They named her Seraphine Elira Delacroix.
A name heavy with elegance, chosen not out of affection but convenience. Something noble enough to appease curious guests, soft enough to match her appearance, and forgettable enough to never outshine the true daughter of the house—Celestine.
From the moment she arrived at the sprawling Delacroix estate, it was clear: Seraphine was not adopted out of love. She was not welcomed as family.
She was chosen for Celestine.
A pretty doll. A delicate shadow.
Lady Jane Delacroix stood tall and proud on the manor's grand marble steps the day the child arrived—her expression unreadable, her tone sharp.
"She will be Celestine's playmate," Lady Jane said plainly to the servants. "Keep her clean, well-dressed, but not pampered. She is not to forget her place."
It was Nana Espelth, the aged and gentle head maid, who took the infant into her arms.
She was the only warmth Seraphine ever truly knew in her early years.
Nana Espelth wrapped her in soft linens and sang lullabies whispered in forgotten tongues. She brushed Seraphine's hair with reverence and whispered, "There's power in you, little one… but not all power needs to roar."
Seraphine, even as a baby, rarely cried. Her eyes were too alert, her silence too deep. She clutched to Nana's fingers but turned her gaze to the window, always watching the moonlight pour through the glass like it was calling her.
By the age of four, her role was set in stone.
She lived in the west wing, far from Celestine's grand chambers. She wore simpler dresses, made from Celestine's outgrown silks. She wasn't starved, but she was never indulged.
Lady Jane would glance at her during events only to check her posture, her behavior, her obedience.
"Stand beside Celestine, but not too close."
"You're to smile when spoken to, but not laugh too loudly."
"Remember—Celestine is the star. You are… the frame."
Celestine, with her golden hair and aristocratic grace, grew used to the praise and admiration. She was trained in etiquette, music, and courtly speech.
Seraphine watched from the sidelines, mimicking everything in secret.
She taught herself how to dance by repeating Celestine's steps in the empty hallway at night. She learned to read by sneaking books from the library and asking Nana Espelth to help her pronounce the difficult words.
Despite it all—despite the cold glares and the silken chains—Seraphine never forgot the way Nana would kiss her forehead and whisper:
"You are not less than her, child. You are simply… hidden."
As the years passed, the difference between the two girls became clearer—not just in treatment, but in essence.
Celestine shined like the midday sun, bold and brilliant, yet predictable.
Seraphine… glowed like moonlight. Quiet. Cold. Mysterious.
And sometimes, when her emotions flared—when she was hurt, frightened, or furious—candles flickered. The air thickened. People whispered about a strange chill in the room.
Once, when she was seven, she touched a dying rose in the garden—and it bloomed red again.
Lady Jane saw it happen through her window.
The next day, Seraphine was banned from the gardens. Her lessons were reduced to manners and mending, not music or magic. Lady Jane's gaze turned colder.
She wasn't just a playmate anymore. She was a threat.
But Seraphine didn't complain. She kept her head down. Kept her smile soft and her voice quiet. But deep inside, something ancient stirred.
Something waiting.
Because even thorns can grow beneath porcelain skin.
And someday, the girl they treated like a shadow…
Would cast her own light.
The Landon Mansion had never been so quiet.
Not even during the cursed century when Valus slept beneath the moonstone tomb. Not even when the Council placed silencing wards on the halls to smother resistance.
No, this silence… was different.
It was the kind that pressed on your chest like iron. That hovered in doorways like ghosts. That turned every breath into a betrayal of what was gone.
And in that silence, Maika barely moved.
For months, the once-fierce vampire who had burned with vengeance, who had fought to reclaim her son and rewrite destiny, had turned into a statue draped in velvet shadows.
She never left her chamber.
The curtains were drawn shut.
The cradle near the window remained untouched.
That child—the miracle born of three bloodlines, the last hope of a future Maika had dared to dream—was gone.
Taken before she could speak her first word.
And though no body was recovered, Maika had seen the wreckage. Had felt it in her bones the moment the magical seal shattered. Had screamed until her throat bled.
Her daughter was gone.
And no spell, no curse, no Council could change that.
Not this time.
Carl stayed close.
But grief had built a chasm between them.
He sat outside her chamber night after night, too afraid to open the door. Sometimes, he left food that went untouched. Other times, he left letters she never read. But mostly, he sat with his back against the wall, letting the hours bleed.
He was no stranger to pain.
But this… this was a wound no battle could mend.
He had already imagined teaching her how to shift into a wolf without fear. Teaching her to read runes, to ride the wind with her mother's grace. To hold her when nightmares came. To tell her of the moon's sorrow and the stars' secrets.
But now, the nursery was empty.
The lullabies stayed stuck in his throat.
And Maika… his Maika was slipping further away each day.