The next morning, Maika woke screaming.
Her hands flew to her belly—empty.
"Where is she?!" Her voice was raw.
Carl was at her side in a second. "Maika—you're awake!"
She blinked at him, at Merrine, at Vantessa's pale face near the window.
"I remember… I gave birth. I remember a cry," she said slowly, eyes frantic.
Genie stepped forward. "There were complications. The baby… she was stillborn."
Maika froze.
"No…"
Her breath caught.
"I heard her cry!"
"You were delirious," Genie said gently. "Your magic was… unstable. It may have fooled your senses."
"Where is she?" Maika's voice shook. "Let me see her."
"There was no body," Genie whispered. "She… dissipated. Magical hybrids sometimes…"
"You're lying."
Maika sat up, wild-eyed. "WHERE IS MY CHILD?!"
No one spoke.
She screamed—a scream so broken, so devastating, the enchanted mirrors in the room shattered from the force.
---
Far away, beneath a soft twilight sky, in a village untouched by the chaos of the world…
A cloaked figure arrived at the doorstep of a large, quiet estate.
Inside, a human couple waited—eyes full of hope, arms aching for the child the gods had promised.
The door creaked open.
The figure stepped inside, gently laying a sleeping baby into a woven bassinet.
"She is precious," the figure whispered. "Raise her well. Her name is… Elira."
Then, like smoke, the figure vanished.
The couple gasped as the infant opened her eyes—violet flames flickering in her gaze.
Eyes that would one day burn kingdoms to ash…
And restore a bloodline the world tried to erase.
Two months had passed since the veiled figure laid the radiant infant on a stranger's doorstep.
In the quiet village nestled beneath the mountains, time moved slowly—but fate did not.
An epidemic swept through the region like a shadow with claws. The sickness came without warning, creeping in during the night. By dawn, the cries of the dying echoed down the dirt roads.
The couple who had adopted the mysterious infant—so filled with hope just weeks before—perished within hours.
Inside their humble home, the violet-eyed baby girl lay wrapped in a soft crimson cloth, untouched by the plague. Her body glowed faintly, like a beacon against the death around her.
The village healers found her there—alive, healthy, silent. Her presence unsettled them, but they did not speak of it. Alongside her were five other infants orphaned by the disease, bundled tightly and rushed to the nearest rural clinic.
But the epidemic was too fierce. The clinic overwhelmed. With no relatives and no names to their fragile bodies, the six babies were transferred to a more advanced hospital in Vellmere, a city where humans and Elites lived in fragile harmony.
Doctors marveled at Elira's condition. She never cried. Never got sick. Her temperature never fluctuated, and yet she thrived. They noted her strange birthmark—a swirl of silver and crimson across her back—and the unusual way she stared at people, as if she already understood the world.
"She's… different," one nurse whispered to another.
"Beautiful," the other replied. "And strange. Like a child from the old stories."
Rumors spread through the staff. Some said she was the child of an Elite. Others whispered darker things—of relics and curses and bloodlines that should have never crossed.
Still, life in the hospital went on. The infants were soon registered for adoption, re-labeled with identification numbers, and presented to approved noble households seeking heirs or companions for their own children.
That was when Lady Jane Delacroix entered the story.
A wealthy noblewoman from the outskirts of the capital, Lady Jane was known for her cold beauty and icy ambition. She came not for love—but for appearances.
Her daughter, Celestine, the jewel of the Delacroix line, was praised for her manners and looks. But Celestine had grown bored, and worse, unchallenged. Lady Jane needed a companion for her, a distraction. A playmate.
Not someone to love—someone to use.
When she saw Elira, asleep in the cradle, wrapped in crimson silk that had long since faded, her violet eyes opening just briefly to meet her gaze…
Something in Lady Jane shifted.
"Her," she said.
"Are you sure, madam?" the nurse asked. "This one's… unusual."
Lady Jane's lips curled slightly. "That's exactly why I want her."
And so, Elira—child of fire and storm, born of vampire, lycan, and witch—was taken again, unknowingly, into the arms of fate.
She would be raised in the Delacroix estate, not as a daughter… but as a shadow.
A companion.
A servant in disguise.
Celestine would wear the crown. Elira would carry the burden.
But blood does not forget.
And power, no matter how deeply buried, always rises.
Lady Jane change her name as Seraphine Elira Delacroix.