Chapter 21 The Blood that was not Mine
The wall fell silently.
There was no loud crash or warning. One section at the base simply softened and collapsed inward, the fragments landing softly on the ground.
A girl stepped through the opening.
She looked young, possibly around seventeen. With short dark hair and plain clothing, nothing about her announced her as a wolf except for her slow, deliberate movements, suggesting years of practice in the art of concealment.
When she saw me, she halted.
I paused as well.
The sigils on my arms flared with heat and pulled toward her forcefully, as if they recognized something that was beyond my comprehension.
"What is she?" Vince inquired.
No one responded.
The girl glanced at my arms before turning her own palms upward.Her markings were identical, each line and curve a perfect match.
Rafael muttered, "She has your markers."
"I can see that," I replied.
Behind me, my mother emitted a sound I hadn't heard from her throughout this ordeal, it was small, broken, and weary.
I turned to face her.
Her face had turned a gray shade.
My father emerged from behind us, his restraints gone unnoticed. Something crossed his face as he focused on the girl, a fleeting expression I couldn't identify.
"You told me she didn’t survive," he said, addressing my mother.
She was silent.
"Elena." His voice trembled as he said her name. "You looked me in the eye and said she didn’t make it across the border."
"Mateo." Her voice was barely audible.
I shifted my attention back to the girl. "Who are you?"
She introduced herself.
"Sera," she replied, her voice steady and unwavering. "Sera Vasquez."
That name hit the yard with the weight of a thrown stone.
Rafael let out a sharp breath.
Vince instinctively reached for his blade.
I kept my gaze fixed on her. "Vasquez."
"Yes."
"From my mother’s bloodline."
"Correct." She glanced past me at Elena. "She’s my aunt."
The yard fell silent.
I turned to my mother, halting any further movement.
"You have a niece," I stated.
My mother remained mute.
"She bears my markers and just passed through your nephew's wall without a word from you."
"I didn’t know she had your markers," my mother eventually said.
"But you knew she was alive."
The ensuing silence stretched unbearably.
"Yes," she confessed.
Vince stepped in front of the girl—not to shield me, but to scrutinize her more closely. "How do you possess those markers?"
Sera met his gaze without flinching, unlike most wolves who would shy away. "I was in the tunnel last night."
"Impossible," Rafael countered. "We would have sensed another bloodline there."
"Would you?" She tilted her head. "You had a lot on your plate."
She was right.
"When Isabella placed her hand on the journal," Sera explained, "something surged outward—from the stone, from the ground." She looked at me. "I was above the tunnel when it erupted through my feet, and I couldn’t halt it."
My mother had questioned me. Did you feel anything leave you?
"It marked you," I concluded.
"It chose me," she clarified, devoid of any pride in the statement—just a fact.
"Is that any different?"
"Yes." She stepped closer. "Your lineage required a release for the overflow. Someone the primary bloodlines wouldn’t anticipate. Someone pure." She paused. "I was just there."
I regarded my mother. "Did my father orchestrate this?"
She shook her head slowly. "No."
"Did you?"
"No."
This implied that something inherent in the principles of old blood law had acted independently.
I didn’t have time to decipher the implications.
Beyond the downed wall, footsteps approached… many of them. The surrounding packs weren’t rushing; they were advancing slowly and systematically, like wolves who wanted us to be aware of their presence.
"They noticed the opening," Vince stated. "They’ll move through it."
"Then fix it," I commanded.
"The sigils are gone. I have nothing to repair it with."
I turned to Sera.
She met my gaze.
"Can you seal it?" I asked.
"I’m not sure," she replied. "I’ve never done anything like this before."
"Neither have I," I said. "Twelve hours ago."
She held my gaze for a moment. Then she approached the damaged wall and pressed her palms flat against the remaining stone.
Three seconds passed with nothing occurring.
Then the sigils on her hands began to move. Slower than mine, with rougher edges—as if written in a language she learned long ago but hadn’t used in years.
The stone groaned.
New marks emerged from beneath the surface; they were different from the old ones. Sharper, less ceremonial, resembling law more than art.
"It’s working," Vince noted.
"Not quickly enough," Rafael interjected.
The footsteps drew near, perhaps within thirty seconds.
I walked to the wall and placed my hand beside hers.
Our sigils collided, glowing white.
The wall reformed in ten seconds.
It felt denser than stone, with the marks stacked three layers deep, glowing in a hue I lacked words for.
The footsteps halted on the opposite side.
Then they retreated.
I withdrew my hand.
Sera removed hers.
Up close, she appeared as someone who hadn’t eaten in days—dark circles under her eyes, cracked lips, the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t remedy.
"How long were you outside?" I asked.
"Three days."
"Alone?"
She hesitated. "Marco brought me here."
A chill settled in the yard.
Vince looked at her sharply. "Marco Romano."
"He found me six months ago," she explained. "Said he knew what I was and that he could help me reach you." She turned to me. "I recognized he was manipulating me, but I allowed it because I needed to get inside this compound."
"Why?" I pressed.
She pulled a journal from her coat.
Not my father's—the edges were burned, suggesting it had been nearly set aflame.
My mother inhaled sharply.
"Marco gave me this this morning," Sera stated. "Just before he instructed me to pass through your wall."
I accepted it from her.
One mark adorned the cover. No title, no name.
Just a date.
Thirtyeight years ago.
The year before my parents met.
I opened the first page.
The handwriting wasn’t my father’s, nor my mother’s.
It was mine.
Every loop, every slant—my hand precisely.
Written thirtyeight years before my birth.
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