Chapter 121 Moving Shadows
The hotel hallway was too quiet.
At first, I blamed the alcohol.
The soft hum of the elevator had stopped. The carpet swallowed our footsteps. The chandeliers lining the corridor flickered once, subtle enough that a human wouldn’t notice.
But I did.
My senses were sharp again, sobered instantly by instinct.
Darius felt it too.
His hand brushed my lower back as we stepped out of the elevator, not affectionate now,alert.
The hallway lights dimmed.
Not all at once.
One by one.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
Shadows stretched longer along the walls.
And then..
They moved.
Not flickered.
Detached.
Figures peeled themselves away from the darkness as if they had been stitched into it. Cloaked shapes, silent and precise, stepping forward in perfect formation.
Witches.
I smelled them before I fully saw them, herbs and ash and something metallic woven into the air. Their magic pressed against my skin like static.
Darius didn’t hesitate.
He shoved me back just as the first sigil flared across the ceiling, a glowing mark snapping into place with a crack of energy.
A containment spell.
“Move,” he snarled.
The first witch lunged.
No screaming. No theatrics.
Just efficient violence.
Silver-threaded ropes shot from her sleeve, aiming for my wrists. I ducked and slashed, claws slicing clean through the spell-binding midair. It disintegrated into sparks.
Darius slammed into another attacker, sending her crashing into the opposite wall. The drywall shattered. She hit the ground and rolled, chanting under her breath.
The air ignited with light.
A burst of force hit my chest and sent me skidding backward into the hallway console table, wood splintering beneath me.
I tasted blood.
“Lyra!” Darius barked.
“I’m fine,” I growled, pushing up.
Another witch appeared to my left, her palm glowing with a binding rune. She thrust it forward. It struck my shoulder and burned like acid, searing into skin.
I roared and shifted halfway ,claws, fangs, eyes flashing red, and tackled her before she could complete the incantation.
We crashed into the wall together.
I pinned her wrist above her head, ready to snap it—
“Wait!”
The voice cut through the chaos.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
I froze.
The witch beneath me gasped for breath as I yanked her hood back.
Black hair spilled free.
Freckles.
Sharp green eyes I hadn’t seen in years.
Recognition hit like a punch to the lungs.
“Maris?”
Her eyes widened.
“Lyra.”
The hallway went still.
Not calm.
Tense.
The other witches hovered mid-attack, magic coiled and ready.
Darius stood across from me, chest heaving, a witch bleeding at his feet.
“Stand down,” Maris rasped.
They hesitated.
“Stand down!” she barked louder.
And just like that.
The pressure shifted.
Sigils on the ceiling fizzled out. The air lightened.
The witches stepped back in eerie synchronization.
I released Maris slowly, though my claws remained half-extended.
“You’re alive,” she said, staring at me like she was seeing a ghost.
“So are you.”
Darius moved to my side instantly, positioning himself slightly in front of me despite the witches lowering their hands.
“Explain,” he demanded.
Maris held up both palms, showing she carried no immediate spell.
“We weren’t told it was her.”
“Who sent you?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
She hesitated.
“Someone powerful.”
“That narrows it down to half the supernatural population,” Darius snapped.
Her gaze flicked between us.
“You need to listen.”
The hallway lights flickered back on weakly, illuminating the destruction,cracked walls, scorch marks, splintered furniture.
My pulse was still racing, but something else churned beneath it.
Memories.
The smell of mildew and cheap soap.
A locked bathroom door.
Cold tile under bare feet.
“Maris,” I repeated, quieter now.
She looked thinner than I remembered. Harder.
But her eyes.
Still carried that same stubborn spark.
“We were foster siblings once,” she said softly.
As if I could ever forget.
The house had always smelled like bleach and stale bread.
Six girls crammed into two rooms. Locks on the pantry. Locks on the fridge. Locks on everything except the bruises.
The caregivers were not kind.
They called it discipline.
They called it shaping.
I called it survival.
Maris had stolen a loaf of bread once.
Just bread.
They caught her.
Dragged her to the bathroom.
Filled the tub.
I remembered the way her fingers clawed at the porcelain edge as they forced her head under.
The sound of water thrashing.
The laughter.
Something inside me had snapped.
I’d lunged and shifted.
Bit one of them.
Hard.
Blood everywhere.
They beat me for it.
Belt.
Fist.
Boot.
And that was the first time I shifted.
Not fully.
Not cleanly.
But enough.
Claws erupted through skin. Teeth lengthened.
I remember screaming.
I remember them screaming louder.
I don’t remember stopping.
When it was over, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Everyone in it was dead.
Except us.
Maris had stared at me like I was both monster and miracle.
It seems she never forgot neither did I .
Back in the present, her eyes shimmered with that same memory.
The witches behind her exchanged uneasy looks.
Darius was still tense beside me, assessing every twitch.
“You vanished after that day,” Maris continued. “Authorities said it was a gas leak. They covered it up.”
“I was affraid .”
She nodded slowly.
“I figured.”
Silence stretched.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
Her expression darkened.
“Because someone wants you dead.”
Darius’s jaw tightened.
“Specifics.”
“They didn’t give a name. Just payment. Heavy. Enough to gather a coven.”
My stomach turned.
“Why now?”
Maris swallowed.
“Because you’ve stepped into vampire territory.”
The words hit.
Cold.
Immediate.
Queen Isolde. Her fury. Her declaration. You are an insult held back only by treaty,not mercy.
“She sent you,” I said.
Maris hesitated.
“We were told the order came from someone high within vampire court influence.”
My mind filled in the rest.
“She hates me,” I whispered.
Darius turned to me sharply.
“Lyra..”
“She warned you,” I continued, barely hearing him. “She said my existence alone threatens the truce.”
“That does not equal assassination.”
“She looked at me like I was contamination.”
Maris’s expression softened slightly.
“Lyra… I don’t know if it was her personally.”
“It was,” I insisted.
Because it had to be.
Because if it wasn’t political. If it wasn't a strategy. Then it was personal. And personal meant,she was my Mother.
I felt it twist inside my chest.
“She’s protecting her throne,” I said, trying to make the pieces fit. “She can’t publicly acknowledge me. It would weaken her.”
Darius stepped closer.
“You’re assuming she is your mother.”
“She reacted.”
“She reacted to your father’s crimes.”
“That’s not the same.”
Maris watched the exchange carefully.
“You think the Queen is your mother?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”
The word felt fragile and defiant at the same time.
Maris studied me for a long moment.
“Then if she sent us… it wasn’t guilt.”
It was rejection.
The thought landed like a blade sliding between ribs.
I shook my head.
“No.”
“She would have known we were witches,” Maris continued carefully. “She would have known our spells wouldn’t fully contain you. It felt more like someone wanted chaos. Something messy.”
Darius’s eyes sharpened.
“An internal faction.”
“Possibly,” Maris said.
But I barely heard them.
My mind was still stuck in that throne room.
Her voice.
You are not a daughter of this court.
Her gaze that was cold and unyielding.
I had convinced myself her cruelty was misdirected guilt.
That she couldn’t claim me.
But what if.
What if she simply didn’t want me?
The hallway suddenly felt too small.
Too tight.
“She hates me,” I said again, softer now.
Darius’s hand found my wrist.
“She does not know you.”
“She knows what I am.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s enough.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Maris stepped closer cautiously.
“I didn’t come here to hurt you,” she said. “The moment I saw your face, I stopped them.”
I looked at her.
“You could have killed me.”
“You saved me first.”
The memory flickered again, cold water, choking, hands pulling her out.
“I owed you.”
The witches behind her shifted uncertainly.
“What now?” Darius asked.
Maris straightened slightly.
“I’ll tell my coven to stand down. We won’t take contracts on you again.”
“Again?” Darius echoed dangerously.
She winced.
“It was one contract.”
“Find out who issued it,” he said. “Quietly.”
She nodded once.
“And Lyra?” she added.
“Yes?”
“Be careful
She moved slowly. Deliberately.
And pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Old.
Edges burned slightly.
Marked in ink that shimmered faintly silver.
She held it out to me.
I stared at it.
“Take it,” she said.
Darius didn’t stop me this time.
I reached.
Our fingers brushed.
Her skin was cold,not undead cold, but night-cold.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A tether.”
I unfolded it slightly.
Symbols spiraled across the page,runes layered over sigils, ancient and deliberate.
“Burn it,” she said. “Say my name.”
My eyes lifted to hers.
“I’ll come.”
Darius’s voice was dangerous silk. “Why help her?”
Maris’s expression shifted again,something almost feral beneath the calm.
“Because she saved me,” she said simply.
“You owe me nothing,” I whispered.
“I owe you my life.”
The air thickened.
Footsteps echoed distantly,human guests stirring.
Time was thinning.
“They’ll come again,” Maris said. “Not sloppily like tonight.”
“Let them,” Darius snarled.
She looked unimpressed.
“They’re not aiming for a hallway spectacle next time.”
A chill ran through me.
“They’ll aim for your heart,” she said.
My hand tightened on the paper.
“Why warn me?” I asked.
Her gaze held mine steadily.
“Because once,” she said softly, “you stood between me and drowning.”
Something inside me broke clean in two.
Not violently. Quietly.
The kind of break that makes no sound but changes everything.
“Maris..”
But she was already stepping back.
Shadows began creeping along the walls again.
“You’re not alone,” she said.
The words felt like both promise and warning.
“Burn it,” she repeated.
Then the lights flickered.
And she was gone.
No smoke.
No sound. The hallway felt colder without her.
Darius exhaled slowly.
I stared at the paper in my hand.
Symbols glinting.
A lifeline.
Or a curse.
Maris signaled her coven.
They melted back into the shadows as seamlessly as they had emerged.
Within seconds.
The hallway was empty again.
Just shattered drywall and the lingering scent of magic.
I exhaled shakily.
Darius turned to me.
“You cannot spiral into assumption.”
“She wants me gone.”
“You do not know that.”
“She said my existence is insult.”
“She said treaty protects you.”
“That’s the same.”
“No,” he said firmly. “It isn’t.”
I leaned back against the wall, exhaustion crashing over me now that the adrenaline was fading.
“If she is my mother,” I whispered, “she hates me.”
Darius stepped closer, his hand sliding to my jaw, forcing me gently to meet his eyes.
“If she is your mother, then she survived something horrific.”
“That doesn’t mean she wants me.”
“No,” he admitted. “It doesn’t.”
Honesty.
It hurt more than comfort would have.
“I thought,” I said quietly, “that maybe her anger was guilt.”
“Maybe it is.”
“And if it’s not?”
His thumb brushed beneath my eye where tears threatened.
“Then you survived worse.”
The hallway lights steadied fully now, hotel staff likely alerted and on their way.
“We need to move,” he said softly.
I nodded.
But as he guided me toward the stairs instead of the elevator, one thought wouldn’t loosen its grip.
If Queen Isolde truly was my mother.
And if she had sent witches to kill me.
Then I wasn’t just unwanted.
I was condemned.
And somehow.
That possibility hurt more than the rejection in her throne room ever could.