Lady Marcelline sat alone in the dimly lit grand hall, swirling a glass of deep red wine between her fingers. The fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows across her sharp, angular features, highlighting the silver-grey strands of her hair that framed her pale face. She sipped the wine slowly, savoring the taste—rich, full-bodied, a wine that had been aged for centuries, much like her. The quiet of the room felt heavy, thick with the weight of memories long buried, memories that now resurfaced, unbidden, as they so often did when she was alone.
Her thoughts drifted back to another life, a life in a world far removed from the opulence of Valarian nobility and the power she wielded as the head of the Valcrest family. It had been a life in the soot-choked streets of Victorian England, where she had once been a child—a nameless girl with no family, no fortune, and no future. She had been just another orphan, left to fend for herself in the gutters, scavenging for food, evading the law, and hiding from those who preyed on the weak.
She took another sip of her wine, her gaze distant as the memories unfolded in her mind’s eye.
She had been only eleven years old, a child with nothing to her name, when death had first come for her. It was a cold, rainy night, the kind of night that left the streets slick with mud and filth. She remembered the sound of footsteps, the heavy boots of the man who had grabbed her in the alley. There had been no time to scream, no time to struggle. She had been yanked into the shadows, her small body thrown against the cold stone wall. She remembered the sickening thud of her head hitting the ground, the way the world had spun as her vision darkened.
And then, nothing. No pain, no fear. Just cold, deep and eternal.
Death should have been the end, she knew that. But it hadn’t been. Instead, she had awoken in another place, a place beyond the world she had known—a place of darkness and void, where the breath of the Leviathan had whispered to her, drawing her back from death’s embrace. The voice had been soft, seductive, promising power, purpose. She hadn’t understood then, but she had accepted the offer, grasping at the chance for life again, any life. And when she had returned, she had not been the same.
The girl who had died in that alley was gone, replaced by something else—a Void Borne, touched by the essence of the Leviathan. She had crawled from the shadows, her body no longer cold, no longer weak. She had been reborn, stronger, more resilient, but with a hunger she didn’t yet understand.
Her rise from that moment had been one of careful manipulation, of finding her way into a new life. It had been fate, perhaps, that she was mistaken for the missing daughter of a wealthy noble family, the Valcrests. They had taken her in, this little girl who resembled their lost child so closely, though she had not been her. But the Valcrests had been desperate to restore their bloodline, to bring home the child they thought they had lost. And Marcelline—cunning even at that young age—had seen the opportunity and seized it.
She had played the part perfectly. The grieving mother had embraced her, showering her with love, and the father, stern but not unkind, had accepted her as his own. They had never questioned her, never doubted that she was the daughter they had longed to see again. And in time, she had become Marcelline Valcrest, a noble by name and title, though in truth, she was still the orphan girl who had died on the streets.
But as she grew older, her powers began to manifest, powers she kept hidden from those around her. The dark tendrils of the void whispered to her, guiding her actions, feeding her ambition. She had learned to manipulate, to control, to bend the will of others to her own. By the time she reached adulthood, she had woven herself so deeply into the Valcrest family’s legacy that no one dared question her place.
Her true nature—her connection to the Leviathan—remained her most closely guarded secret. The power she wielded came not from noble birth, but from the void itself, a force that had granted her strength beyond mortal comprehension. She had never revealed what she truly was, not to the Valcrest family, not to the council, not to anyone. They all believed her to be nothing more than a formidable woman of noble blood, cunning and resourceful, but still human.
She chuckled bitterly, setting the wine glass down on the polished oak table beside her. Human. The word had become almost laughable to her now. She had been playing that role for so long, but she was no more human than the shadows that danced along the walls of her grand estate. She was something else entirely. A creature of darkness, a conduit for the Leviathan’s will.
Her gaze shifted to the window, where the moons hung low in the sky, their pale light casting an eerie glow over the city of Valarian below. The moon reminded her of the first time she had seen Ayla.
Ayla had been only a child then, no older than six, when Lady Marcelline first laid eyes on her. Even at that tender age, she had been remarkable—strikingly beautiful, with long blonde hair that shimmered like gold and those impossible eyes, one red as fire, the other blue as ice. It was the first thing Marcelline had noticed. A dual affinity—fire and ice—two opposing forces bound within one small vessel. The sheer potential of such power had left Marcelline breathless.
But it wasn’t just the power that had captivated her. It was something deeper, something primal in Ayla’s spirit—her defiance, her strength. Even as a child, Ayla had exuded a fierce independence, a willfulness that most would have found troublesome. But to Marcelline, it was a beacon, a signal that this girl was destined for greatness, destined to become something far more than a simple child of noble birth. She had known in that moment that she had to have her. And so, she had taken her.
Marcelline’s fingers tightened around her wine glass as the memory of what followed came flooding back. The details had always haunted her, no matter how deeply she tried to bury them beneath layers of ambition and control. It hadn’t been clean. It hadn’t been simple.
The plan had seemed straightforward at the time. Ayla’s family would die in a tragic accident—an unfortunate fire, perhaps, or a robbery gone wrong. Something quick, something that would leave no trace of her involvement. But she had been young then, still learning the delicate intricacies of manipulation, still honing the deadly skills that would one day make her feared throughout Valarian. She hadn’t yet understood the importance of choosing the right people to do the job. And the people she had chosen had been sloppy.
It wasn’t a fire that claimed Ayla’s family. It had been something far messier.
The mercenaries she had hired—men who had been sworn to secrecy, their loyalty bought with gold—had been brutal in their execution. Marcelline hadn’t witnessed it herself, but she had heard the reports, whispered in the dead of night by the few spies she had sent to oversee the operation. Ayla’s family hadn’t died quickly, and they certainly hadn’t died quietly.
Her mother had been the first to fall, struck down in the family’s drawing room with a blade meant for stealth, but wielded with savage force. Her father had fought back, as any nobleman would, but his strength had been no match for the hired killers. He had been dispatched in a bloody struggle, his body left twisted and broken on the marble floor. The mess, Marcelline had later learned, had been catastrophic, far from the clean, quiet end she had envisioned.
But it had been Ayla’s brother—young, innocent, barely older than Ayla herself—who had turned the tragedy into something far darker. He had tried to protect Ayla, had thrown himself between her and the men with nothing more than a child’s courage and the desperation of an older brother. The mercenaries had cut him down without hesitation. His blood had stained the floor, pooling around his small frame as Ayla screamed, her voice a mixture of terror and grief that would haunt Marcelline for years.
Ayla had fought. Marcelline could still hear the echo of her screams in the recesses of her mind, the way the child had tried to claw her way to her brother’s side, how she had bitten, scratched, kicked—anything to stop the carnage unfolding before her eyes. It had taken two men to restrain her, to drag her away from the bodies of her family. The emotional scars left behind by that night had cut deeper than any blade, and Marcelline had known, even then, that Ayla would never forget what had happened.
But that was precisely what Marcelline had wanted, wasn’t it? She hated to admit it now, but even then, she had seen how that trauma, that pain, would fuel the deadly fire she intended to forge within the girl. The raw, untamed rage she had seen in Ayla’s eyes that night was the very thing that would make her into the perfect weapon. A weapon Marcelline could wield.
And so, despite the mess, despite the guilt that gnawed at her in the quiet hours of the night, she had pressed forward with her plan. She had taken Ayla in, played the role of the benevolent savior, offering her a home, a future, a new family. Ayla, broken and lost, had clung to her with a desperation that Marcelline had been careful to nurture, knowing that the girl’s dependence would one day transform into unwavering loyalty.
But the truth had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface. Ayla had never suspected that the woman who had raised her, nurtured her, had been responsible for her family’s deaths. She had never known that Marcelline had orchestrated the entire tragedy, that the blood of her mother, father, and brother stained Marcelline’s hands just as surely as it had stained the floors of their home.
Marcelline took another sip of her wine, her throat tightening as the memory of that night played out in her mind. She had told herself, time and time again, that it had been necessary. There had been no other way to claim the child, no other way to ensure that Ayla would grow into the weapon she was destined to become. But the guilt still lingered, a faint shadow that darkened her otherwise flawless plans.
She had raised Ayla well, trained her in the ways of magic, in the art of destruction. The girl had blossomed under her tutelage, growing into a force of nature—a being of fire and ice, two elements that should have torn her apart, but instead made her stronger. Ayla’s dual affinity was unparalleled, her mastery over both fire and ice a testament to the power that Marcelline had seen in her all those years ago. She was the perfect weapon, honed to lethal precision, her will bound to Marcelline’s through the Leviathan’s Covenant.
But despite all her control, despite the years of training and manipulation, there was something about Ayla that troubled Marcelline. It had been subtle at first—a growing sense of independence, a quiet defiance that flickered in her eyes during their training sessions. But it had grown stronger over time, and now, with the arrival of Paola Juderías, the fallen star who had entered their lives unexpectedly, Marcelline could feel that defiance burning brighter than ever.
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Ayla’s connection to Paola was dangerous. Marcelline knew it, felt it in the pit of her stomach like a stone weighing her down. Paola was unpredictable, a force of chaos that threatened to unravel everything Marcelline had built. The girl had disrupted Ayla’s carefully controlled existence, had awakened something in her that Marcelline had thought she had buried long ago—emotion, affection, love.
Love was weakness. Marcelline had learned that lesson long ago. It was the very thing that had driven Ayla’s brother to his death, the thing that had caused Ayla’s family to fall apart in that blood-soaked night. And now, it was the thing that threatened to tear Ayla away from Marcelline’s grasp.
She couldn’t allow that. Ayla was hers, bound by the Covenant, forged in the fires of loss and pain. Marcelline had spent years shaping her, perfecting her, turning her into the deadliest weapon anyone had ever seen. She had sacrificed too much to let Paola take that away from her.
But as much as she hated to admit it, Marcelline could feel Ayla slipping through her fingers. The connection between Ayla and Paola was growing stronger by the day, and Marcelline knew that soon, Ayla would be forced to choose between her loyalty to her adoptive mother and the growing affection she felt for the fallen star.
Marcelline sighed, setting her glass down on the table beside her. She knew what was coming, knew that Ayla would soon have to face a choice that would define her future. And despite the Covenant, despite the power that bound Ayla to her will, Marcelline wasn’t entirely sure which choice Ayla would make.
The truth was, Ayla’s defiance had always been part of her. It was what had drawn Marcelline to her in the first place, what had made her believe that the girl could become something truly extraordinary. But now, that same defiance threatened to undo everything.
She sighed, running her fingers through her silver-grey hair, the weight of the future pressing down on her. She had seen what was to come, had written it in the pages of the Leviathan’s Ledger. Ayla would have to face a choice, and Marcelline knew that, in the end, the contract would bind her to its will. But there was a part of her, a small part buried deep within the layers of manipulation and control, that regretted what was about to unfold.
She had never intended to grow attached to Ayla. She had taken her for her power, for the potential she had seen in her as a child. But over the years, something had shifted. She had come to care for the girl, though she would never admit it aloud. Ayla had become more than just a tool, more than just a weapon. She was... something else. Something Marcelline didn’t fully understand.
But it was too late for regrets now. The wheels had already been set in motion. Paola’s fate was sealed, and so too was Ayla’s. The Festival of Breath would soon begin, and when it did, all the careful planning Marcelline had done would finally come to fruition. The contracts would be fulfilled, the Leviathan’s power would be unleashed, and she would claim her place as the true ruler of Valarian.
Marcelline rose from her seat, moving to the large window that overlooked the city. She stood there for a long time, watching as the lights of the city flickered in the distance, the moons casting their pale glow over the landscape. Her reflection stared back at her in the glass, her face as cold and unyielding as ever, but inside, the storm of memories and emotions churned.
The girl who had died in the streets of Victorian England was gone, replaced by the woman who now ruled from the shadows, the woman who had manipulated her way to the top of Valarian’s elite. She had become something more than mortal, something tied to the Leviathan’s will, but there were times, in the stillness of the night, when she wondered if she had lost something along the way.
She turned away from the window, her thoughts heavy with what was to come. The day after tomorrow, the Festival would begin, and with it, the final act of her plan would unfold. Ayla would do what needed to be done. She would obey the contract, bound as she was to Marcelline’s will.
And in the end, Marcelline would win. She always did.
But as she returned to her desk and picked up the glass of wine, the taste suddenly seemed bitter, as though the weight of her choices had finally begun to seep into the very essence of who she was. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to wonder what might have been—what kind of life she could have had if she had never died in that alley, if she had never made that pact with the Leviathan.
But it was only a fleeting thought. She brushed it aside, burying it deep within herself, just as she had buried all her regrets.
Lady Marcelline Valcrest, Harbinger of the Abyss, had no room for such weakness. Not anymore.
***
Paola lay in bed next to Poca, their bodies entwined in the soft morning light that filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the room. Poca’s arms were wrapped loosely around her waist, her soft breath warm against Paola’s bare shoulder. But Paola felt nothing—no warmth, no comfort, just a numbness that had settled deep inside her chest. She stared up at the ceiling, her mind too clouded with questions and uncertainty to find peace in Poca’s touch.
The night before had left her hollow, the weight of everything pressing down on her until she felt like she could barely breathe. The revelations from Yasmin, the connection to something ancient and powerful that she didn’t want or understand—it all felt too big, too overwhelming. And now, here she was, lying in bed with someone who loved her, someone who made her feel safe, but all she could think about was the vast unknown she was being pulled into.
Poca stirred beside her, shifting slightly as she nuzzled closer, but Paola couldn’t bring herself to move. She closed her eyes, willing the numbness to go away, but it clung to her like a shadow, refusing to let her be. She felt detached from everything, like she was floating just outside her body, watching her life from a distance.
When the light in the room grew stronger, signaling the start of a new day, Paola quietly slipped out of bed. Poca murmured something in her sleep, her legs stretching out where Paola had been, but she didn’t wake. Paola stood by the window for a moment, watching the sun climb higher into the sky, then made her way outside.
Without her cloak, as always, Paola’s bare skin was kissed by the morning breeze. The air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed she had just left behind. She stepped into the garden, hoping the simple act of working the soil might help clear her mind. The earth felt familiar beneath her feet, the soft dirt pressing against her skin, grounding her as she moved among the plants. She knelt down and began to work, her hands digging into the soil, her tail swishing absently behind her.
For hours, Paola lost herself in the rhythm of gardening—digging, planting, patting the earth back into place. She didn’t think, didn’t allow her mind to wander too far. The physicality of the task kept her anchored, each movement deliberate and steady. But no matter how hard she tried, the numbness remained, lurking just beneath the surface.
Eventually, after the sun had climbed high enough to warm the earth beneath her, Paola stood up, dusting the dirt from her hands. She stared at the rows of plants she had tended, the neat lines stretching out before her, but there was no sense of satisfaction in the work. Just an emptiness.
She needed to get away. To move. To think.
Without a word, Paola began to walk. She left the garden behind, heading toward the open expanse of land that stretched out beyond Poca’s farm. There was no path, no destination in mind—just the need to move, to be alone with her thoughts. The sandy soil beneath her feet was warm now, the sun casting long shadows across the landscape. Wildflowers dotted the ground, their bright colors standing out against the pale sand. Trees, gnarled and twisted from the wind, grew sparsely along the horizon, and in the distance, the mountains rose up like silent sentinels, watching over the land.
Paola’s tail swished lazily behind her as she walked, her ears twitching at the sounds of birds in the trees and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. As she walked, Paola’s mind began to drift. She thought about the three women back at Poca’s home. Poca, her loving girlfriend, who had been nothing but patient and kind despite Paola’s uncertainty. Yasmin, who had shown an interest in her, though Paola wasn’t sure how to feel about it. And then there was Selene, the mysterious demon woman whose presence still felt like a puzzle Paola couldn’t quite solve.
And then there was Ayla.
A familiar ache settled in Paola’s chest at the thought of her other girlfriend. Ayla, who was miles away with Lady Marcelline, caught up in something Paola didn’t fully understand. She missed her desperately, missed the comfort of Ayla’s presence, the fire in her eyes, the way she made Paola feel grounded even in the midst of chaos. But now, with everything that was happening, with all the questions swirling in her mind, Paola wasn’t sure where she stood anymore. She needed to talk to Ayla, to make sense of everything, but Ayla wasn’t here. She was out of reach.
Paola’s footsteps slowed as she wandered deeper into the wilderness, her eyes scanning the horizon. How had she ended up here? How had her life taken such a wild, unexpected turn? She had been living in Albuquerque, living an ordinary life on Earth, and now... now she was something else. A Fallen Star. Chosen long ago, or so it seemed, to be brought to Udanara.
But why? Why her?
Paola kicked at a small rock, sending it skittering across the sandy soil. She didn’t feel special. She had never felt like someone who was destined for greatness, for some grand purpose. She had just been living her life, trying to get by like anyone else. And yet, here she was, in a world that felt too big, too strange, with people who were looking to her for answers she didn’t have.
The mountains loomed in the distance, their jagged peaks cutting into the sky like teeth. Paola stared at them, her mind a swirl of confusion. She had always prided herself on her independence, on her ability to adapt to any situation, but this—this was different. This was something she couldn’t just fight her way through or laugh off. It was deeper, more profound. It was the weight of an entire world pressing down on her, and she didn’t know how to carry it.
Her tail flicked anxiously behind her as she walked, her steps growing slower, more uncertain. The wind picked up, tugging at her hair, but Paola barely noticed. She was lost in her thoughts, trying to piece together the fragments of her life, trying to make sense of the choices that had brought her here.
She thought about her father, about the life she had left behind in Albuquerque. How ordinary it had all seemed, how disconnected from this strange new reality. And yet, somehow, she had been chosen. Pulled from that life and brought to Udanara, a place filled with gods and titans and forces far beyond her understanding.
But why her? Why had she been chosen, of all people?
Paola stopped walking, her feet sinking slightly into the sandy soil. She stood there for a long moment, staring out at the wildflowers that dotted the landscape, at the trees swaying in the breeze. She felt so small, so insignificant in the face of everything that was happening. The world around her was vast and beautiful, but it felt like a weight on her shoulders, a burden she hadn’t asked for.
She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to be part of some grand cosmic plan. She just wanted to live her life, to love the people she cared about, to find some peace in a world that seemed determined to pull her in every direction at once.
But that wasn’t going to happen, was it?
Paola’s ears twitched as she opened her eyes again, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains. No, she wasn’t just a random being thrown into Udanara. She was something more, something bigger, and whether she liked it or not, she was going to have to face that truth.
Her tail flicked again, matching the restless energy building inside her. She didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know what her role in all of this was supposed to be. But she couldn’t ignore it any longer. The answers wouldn’t come from wandering aimlessly, from trying to forget everything that had been revealed. She had to confront it, had to understand it, even if it terrified her.
Paola turned back toward Poca’s home, the hollow feeling in her chest still present but not as consuming as it had been. She didn’t have all the answers, not yet, but she knew one thing for certain—she couldn’t run from this. She couldn’t bury her head in the sand and hope it all went away.
She had to face it. Whatever "it" was.
With a slow, deep breath, Paola started walking back, her feet pressing into the warm soil as the wind carried the scent of wildflowers through the air. The questions still swirled in her mind, but for now, she would take it one step at a time.