"He is adopted, yes, but he is still your elder brother. You should accord him the respect he deserves," a voice spoke calmly from the doorway.
All heads turned toward the figure who had entered without so much as a sound — it was the Gilded Warden, the revered Custodian of all Silvermoon's treasures.
"Grandmother," Mr. Trevor said quickly, bowing low, though a flicker of unease passed across his face.
"You should have informed us of your arrival," he added, forcing a polite smile as his eyes scanned her form.Despite the thousands of years she had lived, the woman standing before them appeared no older than thirty. Her ageless beauty was both awe-inspiring and unsettling, her silver-threaded hair flowing down a body that time had clearly refused to touch.
Mr. Canelo, face tightening with frustration, abruptly left the hall without another word. His footsteps echoed in the silent corridor until they ended in a thunderous slam of his door.
Inside his private chamber, Mr. Canelo ripped open a hidden drawer and retrieved a worn locket. His hands trembled as he opened it, revealing a delicate portrait inside — a young woman with long, flowing blonde hair and eyes the color of molten gold, so vivid it seemed she might blink at any moment. Her resemblance to Fiona was unmistakable.
Staring at the portrait, Mr. Canelo muttered under his breath, his voice cracking with old grief.
"I was able to take her away… to claim this position, then no one can stop me, no one," Mr. Canelo muttered to himself, his eyes burning with determination. His hands shook as he pushed a handful of pills into his mouth, the bitter taste barely registering as he lay back on the bed, his mind clouded by his greed and desires. Within moments, the drugs took their toll, and he drifted into unconsciousness, the weight of his ambitions pulling him into an uneasy slumber.
"Grandma!" Roxanne cried out as she rushed into the room, her heart leaping with joy upon seeing the woman she had always looked up to. Vaultress Serilda stood there, a regal figure whose presence commanded respect and warmth in equal measure. Roxanne didn't hesitate; she ran straight into Serilda's arms, holding her tightly as if afraid the world would snatch her away again.
Serilda, who had lived through centuries of shifting power and intrigue, gently patted Roxanne's back, her eyes softening as she felt the tension in the younger woman's body.
"You've grown stronger, Roxanne," she whispered, before pulling away just slightly to look her granddaughter in the eyes. "But you still carry the weight of so much pain."
After a moment of silence, Serilda spoke again, her voice even more soothing, "I wish to bathe you, my child. Not the maids. Let me care for you, as I always should have." She gave a slight nod, signaling to the attendants, and they quickly granted her request.
Roxanne nodded, grateful for the rare, quiet comfort. With her permission granted, she moved toward the bath—a large tub filled with warm milk and fragrant spices, the steam rising in delicate swirls. As Roxanne sank into the soothing liquid, the world around her seemed to slow down, the tension easing out of her muscles, though her mind was far from peaceful.
Serilda stood over her, her wise eyes tracing the scars that marred Roxanne's once-perfect skin. "You have a lot of scars on you," she said softly, her voice carrying a note of sorrow.
Roxanne looked away for a moment, shame flickering in her eyes before she responded, "They're reminders of things I've endured."
The Gilded Warden's gaze never left her, as if she could see deeper than just the physical marks. "Some scars… they don't just stay on the skin. They live in the heart, too."
Roxanne swallowed hard but said nothing, too weary to speak of the pain that had shaped her into the woman she was now.
Serilda's words lingered in the air as she began preparing the oils for the bath, her motions graceful and steady. She understood more than Roxanne knew—more than anyone else did. But for now, all she could offer was the quiet comfort of caring hands and a safe space for her granddaughter to heal.
Roxanne's voice trembled as she spoke, her tears falling freely, staining her cheeks. The weight of years of torment poured out with every word. "After you left, there was no one to defend me," she whispered, the pain raw in her voice. "Dad always did whatever Mr. Canelo told him to. They beat me—brutally, without mercy. Once, they even gave me a capital punishment for no reason." She choked on her breath, the memories suffocating her. "They denied me the first blood offering, my Rite of the Crimson Moon, the blood of my eighteenth birthday. They kept denying me, taking everything from me. I just wanted to be normal. I didn't want to be a competitor or someone who could threaten Fiona. I didn't want to be Queen. I just wanted to be… a normal vampire , like everyone else. But they mocked me. They made me feel small—powerless."
She shook her head, the words coming in a rush now, as if to expel the suffocating weight that had been building inside her for so long. "How can I live like this? How can I be a vampire without power? How can I face a world that sees me as nothing more than a burden? And now, the man I'm supposed to marry doesn't even love me. I'm just a second choice—a second choice to someone who will always be first. Will I always be second?"
Serilda's ancient, wise eyes softened with sympathy and sorrow as she pulled Roxanne closer. She ran a hand over her granddaughter's hair, her touch gentle and grounding. She could feel Roxanne's heartbreak, the depth of it, but also the strength that lingered underneath.
Serilda's voice was low and firm, filled with the weight of a thousand years of wisdom. "You are not second to anyone, Roxanne. You are more than they could ever understand. They tried to break you, to silence you, to make you feel small and insignificant—but you are far stronger than they'll ever realize."
Roxanne looked up at her, her tear-streaked face twisted with disbelief. "How can I believe that, Grandma? How can I believe in myself when all I've known is rejection and cruelty? When I've only ever been pushed aside, made to feel like I don't matter?"
Serilda's eyes were filled with sorrow and tenderness as she cupped Roxanne's face in her weathered hands. "Because you are my granddaughter. You are part of something much greater than what they can take from you. You have a legacy that no one can steal. The power inside you is not their to control, and one day, they'll see that. One day, you will rise above them, above all of this pain. You will be the one they never expected."
Roxanne's sobs quieted, her breath hitching as she tried to process her grandmother's words. P
"I don't want to be second, Grandma. I just want to be whole… like Fiona," Roxanne whispered, the weight of her heart evident in her voice. "I want to be someone who matters. I want to be someone they can't tear down, someone who's more than just a shadow of someone else."
Serilda gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, her gaze unwavering. "And you will be, Roxanne. You will be more than they could ever imagine. They may have tried to break you, but they underestimated you. You are stronger than you know, and one day, you will show them. You'll make them regret every moment they thought they could break you.
Do not ever let them make you feel less than you are," Serilda continued, her voice a soothing balm to Roxanne's wounded soul. "You are not second, Roxanne. You never were. And you will never be second again. Not as long as you draw breath."
"But today, if you marry, you will drink the Bloodwoven Union," Serilda continued, her voice filled with both sadness and resolve. "At least then, you will gain the wolf ability, something to bind you to your heritage. It won't fix everything, but it will give you something of your own, something you can hold onto."
Roxanne's heart clenched as she absorbed the weight of Serilda's words. She had always felt like an outsider, like she was missing a piece of herself. The thought of gaining something tangible—something powerful—was both a relief and a burden.
"I love you both, Fiona and you," Serilda added, her gaze softening with the tenderness of a grandmother who had seen so much of the world's cruelty. "I was against it when they denied you your birth blood. I fought for you, I wanted to protect you from this. But I never expected they would go that far… not to this extent."
The weight of Serilda's confession settled in the air between them, thick with the history of a thousand regrets and unspoken sorrows. Roxanne swallowed, a lump forming in her throat.
"I rushed to you because I heard about the disappearance of Fiona, and the outbreak of Hazel. The chaos they've caused," Serilda said, her voice steady despite the bitterness beneath it. "But I swear to you, child, I will restore peace. I will restore balance to our family and our people. No more secrets, no more manipulation.
Serilda smiled, though there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. "And I will stand by you, Roxanne".
After she finished dressing, Roxanne stood before the towering mirror, a vision born from midnight's embrace and storm's fury.
Her gown was a breathtaking masterpiece, crafted from shadow and silver. Layers of black velvet clung to her form, each fold woven with delicate threads of silver that glimmered like moonlit veins, winding across her bodice like creeping vines. The skirts, voluminous and heavy, spilled out around her feet, graceful in their dark majesty. With every step, they whispered faintly across the cold stone floor, a reminder of the weight she carried both in fabric and in soul. The long, translucent sleeves were adorned with fine silver beading, tracing the edges like stardust caught in motion, the light catching them in fleeting bursts, like remnants of dreams never realized.
A diamond necklace lay heavy around her neck, its icy brilliance stark against her pale skin. The stones seemed to glisten like frozen tears, resting just above the hollow of her throat — a cruel, beautiful crown for the silent war simmering inside her chest.
Her dark hair, swept into an intricate braid, was pinned with silver clasps shaped like thorns, each pin a reminder of the sharpness of her existence. A few loose strands framed her face, sharp and haunting, with an almost ethereal quality. Her lips, tinted the faintest shade of wine, barely moved as she inhaled — a slow, measured breath that felt heavier than it should.
She reached out toward the mirror, fingertips hovering just shy of the glass, staring deeply into the eyes of the woman who stared back. There was no longer innocence there, only cold steel, sorrow, and a simmering promise of what she had become — a woman forged by the flames of survival, unwilling to bow to fate.
"This reflection," she thought bitterly, her voice like a ghost of her former self, "is the woman I must become. She belongs to sacrifice… and survival."
The candlelight flickered weakly around her, casting long shadows that stretched across the stone floor.