Chapter 10: The House That Holds Its Breath

The walk from the gallery to the courtyard was too bright, too exposed, and too quiet.

Ricardo’s hand stayed at the small of Althea’s back—a steady pressure that wasn’t force but command. The jacket he wrapped around her was heavy across her shoulders, its warmth a barrier between her skin and the air that had seen too much.

Hiraya and Odesa flanked them like shadows that had learned to take human shape. No one spoke. No one dared step into their path. Students parted at the edges of the hall, uncertain whether they were witnessing a rescue or the prologue to war.

The night outside was cold, the courtyard lit by soft lanterns and the distant sound of violins that still played, oblivious.

The black car waited with its engine humming. Ricardo guided her in and closed the door behind them. The lock clicked with the finality of a sealed vault. The car pulled away before anyone had a chance to breathe.

A long minute passed.

Then Ricardo said, quietly, “Look at me.”

She did.

His expression wasn’t rage. Rage, she would’ve understood. This was worse. A controlled, blistering restraint, the face of a man calculating consequences before the world could collapse beneath them.

“How long,” he asked, “has your magic been slipping its leash?”

Althea swallowed. “A few days.”

His jaw tensed once. “Were you going to tell anyone?”

“I didn’t want to give you another problem,” she said, voice small.

“A Beacon losing containment is not a ‘problem.’” His voice stayed quiet, which was the only reason she didn’t flinch. “It’s a crisis.”

She turned toward the window, the city lights smearing into a blur of gold. Her palm throbbed from where glass had embedded itself. Her cheek burned. Her magic pressed under her skin like a creature clawing for escape.

Ricardo’s voice softened, barely.

“Althea, listen to me.”

She kept staring forward.

“You nearly detonated in a crowded room. If you had, we wouldn’t be discussing a single assault tonight. We would be counting casualties.”

She closed her eyes. Guilt—and something darker—curled inside her.

Hiraya finally spoke, her voice fragile. “Papa… she was trying so hard.”

“I know,” he said. Not tenderness. Recognition.

The car turned through private gates. Armed security bowed as they passed.

They entered Sombra Towers.

The moment the car doors opened, Ricardo caught her wrists—not harshly, but with the certainty of someone who expected gravity to obey him.

“You won’t leave the penthouse until we stabilize your magic.”

She pulled back. “I can stabilize myself.”

“No,” Ricardo said. “You cannot.”

That sank, heavy as a stone.

He was belittling her. He was terrified.

They stepped into the elevator. Hiraya stood silent. Odesa watched the numbers climb, each floor a measured heartbeat.

When they reached the penthouse, the doors slid open to Nerisa waiting in the marble foyer. She was still in her gown, but the glamour was gone—her beauty sharpened into something lethal. When she saw Althea’s torn dress, the blood at her hairline, and her cracked face, she broke.

“Oh, anak,” Nerissa whispered, crossing the floor.

She cupped Althea’s cheek with one trembling hand. Her thumb brushed the bruise. Her voice dropped to a tone Althea had only ever heard during funerals and storms.

“Who touched you?”

Althea’s throat tightened. She didn’t answer. Hiraya did.

“Adrian Holt.”

Nerisa’s eyelids lowered. Not in shock. In a decision.

“I’ll send word,” she murmured. “We already began.”

Ricardo exhaled once. “It’s handled.”

Nerisa didn’t look at him. “Not fully.”

She led Althea upstairs with quiet authority, her touch gentle on her daughter’s back. The halls smelled of cedar and old wealth and the faint metallic tinge of Sombra magic humming behind the walls.

Inside Althea’s room, the lights were low. Nerisa fetched water, medicine, a small jar of herbal salve, and a soft cloth. She sat beside Althea on the bed and began cleaning her wounds.

The cool cloth touched her lip. Althea flinched. Nerisa’s hand froze.

“Did he do this?” she asked softly.

Althea nodded.

Nerisa inhaled. The sound wasn’t angry—it was grief sharpened into steel. She continued dabbing at the blood with careful precision.

“You’re shaking,” Nerisa murmured.

“I’m fine,” Althea said, even though her voice wavered.

“No, anak,” her mother said. “You’re not.”

A silence stretched between them—thick with things neither wanted to name.

Then Nerisa spoke again, voice quiet but immovable.

“You were trying to contain it, weren’t you?”

Althea looked down. ‘If I hadn’t, he’d be dead. And maybe everyone near him.”

Nerisa’s hand stilled.

Then she lifted Althea’s chin and kissed her forehead.

“My brave girl,” she whispered. “But you must never do that alone.”

Althea’s eyes burned.

“It’s not just assault.” Nerisa’s voice turned even softer. “There’s more hurting you.”

Althea tried to speak, but the words tangled.

“He left,” she managed, barely audible. “He saw me… like that. And he left.”

Nerisa didn’t need a name. She’d lived long enough around dynasties and sons of dynasties to recognize that particular wound.

“He was never built for you,” she said gently. “Men like him break under the weight of what you carry.”

A tear slid down Althea’s cheek. Nerisa wiped it away.

“Rest,” she murmured. “Your sisters and I will handle everything else.”

When the door closed behind her, the room stayed silent.

Althea sat wrapped in Ricardo’s jacket—its fabric heavy, smelling faintly of cedar, tobacco, and old powder—staring at her hands, at the faint shimmer of magic under her skin.

Her cheek throbbed.

Her heart hurt worse.

And far below the penthouse, the Sombra women were moving like a tide preparing to swallow the city whole.