Chapter 6 The Beginning

Iris didn't let me sleep.

She said I'd have time to rest later. That the first night was the most important. That if I waited until morning, I'd talk myself out of it.

So she sat me down in the warm kitchen of Ashford Sanctuary, poured me a cup of tea I didn't touch, and started talking.

"The mark on your shoulder isn't just a mark," she said. "It's a lock. And you're the key."

I stared at her, my hand drifting to my shoulder automatically. The warmth was there—faint but persistent, like a heartbeat I could feel under my skin. I'd spent years thinking it was just a birthmark, something ugly I'd tried to hide. Now it felt like it was trying to tell me something I wasn't ready to hear.

"What does that mean?" My voice came out rougher than I expected. "A lock to what?"

Iris exchanged a glance with Xavier. He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with those steady brown eyes. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Whatever she was about to say, he'd already known. He'd been waiting for this moment.

"Your family were not just protectors of a secret," Iris said slowly, weighing each word like she was handling something fragile. "They were the secret. The Drakos bloodline carries something that no other bloodline has. Something that was hidden away generations ago to keep it from falling into the wrong hands."

I waited. She was building up to something. I could feel it in the way her eyes held mine, in the way she'd gone still and careful.

"There's a place your family built. A vault of sorts. And inside it lies the truth about what your ancestors were really protecting."

"A vault."

"Yes."

"And you're telling me I'm the only one who can open it."

Iris smiled. It was a sad smile, the kind that said she'd been waiting to have this conversation for a very long time. "Your mother was the last one who could open it. When she died, the vault sealed itself. It's been waiting for you ever since."

I set down the tea I hadn't drunk. My hands were shaking again. I hated that. I'd spent years trembling in Ezekiel's shadow, shrinking myself smaller and smaller until I was barely a whisper of a woman. And now, even here, even safe, I still couldn't stop.

"I don't even know who I am," I said. "How can I open something I don't understand?"

Xavier pushed off from the counter and walked over to sit across from me at the table. His presence was steady, grounding—the kind of solid I'd never had in my life. "Then we start with what you do know. You know your mother's name was Seraphina. You know she loved you. You know she hid you to protect you. That's more than you had yesterday."

"That's nothing."

"It's more than you had yesterday."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream that he didn't understand, that none of them understood. But he was right. Yesterday, I had nothing. Today, I had a name. A mother. A purpose. Even if I didn't know what that purpose was yet, even if it terrified me.

Iris reached across the table and took my hand. Her skin was warm and papery, like old parchment, but her grip was strong. "We'll take it slow. One step at a time. First, we teach you to control the power you already have. Then we teach you to understand it. And when you're ready—only when you're ready—we'll go to the vault."

"And if I'm never ready?"

She squeezed my hand. "Then we'll wait. Your bloodline has been waiting generations. We can wait a little longer."

---

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I lay in the bed Iris had prepared for me—a small room with pale blue walls and a window that looked out at the pine forest. The sheets smelled like lavender, soft and calming, and everything about the room was warm and safe. Everything should have been peaceful.

But I couldn't stop thinking about Ziki.

His face when he'd smiled at me that morning. His small hand in mine. The way he'd run to Marilyn without a second thought, calling her name like she was the one who mattered. Like I was the stranger.

I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars.

He didn't even know I was gone. He'd woken up this morning expecting pancakes and a smile. And I'd just—disappeared. Left him in that house with a cold father who never looked at him and a woman who was slowly poisoning everything I loved.

Would he notice I was gone? Would he cry for me? Or would Marilyn be there with her practiced hugs and her perfect voice, telling him I'd abandoned him, that I never really loved him?

The thought made my stomach lurch. I sat up gasping, the lavender suddenly too strong, the room too small. I needed air.

I stumbled out of bed and opened the window. The night air hit my face, cold and sharp. I breathed it in deep and slow until the spinning stopped and my heart began to slow.

And then I heard something.

Ymir.

I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs.

There was no one there. The room was empty. The forest was silent.

But I'd heard it. Clear as day.

A woman's voice. Soft. Urgent.

Ymir, listen to me.

"Who's there?" I whispered. My voice cracked.

No answer. Just the wind in the pines.

I stood there for a long time, trembling, waiting. But the voice didn't come back.

It was probably exhaustion. Stress. Grief. My mind playing tricks on me. I'd been through too much, and my brain was finally breaking.

I closed the window. Climbed back into bed. Pulled the covers up to my chin.

But I didn't sleep.

I lay awake until the first pale light of morning crept through the curtains, thinking about a voice I'd never heard and a mother I'd never met.

---

The next day, Iris started training me.

It wasn't what I expected. There were no spells, no rituals, no dramatic displays of power. She just handed me a piece of paper and a pen.

"Write down everything you remember," she said. "Every detail. Your childhood. Your marriage. The day you met Ezekiel. The day you found out about Marilyn. All of it."

I stared at the blank page. "Why?"

"Because your power is connected to your memory. The stronger your connection to who you are, the stronger your power will be."

It didn't make sense to me. But I wrote anyway.

And it was harder than I thought.

I started with my childhood—the foster family I'd grown up with, the ones who'd never really wanted me. The years of feeling like a guest in someone else's life, always waiting to be sent away. The quiet desperation to be loved, to be chosen, to finally belong somewhere.

Then Ezekiel. The day I'd met him, the way he'd looked at me like I was the most precious thing in the world. The way that look had faded over the years until there was nothing left but cold indifference, until I was just another piece of furniture in his house.

Marilyn. The way she'd held my hand when I gave birth to Ziki. The way she'd smiled at me when I walked in on her with Ezekiel. The way she'd knelt there, looking at me like I was the fool for ever trusting her.

By the time I finished writing, my hand was cramping and my cheeks were wet.

I looked up at Iris. She was watching me with that same sad smile. "Good. Now read it back to me."

I shook my head. "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

So I did.

I read through the page, my voice shaking the whole time. And somewhere around the middle—when I was describing the look on Ezekiel's face when he'd told me to close the door—I felt something shift.

The mark on my shoulder flared to life. Warm. Bright. Alive.

I gasped and dropped the paper.

"Did you feel that?" I asked.

"Yes," Iris said. "That was your power. Responding to your pain."

"My pain?"

"Your memories are your anchor. The stronger the emotion attached to them, the stronger your connection to your power."

I touched my shoulder. The warmth was already fading, but I could still feel it—a hum beneath my skin, a promise. Something that had been sleeping inside me for years, finally waking up.

"So what do I do with it?"

Iris smiled. "First, you learn to trust it. Then you learn to control it. And then you decide what to do with it."

---

I spent the next three days writing.

Pages and pages of memories. Small ones. Big ones. Painful ones. The moments I'd locked away in the back of my mind, too afraid to look at them.

Every time I hit something that hurt enough—something that made the mark flare up—I had to stop and focus. Breathe. Feel it. Let it pass.

It was exhausting. But it was also freeing.

By the third day, I felt something I hadn't felt in years: a sense of purpose. Like my life wasn't just something that had happened to me. Like I was actually in control.

Xavier found me in the garden that evening. I was sitting on a stone bench, staring at the pines and trying not to think about how much I missed my son.

"You look better," he said, sitting beside me.

"I feel better." I paused. "I also feel like I'm losing my mind, but at least I'm not just sad anymore."

He laughed—a warm sound, nothing like Ezekiel's cold, mocking laugh. "Progress is progress."

I looked at him. He was watching me with those soft brown eyes, patient and steady, like he had all the time in the world to wait for me to figure out who I was.

"Thank you," I said.

"For what?"

"For being here. For not giving up on me."

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then he reached over and touched my hand—just a brush of his fingers against mine, light and careful. "I made a promise to your mother," he said. "But honestly, Ymir, that's not why I'm here anymore."

Before I could respond, Iris called us in for dinner.

But his words stayed with me, long after the meal was over.

That's not why I'm here anymore.

What did that mean? And why did it make my chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with grief?

---

On the fourth day, Iris changed my training.

She told me to sit in the middle of the meditation room—a small, round space with a single window and wooden floors worn smooth by years of use. The air smelled like incense and old wood, and the silence was so complete I could hear my own heartbeat.

"Close your eyes," she said. "Picture a door."

"Just any door?"

"Your door. The one you'll have to open someday."

I closed my eyes. At first, nothing. Just darkness.

Then, slowly, an image formed.

It was a large wooden door, ancient and heavy. Carved with symbols I didn't recognize. Iron hinges, rusted but strong.

It looked like it hadn't been opened in a century.

I reached out to touch it—and the mark on my shoulder flared so hot I cried out.

"Good," Iris said. "That's exactly what you need to feel. That door is waiting for you. It's been waiting a long time."

"Why does it hurt so much?"

"Because your power is locked. And the key is the truth you've been running from."

My eyes snapped open. "What truth? What am I hiding from?"

Iris looked at me, her old eyes steady and kind. "Yourself, Ymir. You've been hiding from yourself."

---

That night, I dreamed of my mother.

I was standing in front of the door again, the ancient wooden door with the carved symbols. But this time, I wasn't alone.

A woman stood beside me.

She had dark hair like mine—wild and tangled. Eyes that looked like they'd seen too much. A kind, tired face that held the weight of a thousand secrets.

"Ymir," she said.

"Who are you?" I asked.

But I knew. I knew before she answered.

"I'm your mother," she said. "And I need you to be ready."

"Ready for what?"

Her hand reached out. Her fingers brushed my cheek, cold as winter air.

"Ready for what's coming."

And then she was gone.

I woke up gasping. The mark on my shoulder was burning, a heat so intense it stole my breath.

I sat up in bed, my heart pounding so hard I could barely hear my own thoughts. The room was silent. The forest was dark.

But I'd seen her. Her face. Her voice. The cold touch of her fingers.

And I knew it wasn't just a dream.

---

The next morning, I told Iris about it.

She didn't look surprised. She just nodded slowly, like she'd been expecting this, waiting for it. "You're connected to her," she said. "Through the mark. Through your blood. She's been waiting for you to be ready to listen."

"I saw her face. I heard her voice." I swallowed hard. "She told me to be ready for what's coming."

Iris studied me for a long moment. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch—worn and soft, like it had been held a thousand times.

"Then I think it's time you had this."

She opened the pouch and shook the contents into her palm.

A key.

Small. Rusted. Ancient.

Just like the one I'd seen in my dream.

"It was your mother's," Iris said. "She gave it to me before she died. She said to give it to you when you were ready."

I stared at the key in her palm. My mother's key. The key to the door I'd dreamed about. The key to everything I'd been running from.

"Ready for what?"

Iris smiled—a slow, sad smile that made my blood run cold.

"To go home."

The words hung in the air between us. Heavy. Final.

To go home.

But where was home? I didn't even know. And how could I go back to something I'd never really had?

"Take it," Iris said. "It's yours."

I reached out. My fingers closed around the cold metal. It felt heavier than it should have. Like it was carrying the weight of everything I didn't know.

And as I held it, I felt something shift in my chest—a strange combination of fear and hope, grief and determination.

I looked up at Iris, ready to ask another question.

And that's when I saw it.

Her eyes.

They weren't warm anymore. They were sharp. Calculated. Watching me like she was waiting for something.

Like she was waiting to see if I'd finally figured it out.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

Her voice was still soft. Still kind. But something had changed. I could feel it in the air between us, thick and suffocating.

I pulled my hand back. Clutched the key against my chest.

"What are you really hiding from me?" I whispered.

Iris tilted her head. The smile never left her face.

"Everything, Ymir. The question is—are you finally ready to hear it?"

The silence stretched between us like a wire about to snap.

And then the mark on my shoulder flared so hot I screamed.