Chapter 5: The Anatomy of Control

The gala was a week away. For St. Valen’s, it was a ritual. For Althea, it was a countdown.

His confession in the corridor hadn’t been a moment; it had been a vow.

A reckless, whispered promise of a shared ruin. For three days, Althea had clutched that promise, a secret warming ember deep in her chest, a shelter against the cold. It left her aching. Hungry. He had seen her monster, mirrored it with his own, and he hadn’t run.

Until he did.

His flight from the library—the raw, undeniable horror on his face as he’d fled from their “almost-kiss”—had been a retraction. It was a douse of ice-cold water that didn’t just extinguish the fragile warmth. It turned it to ash.

He was ashamed of the fall.

And by running, he’d just told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was a fool for wanting it too.

The anger from that humiliation was a low, bitter burn. And then, her father’s email.

The blade twisted. Her family was coming. An inspection.

The week became a blur of hollowed-out panic. Her magic, that volatile, screaming part of her, had gone quiet. Not calm. Ominously quiet.

It was a predator, coiled in her gut, watching, waiting.

She tried to train. Not her power—she was too afraid to touch that. She was training her mind.

She was in her dorm room, Umbra’s head on her lap, a single, unlit candle on the desk. She was trying to meditate, to find the unbreakable composure her father demanded.

Hinga, apat… Labas, anim…

But her mind wouldn’t clear. It was filled with him. His hands on the shelf, framing her face. His thumb, a searing brand on her jaw. His voice, a raw, broken plea: “Because if you are one, too… then I don’t… I don’t know how to stop.” And then… the shame on his face as he ran.

Her breath hitched. The candle flame, which had been dormant, suddenly whooshed into a bright, angry, three-inch-high flame. Umbra growled, a low, warning rumble. Althea stared at it, her heart hammering. He was ashamed. Ashamed of the monster he’d seen.

Her frustration triggered the memory, a knife’s edge.

The air is not cold. It is a physical, wet, suffocating weight. The Sombra estate in the Philippines. The pavilion is open to the jungle, and the air is so thick with the scent of champaca and ylang-ylang, it’s not sweet—it’s narcotic. A cloying, funereal rot that sticks to the back of the throat. It’s the smell of their power.

She is fourteen. Kneeling on a petate mat, the woven straw digging sharp, painful lines into her shins.

Beside her, Odesa is a perfect, impassive sculpture, her breathing even.

Hiraya is trembling, her eyes squeezed shut, a single bead of sweat tracking her temple.

Their lola, the matriarch of the Sombra line, stands before them immaculate in white. She doesn’t watch them. She judges them. Beside her, the man they’d flown from Siquijor. A hired mambabaran, his face a mask of ritual scars. He is a tool.

He holds a small, crude wooden effigy, no larger than her hand, bound in red thread. He begins to drone—a low, guttural, insect-like sound that seems to come from the earth itself.

It doesn’t hit her. It seeps in.

It’s not pain. It’s a violation. A sudden, vile warmth that blooms in her stomach and crawls up her throat. It wants. A desperate, crawling, unbearable need. Her eyes fix on the effigy in the man’s hand. She loves it. She needs it. She would die for it. She would kill for it. The feeling is so strong, so falsely pure, that it makes her want to vomit.

This is a Sombra ritual. This is the lesson. “This… is gayuma,” their lola’s voice cuts through the haze, cold as winter. “A child’s magic. A tool for the weak. You are a Sombra. You are not ruled by your heart. You are not ruled by your need. You are ruled by your will.”

She taps her cane on the stone floor. A sharp, cracking sound. “You do not feel this, Althea. You observe it. See it for the lie that it is. And erase it.”

Althea is choking on it. The love is so strong, so vile. She can feel her own magic, the monster inside, rising up—not to erase, but to destroy the feeling.

“I… I can’t…” she gasps. “It’s corrupting.”

“Pathetic,” Lola hisses. “You let it in. You are a child, letting a stray dog into the house.” She nods to the mambabarang. “Again.”

He chants. The drone gets louder. The wave hits again, not as a seduction, but as a drowning. Althea is suffocating in the false, honey-thick adoration. She screams.”

The monster inside her, the raw seismic power that hates being controlled, doesn’t observe the false love. It attacks it.

There is a sound like a thunderclap. The air tears. The wooden effigy in the mambabarang’s hand doesn’t just crack. It explodes into a thousand splinters. The man is thrown back, his chant cut off by a yelp of terror. The pallid scent of flowers was burned away by the sharp, metallic tang of her magic and the smell of burnt sugar and live wire.

Silence. Hiraya is sobbing. Odesa hasn’t moved. The mambabarang is clutching his hand, where a splinter is embedded in his palm. Lola looks at her gasping, terrified granddaughter.

Her face is a mask of cold, profound fury. “You did not master it,” she says, her voice a low, furious hiss. “You broke it. You are a hammer, Althea. Not a queen. You are merciless, yes, but you are not impassive. You are a failure. Again.”

Althea gasped, back in her room. The candle flame snuffed itself out, leaving a wisp of acrid smoke. “Feel nothing,” she whispered, her voice shaking. That’s what Noah has done. He’d felt in the library the want, the need… and he’d erased it. He had the control he never did.

She had to get out. “Come, Umbra,” she muttered. “Let’s go for a walk.”

The courtyard was a performance. She was trying to breathe, with Umbra at her heel, a silent ninety-pound guardian. But he was on edge, his head on a swivel, sensing her instability.

“You look like hell, Sombra.”

Luca was lounging on a bench, a book open in his lap. His invasive grace was palpable, a drop in pressure in the air around him.

Umbra didn’t just growl. He moved, placing his body between Althea and Luca, a low, deep threat vibrating in his chest.

Luca didn’t flinch. He smiled, his eyes on the dog, not her. He slowly, deliberately, offered his hand, palm down. “It’s alright, boy. I’m not the one who hurt her.” Umbra sniffed, the growl still in his throat. He did not take the bait.

“Smart dog,” Luca purred, his eyes finally lifting to hers. They were sharp, analytical, and amused.

“So, he did this to you? Laurent? I saw his little… performance… at the fountain. The righteous, protective anger.”

Luca’s gaze raked over her, noting the shadows under her eyes and the tension in her jaw.

“Let me guess,” he said, his voice a low, intimate conspiracy. “He finally got you alone. Lost that perfect, icy composure he prizes so much. And now he’s so disgusted with himself, so twisted in his own guilt, he can’t even look at you.”

Althea’s breath hitched. It wasn’t a question. It was a diagnosis. He hadn’t seen a thing. He just knew them, knew Noah.

“Ah,” Luca’s smile widened. He’d hit a mark. “Right on the money. He’s ashamed he wanted you. He’s ashamed he’s not the saint he pretends to be. So he’s put the mask back on.”

He stood, his predatory grace unfolding as he took a step closed.

Umbra tensed. “How does it feel, Althea?” He whispered. “To be a sin he’s repenting for?”

She couldn’t breathe. “Go to hell, Luca.”

He’s the one in hell, darling.” Luca smiled. “I’m just offering a way out.”

She pulled Umbra and walked away, her heart hammering, Luca’s laughter following her.

She found a secluded path near the woods, her mind a warzone. A scene he’s repenting for.

“Althea.”

She spun. It was Noah. He looked like a ghost. He was in a grey Henley, his hair a mess. He looked… guilty. Exhausted. Broken.

Before she could speak, Umbra did the impossible. He whined. The dog, who had been a wall of muscle against Luca, trotted forward. He didn’t see a threat. He saw pain. He saw the same broken energy he felt from her. He nudged his cold, wet nose into Noah’s outstretched, trembling hand. Noah sank his fingers into the dog’s ruff, his eyes closing for a brief second. Althea was stunned.

“He… he likes you,” she whispered, her voice hollow.

“He’s… good,” Noah rasped, his eyes finally finding hers. He looked wrecked. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to tell her she wasn’t the monster. He wanted to tell her he was. But he couldn’t. His guilt, his shame… his training… wouldn’t let him.

“I… “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “For… in the library. I shouldn’t have. I… I lost control.” He was apologizing for the heat. For the one real moment they’d had. Luca was right. It was a gut punch. Allthea felt the blood drain from her face.

“So that’s it,” she said, her voice dead. “It was a ‘slip.’ A mistake.”

“Althea, I—"

“Don’t,” she said, her voice shaking. “Just… don’t.”

She whistled for Umbra. The dog looked torn but came to her side. She walked away, leaving him standing there, his apology having just become the final blade in her back.

Interlude: Ricardo Sombra’s Office

Miles away, in a pristine office of glass and steel, Ricardo Sombra sat at a black desk. A holo-screen shimmered, showing the faces of two Sombra elders, their features cold and ancient.

“… The reports from St. Valen’s are… concerning,” one of the Elders said, his voice a dry rustle. “We can feel the instability even from here. A public exposure is inevitable.”

“We knew she was powerful, but this is more than we could have ever predicted,” Ricardo said, his voice flat. “I haven’t seen anything like it. She’s bound to the old, dark magic.”

“Which is why her fealty must be to the family,” the second Elder said. “This gala is the first test. Hiraya will assess her. But you, Ricardo… you must ensure her loyalty. Power like that, untethered… is catastrophic. Power like that, ours… is preservation.” Ricardo’s face was a mask of cold ambition.

“It will be.”

The day before the gala, Althea was in her dorm. She was a wreck. She was hollowed out. Noah was ashamed of her. Luca lurks like a predator stalking its prey. And her family was coming. She was a bomb, and her own family was coming to light the fure.

A light, rhythmic knock. Althea opened the door to see her ate, Hiraya. The middle sister. The ‘gentle’ one. She was beautiful but her softness is a lure, her eyes holding the secrets of a thousand pasts. She was carrying a long, black, impossibly expensive garment bag.

“Hello, bunso.” Hiraya smiled, but her smile did not reach her eyes. “I brought your armor.”

She stepped inside. The room was a mess of emotional chaos. The air was thick, static, and wrong. Hiraya’s smile faded.

“Althea,” she said, her voice suddenly sharp but you can hear the concern she has for her little sister. “What…?” She reached out, her fingers brushing Althea’s arm to move her.

The moment she toucher her, Hiraya’s eyes went wide. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath.

It wasn’t a vision. It was a floor. She saw all of it. Felt all of it. The corridor. Noah’s desperate plea. The library. His hands framing her face. Her hands seizing his shoulders. The need. The desire. She felt all of it. The monster inside Althea. The raw seismic power that had answered him, that had wanted him. The power that was now poised, screaming, and boiling under her sister’s skin.

Hiraya ripped her hand back as if she’s been burned, her own face pale. She looked at Althea with a new terrifying pity.

“Oh, bunso,” she whispered, her voice shaking, her clairvoyant’s eyes seeing the catastrophe that was already in motion.

“What… what have you done?”