Chapter 62 Made and not Born
The chamber feels different now.
Heavier.
Like the air itself has learned how to accuse.
I’m still shaking from the collar, from the humiliation of being silenced with pain, when another figure steps forward,older, thinner, dressed not in ceremonial robes or armor but in muted gray. His presence doesn’t command fear the way the council does. It commands something worse.
Finality.
“This record,” the man says, his voice dry and precise, “has remained sealed for over a decade.”
He inclines his head toward the council, then toward Darius’ throne, then, briefly, almost apologetically, toward me.
“I am Archivist Hale. Keeper of records.This archive,” he says calmly, “was sealed under triple authority. Council. Alpha King. And Royal Medical Oversight.”
Every instinct in me screams to look away, to shut my eyes, to refuse whatever comes next. But I don’t. I force myself to stand straighter against the chains, even as my knees tremble.
A projection flares to life behind him.
Not footage.
Data.
Cold, structured lines of text. Dates. Locations. Case numbers.
“No,” I whisper, before he even begins. “No, please.”
“The subject of these files,” the archivist continues, unmoved, “is designated L-17.”
The words land like a blow.
Me.
“These documents were recovered from a private research vault following the recent hybrid incidents,” he says. “They were cross-referenced with Council archives, blood guard records, and classified Alpha command orders.”
I shake my head violently.
“This isn’t real,” I say, my voice cracking. “You already lied. You manipulated footage. You.”
The archivist raises a hand, and the chamber falls silent.
“These are not narratives,” he says calmly. “They are medical logs.”
The screen changes.
A heading appears.
SEALED MEDICAL DATA — SUBJECT L-17
Subcategories begin to scroll. Torture logs. Neurological damage. Reproductive experimentation
The words blur together, my vision swimming.
Torture.
No.No, no, no.
My breath comes too fast, too shallow. I feel like I’m falling, like the floor has tilted and I’m sliding toward something I can’t stop.
“These logs document repeated procedures,” the archivist says. “Conducted over a period of years. Some physical. Some neurological. Many psychological.”
I let out a sound that isn’t quite a sob.
“That’s not true,” I cry. “I was a child. I had a home. I remember my room. I remember my mother singing.”
“You remember what you were allowed to remember,” Cornelius cuts in sharply.
“Silence,” Darius snaps, his voice carrying lethal promise.
The archivist continues, his tone unchanging.
“The experiments focused primarily on three areas,” he says. “Hybrid stabilization. Trauma-induced mutation. And reproductive viability.”
The room spins.
Reproductive.
I feel sick.
I feel violated in a way that has nothing to do with touch and everything to do with being seen as something other than human. Other than alive.
“The goal,” the archivist adds, “was to determine whether a viable hybrid lineage could be sustained across generations.”
A moan tears out of my chest.
“No,” I whisper. “My mother,my mother loved him. She chose him. She wasn’t,she wasn’t a subject—”
The screen changes again.
A new heading.
PERPETRATOR / PRINCIPAL INVESTIGATOR
There’s a pause.
A terrible, deliberate pause.
The name appears.
DR. JACK SOREN
My father.
The world fractures.
I scream.
It rips out of me raw and broken, echoing off the stone walls as my body collapses against the restraints. Tears stream down my face uncontrollably, my chest heaving, my heart shattering into pieces too small to count.
“No!” I sob. “That’s not him! That’s not my father! He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—”
“The research,” the archivist says quietly, “was funded under a private grant.”
Another line appears.
SPONSOR: DR. JACK SOREN
I shake my head so hard my neck aches.
“He was kind,” I cry. “He taught me how to read. He carried me on his shoulders. He held my hand when I was scared of storms. He loved my mother—”
“The records indicate,” the archivist interrupts gently, “that the research began after the disappearance of Subject M-03.”
I freeze.
Subject M-03.
My heart stutters.
“The woman later identified as your mother,” he continues. “She was reported missing by her coven. No remains were ever recovered.”
The room goes silent.
“The investigation concluded,” he says, “that she was abducted by Dr. Soren and used as the primary genetic source for hybrid gestation.”
I scream again.
“No! You’re lying! She wasn’t kidnapped,she chose him,she loved him.”
My voice breaks into sobs so violent I can barely breathe.
“They loved each other,” I repeat, desperate, clinging to the words like a lifeline. “They loved each other. I know they did.”
I wrench my head toward Darius.
He’s watching me.Not with anger.Not with suspicion.With grief.
With something like mourning.
Our eyes meet.
And in that moment, I knew.
He doesn’t look surprised.
He doesn’t look confused.
He looks like a man who has been carrying this truth alone for a very long time. My heart shatters completely.
“You knew,” I whisper. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
The silence between us says everything.
The archivist lowers his hands.
“The Council acknowledges the emotional distress of the subject,” he says formally. “However, the data is verified. Authenticated. And corroborated.”
I sag in the chains, my body hollow, my soul screaming.
My father didn’t save my mother.
He stole her. He didn’t protect me. He built me.
I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what memories are real and which were crafted. I don’t know how much of my life was love,and how much was design.
And worst of all?
The man I hated for killing my father may have destroyed him to stop something far worse.
I squeeze my eyes shut, tears streaming down my face, as the truth settles like poison in my veins.I wasn’t born.
I was made.