Chapter 94 SELENE'S RAGE
After the meeting with the strange but beautiful woman at the palace, Selene did not return to the rooms given to her. She did not wait for servants or guards. She moved through the halls like someone who already knew where she was going, her steps quiet, her thoughts loud.
The woman’s face stayed with her.
Not the beauty alone, though that was hard to forget. It was the calm. The way she spoke as if she already knew answers to questions Selene had not asked yet. The way her eyes lingered, as if measuring something deeper than words.
Selene pushed it aside.
There were things that mattered more.
Athalia.
Her father.
The moment Selene reached the outer grounds, she quickened her pace. The sky was turning pale, the kind of early light that made shadows long and sharp. Athalia had not moved since Selene handed her over. She had been unconscious, her breathing shallow but steady, her skin cold to the touch.
Selene remembered the weight of her in her arms.
“She’ll live,” her father had said then, his voice low and careful. “But she’s been drained. Whatever touched her took more than strength.”
Selene had not answered. She had only nodded and placed Athalia down by the riverside leading to the hut. She had not stayed to watch. Staying would have meant questions. Questions led to answers, and Selene was not ready for those.
Now, as she moved away from the palace and toward the edge of the land where the river cut through the trees, her chest felt tight.
She told herself she was only going to check.
Only to look.
The path to the riverside was familiar. She had walked it since childhood, first holding her father’s hand, later walking ahead while he followed, staff tapping against stone. The smell of wet earth and leaves rose with each step. The sound of water grew louder.
Her father’s hut stood just beyond a bend in the path, tucked between old trees that leaned inward like guards.
Selene slowed.
Something was wrong.
The door was open.
Her father never left it open. Not even when he stepped out for a moment. He had always said an open door invited things that did not knock.
“Father?” she called softly.
No answer.
She moved closer, her hand already resting on the knife at her side. The hut looked the same at first glance, but when she stepped inside, the details struck her all at once.
The shelves were bare in places.
Jars missing.
Books gone.
The small chest near the wall stood open, its contents disturbed.
The bed where Athalia had been laid was empty.
The blanket lay folded, too neatly.
Selene’s breath caught.
“No,” she whispered.
She crossed the room quickly, checking every corner, every shadow. There was no blood. No signs of struggle. But the air felt wrong, hollow, like something important had been pulled out.
“Father,” she said again, louder now.
Still nothing.
Her heart began to pound.
Someone had been here.
Someone had taken things.
Someone had taken Athalia.
Selene stepped back outside, scanning the ground. The soft earth near the riverbank showed faint marks—footprints, half-washed by water, leading away toward the village.
She followed them without thinking.
The village sat a short walk away, a cluster of low houses and narrow paths. People were already awake, moving about their morning routines. When Selene appeared, heads turned. Some faces showed surprise. Others showed something like pity.
She stopped the first man she recognized, an older fisherman who had known her since she was young.
“Where is the wizard?” she asked.
The man frowned. “Oren?”
“Yes,” Selene said. “My father.”
He hesitated. “You haven’t heard?”
He did not wait for her answer.
“He fell sick,” the man said. “A few days. Took to his bed. Wouldn’t eat and wouldn’t speak much either, as i heard.”
Selene’s mouth felt dry. “And Athalia? Did you see a woman with him?”
The man’s brow creased. “The woman who lived with him?”
“Yes.”
“She was there,” he said slowly. “Until she wasn’t.”
Selene felt her hands curl into fists. “What do you mean?”
“One morning, the hut was empty,” he said. “Oren was already dead y then. But she was gone too. We thought she ould neturn but she never did. And...”
“And?” Selene pressed.
“And his grave lay near the old house,” the man said quietly, “...by the river.”
The world tilted.
“I'm sorry, but he's dead, miss,” the man finished.
Selene did not remember stepping back, but suddenly the ground was closer.
“How?” she asked.
The man shook his head. “Peacefully, it seemed. No marks. No wounds. Just… gone.”
“And her?”
“No one’s seen her since,” he said. “Some say she left before dawn. Others say she never left at all.”
Selene turned away before he could say more.
Her thoughts raced, sharp and cruel.
She thought Athalia had been unconscious, weak and vulnerable.
Selene had trusted her father to protect her, and in doing so, she had delivered Athalia straight into his care.
But then he died and the woman vanished.
There was only one story that made sense.
Athalia had woke and had been angry.
Selene pictured her face, pale and still, then twisted with rage. She imagined her standing over Oren, using whatever power she had left, blaming him for what Selene had done.
For taking her son.
The thought burned.
“She killed him,” Selene whispered.
The words felt solid the moment she said them.
Athalia had always been dangerous. Quiet, yes, but strong. Too strong. And grief changed people. Selene knew that better than most.
She walked back through the village in a haze. No one stopped her this time. No one spoke.
By the time she reached the river, the water was bright with morning light. It flowed calmly, as if nothing had happened, as if it had not carried away the last warmth of her father’s body.
She knelt at the bank.
“I trusted you,” she said aloud, her voice shaking. “I trusted you with him.”
Her mind replayed every moment she had spent with Athalia. Every look. Every pause. Every silence that now felt like something hidden.
“She did it to punish me,” Selene said. “She did it because I took her son.”
The anger came slowly, like a tide pulling back before a wave.
“She wanted me to feel this,” Selene continued. “She wanted me to lose what she lost.”
Her hands trembled.
She stood.
“Fine,” she said. “Then she’ll have what she’s asking for.”
Selene turned away from the river, her grief hardening into something sharp and cold. Revenge did not come to her as a shout or a scream. It came as a quiet promise.
She would find Athalia.
And when she did, she would make her answer for her father’s death.
No matter how far she had run.
No matter what it cost.