Chapter 148 ▪︎ Chapter 147 ▪︎ “I hadn’t actually intended to take this.”

A large pickup truck sat idling in the driveway of a two-story suburban home, its headlights illuminating the closed garage door. 

Behind the steering wheel sat a stern-looking middle-aged man, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward as he stared at the house. 

His hands rested against the wheel, occasionally tightening around it, but he made no attempt to turn off the engine.

He had been sitting there for nearly twenty minutes.

The radio played quietly in the background, filling the cabin with reports concerning the increasingly unstable situation throughout the world. 

Normally, he would have listened attentively. 

He'd always considered himself someone who kept informed, particularly when events threatened the safety of his family.

Tonight, however, the broadcast was little more than a distraction.

"International authorities have confirmed additional nuclear detonations in regions affected by the Tide," the host announced. 

"Several governments, unable to defend their cities against the creatures emerging from the oceans, have resorted to the use of nuclear weapons against their own population centers. While most of these detonations involved comparatively low-yield devices, the consequences have been catastrophic."

The man adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

"More troubling still is the precedent being established. For decades, the use of nuclear weapons was regarded as an extraordinary measure, something governments would contemplate only under the most desperate circumstances."

"Yet in the span of a remarkably short period, several nations have demonstrated their willingness to employ such weapons when conventional military responses prove insufficient."

The host paused briefly before continuing.

"Of course, the situation has only become more complicated following the Third Divergence. Elves and witches have appeared throughout the world, introducing two additional supernatural species into an already unstable international environment."

The man glanced toward the second floor of his house.

One bedroom light remained on.

"Interestingly, there appears to be somewhat less public controversy surrounding these newcomers than there was following the appearance of vampires and werewolves." 

"Some analysts attribute this to humanity becoming accustomed to the existence of supernatural beings. Others suggest that the public simply hasn't had enough time to form strong opinions."

A second commentator offered a brief acknowledgment.

"However," the host continued, "the recently leaked Institute files have made one thing abundantly clear. Elves and witches possess abilities that place them far beyond ordinary human beings."

"Although vampires and werewolves are primarily distinguished by their extraordinary physical capabilities, these newer species appear capable of manipulating forces that conventional science cannot yet explain."

The man looked away from the house.

He knew that already.

He'd seen it himself.

"Researchers have used terms such as spirit magic and witchcraft to describe these abilities, but the underlying mechanisms remain largely unknown. The implications for humanity are considerable, particularly when one considers how difficult it has already proven to regulate the activities of the earlier supernatural species."

The host's tone grew more severe.

"And that brings us to Ethan Vale."

The man exhaled slowly.

"Vale was a prominent voice calling for humanity to stand firm against the growing influence of supernatural beings. He repeatedly warned that surrendering authority to creatures possessing overwhelming physical advantages would eventually undermine human civilization."

A faint burst of static interrupted the broadcast.

"Now he's dead. Murdered during a live broadcast by a vampire who apparently decided that his words justified killing him. And despite countless witnesses having watched the incident unfold, the vampire responsible remains free."

The host paused.

"An attempt to arrest her in Oakridge ended with another human death and the withdrawal of the authorities involved. What does that tell us about the future of law enforcement? What does it say when an individual can openly kill someone and then refuse to accept the consequences?"

The second commentator spoke.

"You're suggesting supernatural beings no longer fear punishment?"

"I'm suggesting they understand perfectly well how difficult it is to punish them. Humans are deterred by consequences because we know we're vulnerable. We can be imprisoned, injured, or killed. But what happens when someone possesses the strength to overwhelm the very people responsible for enforcing the law?"

The man stared at his reflection in the windshield.

"Now, following the exposure of the Institute's activities, the Unified Sovereignties appears more unstable than ever. Reports indicate a massive migration of supernatural individuals over the past several hours. Vampires are gathering in unusually large numbers, and authorities have yet to determine whether these movements are coordinated."

The host drew a breath.

"We are witnessing a fundamental shift in the balance of power. Humanity needs to decide how it intends to respond before that decision is made for us."

The man reached toward the radio and turned it off.

Silence settled inside the truck, broken only by the steady rumble of its engine.

He looked toward the house again.

The bedroom light was still on.

He knew his daughter was waiting for him.

He knew she'd probably been watching the driveway ever since he'd returned from work. 

She'd always done that when she was younger, occasionally running downstairs before he even had time to remove his shoes.

The memory made his expression tighten.

He closed his eyes.

He wanted to go inside.

He wanted to sit down at the kitchen table, ask how her day had been, and pretend that everything was normal.

But he couldn't.

Not yet.

Because the person waiting upstairs looked nothing like the daughter he remembered.

And every time he thought about walking through the front door, he found himself wondering whether he'd recognize her if she hadn't spoken to him first.

He lowered his head, resting his forehead against the steering wheel.

He was ashamed of that thought.

But knowing it was shameful didn't make it disappear.

Upstairs, the curtains shifted.

A young woman stood beside the bedroom window, gazing down at the truck parked in the driveway. 

Her long hair fell across her shoulders, framing a face of extraordinary beauty. 

Her features possessed an almost unnatural refinement, and her figure had changed so dramatically that even the proportions of her body seemed unlike anything her mother could remember.

She was beautiful.

Almost impossibly so.

Yet there was something unmistakably eerie about her appearance.

Her eyes retained ordinary white sclera, but the irises and pupils had become a single, uniform black, without any visible distinction between them. 

The darkness gave her gaze an unsettling quality, particularly when she stared without blinking.

At the moment, however, those eyes were filled with sorrow.

She watched her father's truck for several seconds before lowering her gaze.

A gentle hand settled against her back.

"It's okay, sweetheart."

Her mother stood beside her, wearing a tired but affectionate expression.

"Your father just needs time. He's had a lot to process, and you know how stubborn he can be. Once he's had a chance to understand everything, he'll realize you're still his daughter."

The witch exhaled heavily.

"He won't even look at me."

Her voice was soft, carrying much of the same familiar cadence her mother remembered, although there was something subtly different about it now.

"When we're in the same room, he finds something else to do. If I try talking to him, he answers without looking at my face. And now he's been sitting outside for almost half an hour."

She looked toward the driveway again.

"Mom?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Does Dad hate me?"

Her mother felt something tighten painfully in her chest.

She looked at the young woman standing beside her.

There was no denying how much her daughter had changed. Her face was different, her body was different, and even the way she moved possessed a peculiar grace that hadn't existed before. 

She was more beautiful than anyone her mother could remember seeing, even among the actresses and models who appeared on television.

If she'd encountered this woman on the street, she might never have recognized her.

And that was perhaps the most frightening part.

Her daughter was standing directly in front of her, speaking with the same familiar tenderness, remembering the same childhood experiences, and looking at her with the same longing for reassurance.

Yet she no longer looked like the person her mother remembered.

Her mother moved closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"No," she answered firmly. "Your father doesn't hate you."

The witch looked down.

"Then why won't he talk to me?"

"Because he's frightened, and he doesn't know what to do with that fear."

Her mother gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

"That doesn't make it right. But it doesn't mean he stopped loving you."

The young woman remained quiet.

Her mother continued, "You're still my daughter. Even if you don't look the same anymore, even if you don't use the name we gave you when you were born. None of that changes who you are to me."

The witch's expression softened.

She had begun using the name Mirelle after her transformation.

Or perhaps begun using wasn't quite the right description.

The name had come to her with a peculiar sense of familiarity, as though it had always belonged to her and she'd simply forgotten it until now. 

Speaking it felt natural. Hearing someone address her by it felt right in a way she couldn't entirely explain.

But she hadn't forgotten her old name.

She remembered hearing her mother call it across the house when dinner was ready. 

She remembered her father using it when he was annoyed with her, and the way he'd sometimes shortened it when he was feeling affectionate.

Those memories hadn't disappeared.

"I like my new name," Mirelle admitted quietly. "It feels like mine. Like it's what I'm supposed to be called."

Her mother nodded.

"I know."

"But I still love my old one."

"Then you don't have to stop loving it."

Mirelle turned toward her mother and embraced her briefly, resting her cheek against her shoulder.

"Thank you, Mom."

Her mother returned the hug.

For a few moments, neither spoke.

Then Mirelle pulled away and looked toward the window again.

The truck remained in the driveway.

Her mother followed her gaze, and a trace of frustration crossed her face before she concealed it.

"I'll go downstairs and see if he's coming in."

Mirelle nodded.

"Okay."

Her mother squeezed her shoulder one last time before leaving the room.

The bedroom door closed softly behind her.

Mirelle remained beside the window for several moments, then moved toward the edge of her bed and sat down. 

Her hands rested neatly in her lap, and her black irises remained fixed upon the truck outside.

She could still see her father's silhouette through the windshield.

He hadn't moved.

Mirelle lowered her eyelids slightly.

She understood that her appearance frightened people. 

She'd seen the way strangers reacted to her eyes, the hesitation that followed their initial fascination with her beauty. 

Even people who found her attractive often seemed uncertain whether they should approach her.

She could tolerate that.

Strangers didn't know her.

But her father did.

Or at least, he had.

Mirelle wondered how long it would take before he could look at her again without seeing a stranger.

She leaned back slightly, her expression becoming unreadable.

Outside, the truck's engine continued to rumble.

And the distance between father and daughter remained no greater than a few dozen feet.

───

A soldier screamed as his body was violently hurled across the room.

He struck the wall with a sickening thud, the impact cracking the plaster before he collapsed to the floor. 

His scream ended abruptly, and he lay motionless among the scattered debris.

Several feet away, another soldier was already sprawled across the ground, his weapon lying beyond his reach.

A petite witch stepped lightly over his body.

Her long white hair flowed down her back, interrupted by vivid red accents that caught the dim light whenever she moved. 

She wore an elaborate outfit that seemed almost absurdly delicate compared to the violence surrounding her, and her eyes possessed the distinctive appearance shared by witches.

She wiped a smear of blood from her fingers.

Then she hummed.

The sound was soft and pleasant, entirely at odds with the terrified expressions of the armed men facing her.

"OPEN FIRE!" one of the soldiers shouted.

He never finished raising his rifle.

His body stiffened, and his face flushed a deep crimson. A strangled noise escaped his throat as thin cuts began opening across his exposed skin, first along his cheeks and hands, then across his neck.

The wounds multiplied.

Within seconds, his uniform was soaked, and his body had become a horrifying mass of red. 

He collapsed to the floor, writhing as blood seeped through the fabric.

The remaining soldiers stumbled backward.

"What the hell is she?!"

"Get back!"

"RETREAT!"

The white-haired witch tilted her head.

"Oh?"

She extended one hand.

A soft ticking sound filled the room.

It resembled the movement of a clock, although no clock was visible, and the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The soldiers slowed.

Their movements became increasingly sluggish, as though the air surrounding them had thickened into something almost solid. 

One man tried to turn toward the doorway, but his foot remained suspended above the floor.

Another attempted to pull the trigger of his rifle.

His finger wouldn't move.

The ticking grew slower.

And then the soldiers stopped entirely.

The witch lowered her hand.

For several seconds, she simply admired her work.

Then she clasped both hands behind her back and skipped toward the nearest soldier.

"My, my. That worked rather nicely."

She leaned forward, examining his frozen expression.

His eyes remained wide with terror, and although his body was completely motionless, she could see the frantic movement of his gaze.

How interesting.

She stepped around him, inspecting another soldier whose mouth remained open in the middle of an unfinished scream.

"I was only trying something, you know."

Her voice was almost languid.

"Just a little experiment. Nothing particularly important."

She straightened and sighed.

"But then you all started attacking me."

The witch shook her head, her white hair swaying around her shoulders.

"Honestly, how troublesome."

She continued wandering among the frozen soldiers, occasionally leaning closer to examine their faces. 

None could move, and their expressions remained trapped somewhere between terror and disbelief.

Then one of them staggered forward.

The sudden movement caught her attention.

"Oh?"

The soldier had somehow been released from the spell.

He stumbled, nearly falling, before managing to raise his rifle toward her.

The witch tilted her head.

For an instant, nothing happened.

Then the soldier gasped.

His weapon slipped from his fingers, clattering against the floor as both hands flew toward his chest. 

His expression twisted in agony, and he staggered backward, struggling to draw breath.

"W-what—"

He couldn't finish.

His body convulsed, and he collapsed onto his knees before falling forward, motionless.

The witch watched him with a faint smile.

Then she giggled.

"Oh, dear."

She brought one hand out from behind her back.

Resting in her small palm was a bright red human heart.

It was still beating.

The organ contracted rhythmically, blood slipping between her fingers and dripping onto the floor beneath her.

The witch regarded it with obvious fascination.

"I hadn't actually intended to take this."

She turned it slightly, examining its shape.

"But then I thought about it, and I decided you probably wouldn't be using it anymore."

She smiled sweetly.

"So I thought it would be fine if I borrowed it."

The frozen soldiers stared at the heart.

Their eyes moved frantically, following the organ as she raised it closer to her face.

The witch appeared entirely unconcerned by their horror.

Instead, she began tracing symbols across its surface with one finger.

The markings glimmered faintly, forming delicate patterns that shifted and rearranged themselves as she worked. 

Each symbol seemed to sink beneath the organ's surface, leaving behind a brief shimmer before disappearing.

The heart continued beating.

She hummed thoughtfully, adding another mark.

Then another.

Finally, she clapped her free hand against her wrist in delight.

"Perfect!"

The heart pulsed once, its surface briefly illuminated by a faint red glow.

The witch smiled proudly at her work before turning toward the remaining soldiers.

"Now then."

She tapped a bloodstained finger against her cheek.

"I don't think witches should be bullied by humans."

Her expression became thoughtful.

"Do you?"

No answer came.

The soldiers could only stare at her, their eyes moving desperately while the rest of their bodies remained completely immobile.

The witch waited.

Then she frowned.

"How rude."

She tilted her head.

"Oh, right. You can't talk."

A small giggle escaped her lips.

"How silly of me."

She wandered toward the doorway, where another witch stood watching the scene with a mixture of relief and uneasiness.

The second witch was beautiful, even by the extraordinary standards of their species. 

Her long dark hair contained delicate flickers of white, resembling stars scattered across a night sky. 

Her eyes had the same uniformly black irises and pupils as the petite witch, although the concern in her expression was unmistakable.

She had been fleeing those men before the white-haired witch appeared.

The soldiers had pursued her through several streets, ignoring her attempts to explain that she hadn't harmed anyone. 

She'd tried to escape without fighting, unwilling to risk injuring them, but their persistence had eventually left her cornered.

Then the little witch had arrived.

And everything had changed.

The white-haired witch gestured toward her.

"I know you were only following orders," she told the soldiers, her tone becoming almost sympathetic. "Really, I do."

She paused.

"But..."

Her finger shifted toward the dark-haired woman.

"Look at her."

The soldiers' eyes followed the gesture.

"She's a witch. Just like me."

The white-haired witch's smile faded slightly.

"And you were chasing her around with those horrible weapons."

She shook her head.

"That's not good. Not good at all."

The dark-haired witch stepped forward.

"I'm okay."

The smaller witch turned toward her.

"Oh?"

"I'm not hurt. You arrived before they could do anything."

She glanced toward the motionless soldiers.

"And... you don't need to kill the rest of them."

The white-haired witch considered the request.

For a moment, she seemed genuinely uncertain whether it mattered.

Then she shrugged.

"Well, I suppose I don't feel like killing all of them either."

She looked down at the heart still beating in her hand.

"Although I do rather like this."

The dark-haired witch wisely chose not to comment.

The smaller witch raised her free hand.

The ticking returned.

At first, it was almost impossibly slow.

Tick.

A pause.

Tick.

Then the rhythm accelerated.

The frozen soldiers began moving again, their bodies jerking awkwardly as the spell released them. 

Several immediately lost their balance and collapsed to the floor, while others stumbled backward, desperately trying to regain control of their limbs.

One man fell onto his hands and knees.

Another dropped his rifle.

For a moment, nobody seemed capable of understanding that they were free.

Then the first soldier scrambled upright.

"RUN!"

The others needed no encouragement.

They fled toward the exit, abandoning weapons and equipment as they stumbled over one another in their desperation to escape. 

Their boots pounded against the floor, and within seconds, the room had emptied of every soldier still capable of running.

None looked back.

How could they possibly defeat something that could freeze them whenever it pleased?

They hadn't even understood what the witch was doing.

One moment they'd been preparing to retreat, and the next their bodies had become prisons, leaving them completely helpless while she wandered among them.

If she'd wanted to kill every one of them, she could have.

There would have been no opportunity to fight back.

No chance to escape.

The realization followed them into the night.

Inside the ruined building, the white-haired witch watched the doorway with a satisfied expression.

"Much better."

She turned toward the dark-haired woman and placed her hands proudly against her hips.

"You can follow me!"

The other witch blinked.

"Follow you?"

"Mhm!"

The petite witch lifted her chin.

"I'll protect you!"

The dark-haired woman looked at her.

The little witch barely reached five feet in height, and her delicate appearance made her seem almost fragile. 

Her long white hair framed an impossibly beautiful face, and the red accents woven through it gave her an oddly playful appearance.

It was difficult to reconcile that image with the destruction surrounding them.

Yet the dark-haired witch had witnessed everything.

She knew perfectly well that the woman standing before her was anything but helpless.

"Thank you," she said softly.

The smaller witch smiled.

"For what?"

"For saving my life."

"Oh!"

The white-haired witch looked delighted.

"You're very welcome!"

The dark-haired woman hesitated before continuing.

"I wouldn't mind accompanying you. Although we might have different destinations."

The smaller witch considered that for a moment.

Then she smiled again.

"That's perfectly fine!"

She clasped her hands behind her back, apparently having forgotten that one of them still held a human heart.

"Until then, we can protect each other."

The dark-haired witch smiled faintly.

"Protect each other?"

"Of course! That's what friends are for, isn't it?"

She stepped toward the doorway, her white hair swaying gently behind her.

"And we can see the world together! There are so many interesting places now, and I've barely had a chance to explore any of them."

The dark-haired witch followed, glancing once toward the bodies left behind.

She didn't know much about her rescuer.

Not her history, not where she intended to travel, and certainly not the full extent of her abilities.

But she had felt something extraordinary when the little witch arrived.

A presence unlike that of any other witch she'd encountered.

It was difficult to describe, an impression of immense depth concealed beneath an otherwise ordinary appearance. 

The sensation was faint now, but it had been unmistakable when the white-haired woman used her magic.

The smaller witch glanced over her shoulder.

"Are you coming?"

The dark-haired woman looked toward her.

"Yes."

"Wonderful!"

They stepped out into the darkness.

The streets beyond the building were quiet, illuminated by scattered streetlights and the distant glow of buildings that still possessed electricity. 

Somewhere far away, a vehicle accelerated rapidly, its engine fading into the night.

The white-haired witch walked with a light, almost skipping gait.

The other followed at a more measured pace.

After several moments, the dark-haired woman spoke.

"I don't think I ever asked your name."

The smaller witch turned toward her.

"Oh! You're right!"

She smiled brightly.

"I'm Eulalie."

The dark-haired woman repeated the name softly.

"Eulalie."

"Mhm! And you?"

"Nyssara."

Eulalie clasped her hands together.

"What a lovely name!"

Nyssara smiled.

"Thank you."

Eulalie turned forward again, humming contentedly as they continued down the street.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Nyssara glanced toward Eulalie's hand.

"Um..."

"Hm?"

"Are you going to keep carrying that?"

Eulalie looked down.

The heart was still beating.

"Oh!"

She giggled.

"I almost forgot."

She raised her hand and rotated her wrist.

A brief flash of light illuminated her fingers.

The heart vanished.

Eulalie examined her now-empty palm, apparently satisfied, before clasping her hands behind her back once more.

"There we go!"

Nyssara watched her for a moment.

"Where did it go?"

Eulalie smiled.

"Somewhere safe."

Nyssara considered asking what that meant.

Then she decided against it.

The two witches continued walking into the darkness, their footsteps gradually fading along the deserted street.

Eulalie hummed happily, already wondering what interesting things they might encounter next.

And beside her, Nyssara found herself smiling despite everything that had happened.

For the first time since her transformation, she no longer felt quite so alone.