

“You're up early,” Calista said, her voice no longer sharp but lined with something gentler—something worn.

“I could say the same,” Emilia replied, glancing over her shoulder. Calista's steps were slower now, her own stomach more pronounced. She moved carefully, one hand braced on her lower back. But her eyes had changed. The cold defiance had softened, thawed. Maybe not completely. But enough.

“I can’t sleep much anymore,” Calista admitted, coming to stand beside her. “The baby moves a lot. Especially at night.”

Emilia nodded. “Mine too. Sometimes I think they’re trying to talk to each other.”

Calista let out a quiet laugh, surprising them both. “They probably are. Yours will be a stubborn one. I can already tell.”

“I wonder where they’d get that from,” Emilia said, lifting an eyebrow.

They stood there in silence, watching the sky brighten. For the first time, the quiet between them didn’t feel strained. It felt... companionable.

“I thought I’d be alone in this,” Calista said after a while. “I didn’t think I deserved anything else.”

Emilia turned to her. “You’re not alone, Calista. Not now. Not ever.”

Calista’s eyes shimmered, not with tears but something heavier. Acceptance, maybe. Gratitude she didn’t know how to put into words.

They walked together after that, slowly and carefully through the corridors of the Manor. The same halls where Calista had once been chased out in disgrace now welcomed her back without judgment. It wasn’t forgiveness, not quite. But it was something like healing.

Later that day, they sat on the shaded side of the orchard, watching as workers set up lanterns and long tables in preparation for the feast. It was a celebration of hope, of life, of the coming child that Emilia would soon bring into the world. For once, the Manor buzzed not with war or blood, but with anticipation.

“I never imagined Luca being the feast-throwing type,” Calista said, sipping from a glass of chilled tea.

“He cried when I told him,” Emilia said softly, remembering the moment. “Actually cried. Said it was the first good thing to come out of this cursed bloodline in years.”

“I always thought he was too controlled for tears.”

“He’s not, really. He just hides it better than the rest of us.”

They both smiled, and it didn’t feel forced.

That evening, as dusk fell and the lanterns lit up like stars strung between trees, the feast began. Music floated on the breeze, lutes and low drums, voices humming in harmony. Long tables were lined with food, laughter spilled freely, and for the first time in a long while, the people of the Manor celebrated something that didn’t feel doomed.

Cyrus stood at Calista’s side, never straying too far. He didn’t speak much, but his attention was unwavering. His hand rested gently on her lower back, guiding her when she needed it, fetching her water when she stood too long. And Calista, once proud and untouchable, leaned into him without shame.

Emilia caught their eyes meeting once across the firelit gathering just a flicker of a glance, but it carried years of loss, betrayal, and fragile hope. It was enough.

Vivienne toasted to the new generation. Even Luca stood, hand resting on Emilia’s shoulder as she sat, glowing and flushed from warmth and pregnancy. He didn’t speak long, but when he said, “To those who will carry what we couldn’t,” the entire table rose with him.

That night, Calista and Emilia sat together again in the garden after most had gone to sleep. The air was thick with roses and woodsmoke, but the silence between them was comfortable. They were no longer adversaries sharing a burden. They were sisters, not by blood but by experience. Wounded, healing, and preparing to bring something new into a world that had taken so much from them.

Calista reached out, carefully placing her hand on Emilia’s belly. “They’ll be friends, won’t they? Our children.”

“They’ll have to be,” Emilia said. “They’ll have too many enemies not to be.”

Calista looked away, swallowing hard. “Do you ever wonder… if we’re just repeating history? If they’ll suffer the same way we did?”

Emilia took her hand, surprising them both. “Then we’ll change the story. We’ll protect them better than we were protected.”

There was a long pause. Crickets chirped in the grass. Somewhere, an owl hooted.

Then Calista smiled—not the smirk she used to wear like a mask, but a soft, genuine thing. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I have to.”

They sat in silence a while longer, letting the night wrap around them like a second skin. And then Calista leaned her head gently on Emilia’s shoulder. “Thank you. For not leaving me behind.”

Emilia’s voice was a whisper. “Don’t make me regret it.”

They laughed quietly enjoying the evening's breeze together.

Far off in one of the forgotten towers of the Manor, a figure sat cross-legged beside an ancient altar, hands smeared with ash and root oil.

The room was filled with aged scrolls and shattered bones, long-abandoned markings on the stone walls that hummed faintly in response to the moonlight. In front of him lay a worn cloth wrapped around a dried petal—taken from the same blood orchid Calista had used all those years ago when she tampered with the blood rites.

He opened a leather-bound journal with symbols only the Elders would recognize and began to write something down.

The plan was shifting.

Not darker. Just… more precise.

He murmured to himself, almost lovingly, “Two vessels now. Twice the power. Twice the cost. But only one will be needed.”

Then he blew out the candle and vanished into the shadows, leaving the journal open to a single line scrawled in red:

“Only the purest blood may finish what has begun.”