It had been several quiet weeks since Elena and Seamus returned to WindSwept.
The air hung heavy with tension, even in moments of peace. The stone walls of the ancestral estate, once oppressive, now seemed to pulse with an unseen energy—like they were watching. Waiting.
Lady Aurora had questions, of course.
She confronted them in the greenhouse over bitter tea and silence, her expression unreadable beneath her lace veil. The rain tapped at the windowpanes like fingers seeking entry. After a long pause, she finally spoke.
"I will help. Any way I can."
Her words were quiet, reserved—but there was power behind them. The resolve of a woman who had survived both grief and politics. Elena felt an unexpected warmth rise in her chest. Not affection, not yet—but something adjacent. Respect, perhaps.
During the day, Elena buried herself in research. She was free to practice her magic for the first time in her life without restraint.
No punishments.
No cruel sudden testing that would send her body flying.
She practiced flicking targets with blasts from her fingertips, all violet, sparkling, and zappy like lightening.
Elena found texts in the library talking about healing magic, green, swirling, rare and powerful. She vaguely remembered a kind traveling knight who healed her legs after a nasty kneeling punishment from the her mother.
It was like being touched by springtime.
She began to study all kinds of restorative and offense magic. The legend of Sotomatteo and Saintess Yidali was of profound interest.
A few times she'd, shyly, ask for help understanding the books and scrolls, her arms filled with them. Seamus was more than happy to oblige.
When Elena told him she'd never been to a beach before, he cleared a whole day to show her the tide pools low below the cliffs during low tide. Seamus taught her to swim, pulling her close in the water. She gladly held on. Elena felt like this was a dream she never wished to wake from.
As the weeks went on, something within Elena had shifted. A strange awareness coursed through her limbs—more control over her magic, yes—but also an aching exhaustion that no potion nor talisman could cure. Even the whale bone anklet, worn diligently, offered only shallow relief.
And still, she pressed on.
Scroll after scroll. Record after record. The legend of Sir Sotomatteo and his bloodline consumed her. Every fragment of lore, every whispered account of karmic return and saintly defiance—Elena devoured them all. She filled entire notebooks with sketches, notes, and connecting threads, her desk a chaotic altar to history and fate.
Surprisingly, Lady Aurora joined her.
Not every day, but often enough. She would appear in the library, gliding like a specter among the high shelves, carrying with her dusty tomes that hadn't been touched in decades. She never asked intrusive questions. She simply helped.
Her presence was quiet and steady. Elena, against her instincts, began to appreciate it.
Seamus, meanwhile, had his own battlefield.
He became a phantom in his own estate—constantly moving between his office, the war room, and the undercroft archives. He pored over decades of contracts, uncoupling the estate's obligations to the Church, dissecting the web of private buyers and Parliament's alliances. At times, he'd vanish for hours, sometimes days, only to return more determined than ever.
But at night… he returned to her.
And those nights were sacred.
Theirs was no longer just a romance—it had become a communion. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered vow as skin met skin felt like reclaiming something lost in the womb of time. They clung to each other as if their bodies could anchor them to the present, as if this devotion would defy the pain of the past and the dread of the future.
They made love like survivors. Like gods. Like they had done so a thousand times before and would do so again in lifetimes yet to come.
The planning of the Muerte Juju wedding continued in secret—just the three of them: Elena, Seamus, and the ever-smiling Behike.
But as the months slipped by, the strange sensation inside Elena only grew more potent.
Something stirred beneath her skin.
It was a chill day in early spring when everything changed.
The fire crackled low in the Matteo library, long shadows pooling beneath the bookshelves. Elena sat cross-legged on a thick velvet cushion, old scrolls spread out before her like the wings of some long-dead angel. Her curls, unruly and ink-stained, fell around her face in wild spirals.
Across the room, Lady Aurora's young son, Phineus, was laughing—running circles around the columned shelves, chasing a floating ball of light Elena had conjured absentmindedly.
She sighed and rubbed her temple. Her vision had started to blur.
"You look pale," Lady Aurora murmured.
Elena blinked at the sudden voice beside her. Aurora had approached without a sound, her eyes soft but assessing. Before Elena could respond, Aurora reached forward and placed a cool, gloved hand against her forehead.
Startled, Elena froze. She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Aurora's eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. Then she stood, glancing down at Elena with a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of her usually grim mouth.
"This might be a bit forward," she said slowly, "but I believe you should see a healer. And soon."
Elena blinked.