Ysa's gaze lifted toward the manor's roof where Duncan worked. "It has been over a month," she said evenly. "Are you still not finished?"
Above, Duncan didn't look down. His hands remained busy, adjusting wiring along the solar panels, tools clinking softly against metal. "Couple more things," he replied. "Then we can go home."
A brief pause.
"How's the Chief?" he added.
Ysa folded her arms lightly behind her back. "He is speaking now," she said. "That alone is progress."
The front door of the Manor opened.
"Ysa…"
She turned slightly at the voice. "Good morning, Em."
Emily stepped out, stretching her arms before letting them fall at her sides. "What are you gonna teach me today?"
Ysa's gaze dropped—brief, assessing. "I believe I was rather excessive with you yesterday," she said. "And you refused healing. Under those conditions, I suggest we rest today."
Emily shrugged, though the motion pulled slightly at her posture. "Yeah, well… if I don't feel pain, how am I supposed to deal with it when you're not around anymore?"
Ysa studied her for a moment. "That is… a mature conclusion," she said.
Emily brightened a little. "But you'll still take me hunting, right?"
Ysa didn't hesitate. "No."
Emily blinked. "What—why?"
"You are limping," Ysa replied, calm but firm. "Your body is compensating for strain. Taking you into a hunt would not train you—it would endanger you."
Emily shifted her weight, stubbornness flickering across her face. "I can manage."
Ysa stepped closer, her tone lowering slightly—not harsh, but unyielding. "Managing is not the standard. Control is."
A beat.
"Rest," Ysa said. "Recover properly. Then we continue."
From the roof, Duncan called down without looking, "She's right, you know."
Emily groaned under her breath.
Boots thudded against the wooden steps as Dylan came down from the porch, already shrugging on his gear. "I'll come with you," he said.
Ysa inclined her head slightly. "Very well. We depart in half an hour."
Dylan glanced up toward the roof. "Ethan," he called, squinting against the light. "You wanna come huntin' for food?"
Ethan didn't even look down at first, both hands occupied with a bundle of wires. "Man, my hands are literally full up here," he said. "I'll take a rain check."
Dylan snorted. "Your loss. Was gonna teach you how to set up baits."
That got Ethan's attention. "Really?" He finally looked down—then hesitated. His eyes flicked to Duncan, still working, then back to the panels they were fixing. The hesitation stretched a second too long. "…Rain check," Ethan said again, more firmly this time. "They're leaving soon, and I still got a lot to learn from Duncan. Sorry, Dyl."
Dylan shrugged it off, already turning away. "Whatever, kid."
The front door burst open so hard it slammed against the wall.
"Ysa! Ysa!" Ava rushed out, breath uneven, panic written all over her face.
Ysa turned immediately. "I am here. What is the matter?"
"It's my dad—please," Ava said, voice breaking. "I think he's having a heart attack."
For half a second, no one spoke. Then they moved.
Dylan was already ahead, pushing past the doorway. Emily followed close behind. Ysa didn't waste another word.
"Where is he?" she asked as they rushed inside.
"In his office!"
Up the stairs—fast, uneven, urgency driving every step. The air inside felt tighter, heavier. They reached the door.
Inside—"Please—help him!" Harlene cried.
Harrison was on the floor beside his desk, one hand clutched tight against his chest. Sweat soaked through his shirt. His face had gone pale, breathing shallow and strained, each inhale fighting for space.
Ysa dropped to her knees beside him. "Breathe, Harrison," she said, firm but steady. "Breathe. Trust me."
His hand found hers instantly, gripping hard—desperate, grounding himself through the pain.
Ysa closed her eyes. Her other hand hovered over his chest.
Energy gathered—focused, controlled—then pressed inward. Seconds stretched.
Harrison's breathing began to even out. Not fully stable—but no longer collapsing. The tightness in his face eased, just slightly.
But Ysa didn't stop. Her focus sharpened. She pushed further. Her hand lifted—then moved to his head.
The shift made the room hesitate.
Emily glanced at Dylan. Dylan didn't question it—but his posture tightened.
Ysa's energy deepened, threading into something more precise, more internal.
Harrison's grip loosened. His body slackened.
Then—He went still.
Asleep.
"What did you do?!" Harlene cried, fear spiking. She lunged forward and grabbed Ysa's arm.
It happened instantly.
Instinct.
Ysa's body reacted before thought—she shoved Harlene back with force.
Harlene was thrown across the room, hitting the far wall hard.
"Mom!" Ava rushed to her side immediately.
Ysa's eyes snapped open. They weren't the same. Predatory. Cold. Scales flared briefly across her skin, catching the light like sharpened armor. "Do not disturb me while I am healing," she said, voice low—dangerously controlled.
The room froze.
Ava looked up at her, shaken—but steady enough to speak. "…We're sorry. Just—please… keep helping him."
A beat.
Then the shift reversed. The scales receded. Her eyes softened—just enough. Ysa turned back without another word. Her hand hovered over Harrison's head again, and the healing resumed.
A few more seconds passed.
Then Harrison gasped. Air rushed into his lungs like he'd been drowning. He jolted upright, dragging in breath after breath, chest rising hard, eyes wide—alive.
Color returned to his face almost instantly. He looked down at himself—then at Ysa. "You… you saved me."
Ysa rose to her feet, composed, steady. "Thank the Realm," she said. "It is its gift—not mine."
She turned, her gaze settling on Harlene. "I owe you an apology," Ysa said, measured. "But you must understand—when a siren is engaged in its gift, instinct overrides restraint. You do not interfere." A quiet beat. "Interruption, in such moments, invites death."
She extended her hand toward Harlene. "Now—allow me to correct the damage I caused."
Harlene flinched slightly, her body still tense, one hand bracing her back.
Ava leaned closer to her. "Mom… please," she said softly. "You have to stop assuming the worst. If they wanted us dead, we wouldn't be standing here. Ysa just saved Dad. Please."
Harlene hesitated. Then slowly—reluctantly—she straightened. "…Fine."
Ysa stepped forward. Her hands hovered just above Harlene's back. Energy gathered again—controlled, precise.
Harlene stiffened at first—Then felt it.
Bones shifting. Aligning. Resetting. But there was no pain. Only pressure—then release.
When Ysa finished, the tension in Harlene's posture vanished completely.
Harlene blinked, then straightened fully. She twisted slightly at the waist—once, twice—testing. "…No pain," she said, almost disbelieving. "That's… incredible."
Ysa lowered her hands. "You're welcome."
She turned and moved toward the door.
"Wait—"
Ysa paused and looked back.
Emily stepped forward—and before Ysa could react, she wrapped her arms around her. "Thank you," Emily said.
Ysa stilled. For a brief moment, she didn't move at all. Then—awkwardly—she lifted a hand and patted Emily's back.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Careful. Unfamiliar.
~~~
Dylan killed the engine. The sudden silence settled thick around them.
Ysa stepped out first, her gaze drifting past the trees. "There is a lake nearby."
Dylan nodded, shutting the door. "Yeah. Yve showed me this place." He glanced toward the treeline. "First time I saw her predator form… happened out there."
Ysa said nothing to that.
They moved forward.
"What are we doing here?" she asked after a moment.
"Plenty to hunt," Dylan replied. "We fill the truck, head back."
Ysa inclined her head and continued toward the water.
The lake opened up ahead—still, glassy, untouched. The surrounding woods framed it in quiet symmetry. For a moment, it felt almost peaceful. Too peaceful.
Then Ysa slowed. Her eyes fixed on something ahead. She veered off course, approaching carefully. "Dylan."
He was beside her in seconds.
A body lay half-turned in the grass.
Dylan crouched, pressing two fingers against the neck. "…Still warm," he muttered. "Didn't happen long ago."
He shifted the corpse slightly—then paused.
A knife.
Buried clean.
Dylan's expression hardened. "Not a shrieker," he said. "This was done by someone."
They didn't speak after that. Both of them rose slowly.
Scanning.
Listening.
The quiet no longer felt peaceful. It felt wrong.
Ysa moved toward the water's edge, lowering into a crouch. Her bow formed in her grip, energy threading into shape as she drew the string back. A glowing arrow took form—steady, humming.
Dylan lifted his rifle, stance tightening.
"You see anything?" Ysa asked, voice low.
"No," Dylan replied. "You?"
"No… but I feel it." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "We are being watched."
Dylan's jaw set. "Yeah. I feel that too."
The air shifted.
Every sound sharpened—the rustle of leaves, the ripple of water, the faint snap of something unseen.
Ysa eased her stance just slightly. "This location is compromised. We do not know their number. We should withdraw."
Dylan didn't lower his weapon. "Can't drive straight back," he said. "They could follow us."
A beat.
Ysa glanced at him. "Then what do you propose?"
Dylan's grip tightened. "We came here to hunt." He looked toward the treeline. "That's what we're gonna do."
Ysa held his gaze for a second—then gave a single, sharp nod.
They moved back toward the truck.
Slow.
Measured.
Weapons raised—not at anything visible, but at everything. Every shifting shadow. Every breath of wind.
Waiting for something to move first.
The cry came suddenly—sharp, fragile, unmistakable.
Both of them turned toward the sound at the same time.
It came from the bush.
Dylan raised a hand slightly, signaling stillness. Then he moved first, slow and controlled, weapon angled forward. Ysa followed, her steps quieter.
They crept closer.
The crying grew louder.
Then—
Click.
A man rose from behind the bush, weapon aimed straight at them.
They froze.
Dylan's expression didn't change. "Drop your weapon."
The man's hands trembled, but he didn't lower it. "You first."
The cry broke again—louder this time.
Ysa's gaze flicked past him. "That's an infant."
The man swallowed hard. Fear sat openly in his eyes now.
Dylan slowly lowered his rifle, movements deliberate. "We ain't here to hurt you."
The man hesitated.
Dylan glanced sideways. "Lower it, Ysa. They ain't a threat."
Ysa didn't move. "And you are certain of that?"
Dylan kept his eyes on the man. "Ain't no parent stupid enough to start a fight with a baby in the line of fire."
Silence stretched.
Then the man exhaled and raised both hands, letting the weapon fall. "You're right… I'm sorry. Just—please. Let us go."
Ysa studied him for a moment longer, then released the tension in her bow. The weapon dissolved instantly, collapsing back into water that slipped away into the ground.
The man's eyes widened. "What… what was that?"
Ysa didn't answer. She stepped past him.
Behind the bush, a woman sat collapsed against the earth, clutching a newborn wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. Her face was pale, streaked with tears, body still shaking from exhaustion. "Please…" the woman whispered. "Don't hurt him."
Ysa crouched in front of her, calm, composed. "I will not harm you."
She leaned in slightly. "Let me see."
The woman hesitated, then shifted just enough to reveal the child.
Ysa's gaze sharpened. "You've just given birth." She raised her hands, hovering them gently over the infant.
The mother flinched. "What are you doing—"
Dylan stepped in, voice steady. "Hey—easy. Let her help."
The woman looked at him, searching his face. Whatever she saw there made her pause.
Slowly… she allowed it.
Ysa focused. The baby's breathing steadied almost immediately, the faint strain in its tiny body easing.
After a few seconds, Ysa withdrew. "The child is healthy." Her eyes shifted back to the mother. "Now you."
The woman blinked. "M-Me?"
The father moved closer, taking the baby into his arms.
Ysa positioned her hands again—this time over the mother's lower body. Her expression didn't change, but her focus deepened.
Energy flowed.
The mother gasped sharply. Inside her, everything began to realign—tissue knitting, internal damage reversing, muscles tightening back into place. She could feel it all shifting… correcting… restoring.
But there was no pain. Only pressure. Then relief.
When Ysa pulled her hands back, the woman just stared at her, stunned. "How did you—"
"You have superpowers?" the man asked, still shaken.
Ysa straightened slightly. "Superpowers?" she repeated. "That is an inelegant word for something far more precise."
The mother reached out, gripping Ysa's hand. "Thank you…"
Dylan stepped forward, voice cutting back into the moment. "Yeah. You can thank her later." His eyes locked onto the man. "Right now… you're gonna tell us what happened out here."
The man's voice shook as he spoke, breath uneven, eyes darting to the trees as if expecting them to move. "We were being hunted," he said. "I managed to kill one of them, but… there's more. A lot more."
Ysa's gaze sharpened. "Who?"
"They're cannibals," he said, swallowing hard. "No humanity left in them. They don't just kill—they enjoy it. And then they… eat what's left. They took over our group. I think… I think we're the only ones who made it out." His voice faltered as he glanced at his wife. "She gave birth while we were running."
Dylan didn't react to that. His focus stayed locked. "What else."
The man hesitated, then lifted his arm slightly, as if pointing to something invisible. "They have a mark. On their inner wrist. Like some kind of symbol. It's like a—"
"Upside-down cross," Dylan cut in.
The man's head snapped up. "Yes. That's it."
Something in Dylan shifted. Subtle—but dangerous. His grip on the rifle tightened, knuckles whitening.
"You know them?" the man asked.
Dylan's voice dropped, cold and flat. "Thought I wiped 'em out."
A beat.
"No," the man said quickly. "There are hundreds. Maybe more. They're like animals. If you don't join them… they kill you. Or worse."
"I know," Dylan muttered. His jaw clenched. "And they got a debt to pay."
Ysa glanced at him. "What happened?"
"Long story," Dylan said, not looking at her. "Just know this—don't try talkin' to 'em. You see one, you kill it. 'Cause they won't think twice about you."
Ysa held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once. "Understood."
The woman shifted, clutching the baby closer. "Please… take us with you," she said, voice trembling. "It's not safe out here."
Dylan and Ysa exchanged a look—quick, silent.
Behind them, the trees creaked.
The man leaned closer to his wife, whispering, "We don't even know if they're safe…"
She shook her head. "If they weren't, we'd already be dead."
Dylan exhaled through his nose. "Fine. You can come."
He looked at the man. "You got a car?"
The man shook his head. "No. We just ran."
Dylan nodded once, already thinking ahead. "Then you stick close. Don't slow us down."
They moved back toward the truck.
Dylan motioned for the couple to climb into the rear bed. The man hesitated, but the woman was already trembling, clutching the infant tighter against her chest.
Dylan pointed at the man. "You. Come hunting with us."
"Hunting?" the man echoed, confused.
"For food," Dylan said flatly. "Now there's two more mouths to feed. We're gonna need more."
Ysa turned away without waiting for the conversation to finish, walking back toward the lake. A moment later, she returned with her bow already formed in her hands—energy condensing along the string as she moved.
The man stared. "What is she?" he whispered. "How is she doing that?"
Dylan didn't even look at him. "She's a siren."
The man gave a short, disbelieving laugh. "A siren? Like in fiction?" His expression twisted. "Those aren't real. They're myths."
Dylan finally glanced toward Ysa, then back. "Don't know what to tell you. She's one. And they're real."
Ysa approached, close enough now that the man instinctively stepped back. The woman shifted behind him, protective, terrified.
"Are they safe?" the man asked quickly. "Are they… tamed?"
Ysa stopped. Her expression sharpened. "Tamed?" She let out a quiet, offended breath. "That is a deeply ignorant way to speak of us. We are not beasts to be leashed."
The man swallowed. "Sorry. It's just… hard to believe."
Ysa's gaze moved between him, Dylan, and the woman in the truck bed. Something in her settled—not anger, but decision. "Fine," she said. "I will show you."
She closed her eyes.
The change came instantly.
Scales flared along her neck and jaw, her eyes narrowing into something predatory and ancient. The air around her shifted—pressure, instinct, presence.
The couple recoiled at the same time.
Then, just as quickly, it stopped. Skin returned. Her face was still.
The man's voice cracked. "Oh God… please don't hurt us."
Ysa crossed her arms. "Why would I hurt you? You are insignificant to me. Your death would not benefit me in any way."
The man shook harder now, words breaking. "But—you just— you looked like a monster."
Ysa froze.
For a beat, she didn't move.
Then she turned sharply and walked into the trees, muttering under her breath, "That was offensive."
Dylan exhaled through his nose, like the question wasn't worth much air. He stepped in and gave the man a firm tap on the shoulder. "Relax," he said. "They're with us. Another one's back at base."
The man hesitated. "Do they… eat people?"
Dylan's eyes stayed on him a beat too long.
"No," he said flatly. "That's you talking fear." A pause. Then, quieter—"You'll live. Just stop shaking."
He jerked his head toward the lake. "Come on. You gotta earn your place."
The man hesitated. "But my wife— I can't leave them behind."
Dylan's eyes shifted to the woman in the truck bed. He made a decision immediately. "Get inside the truck," he told her.
The woman froze, then slowly stood. The man helped her down, still gripping the baby like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to reality. He opened the passenger door and guided her in.
His voice was low. "She's still not safe."
Dylan didn't answer. He shut the door. A soft electronic click followed as he locked it.
The truck was still.
Dylan raised his rifle.
The woman screamed inside the cabin.
The man lurched forward. "NO!"
Dylan fired a few bullets and then stopped.
The man froze. "Why would you do that?!"
Dylan didn't answer immediately. He just turned slightly, eyes on the truck. "Had to show you she's safe."
The man looked back—his wife inside the cab, shaken but alive. For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Dylan pressed the key fob. The locks clicked open.
The man rushed forward, yanked the door open, and pulled his wife into him. She clung back just as hard. "You could've killed them!" the man repeated, voice breaking.
Dylan shrugged slightly. "You believe me now?"
He nodded toward the vehicle. "Truck's upgraded. Duncan's work. It can take gunfire. She's safer in there than anywhere out here."
The man exhaled hard, like his body finally let go of tension he didn't know he was holding. "You're insane."
Dylan gave a faint, humorless half-smile.
A pause.
Then Dylan added, more bluntly, "You can still walk away if you want."
The wife, still holding onto him, shook her head slightly. "It's okay… I'm fine."
Dylan nodded once. "Good. Then listen—don't open that door for anyone but us."
She gave a small nod.
Dylan closed it again with a solid thud. No ceremony. No hesitation.
Then they turned and followed Ysa into the trees.
~~~
The gates of the manor slid open with a heavy mechanical groan.
Esteban was the first to spot them—his posture straightening instantly as Dylan and Ysa came in with two strangers in tow.
The truck rolled to a stop.
Lucas was already there, rifle up, eyes scanning the newcomers like a threat hadn't yet decided what shape it wanted to take. He met Dylan halfway, gripping his shoulder firmly in silent acknowledgement before moving past him.
The man and woman stepped down carefully. The woman held a newborn close to her chest, shielding it instinctively even while exhausted.
Lucas moved in without hesitation, disarming them. The man didn't resist as his rifle was taken and tossed to David, who caught it and immediately checked its condition. Lucas followed with a quick sweep—knife, handgun, anything hidden.
"State your name," Lucas said flatly. "And why you're here."
The man kept his hands up, breathing controlled but tense as Lucas finished checking him.
"Victor Vaughn," he said. "This is my wife, Sheila Vaughn… and our son. We just… we just want somewhere safe enough to raise him."
Lucas didn't respond immediately. He stepped around them, checking Sheila with a quick, clinical glance—then nodded once. "They're clean," he said. "Take them to Harrison. Make sure there are no bites."
Victor finally lowered his hands slightly, eyes darting past Lucas toward the manor grounds. His brow creased. "…Am I hallucinating," he muttered, "or are those winged horses? And is that thing… floating?"
A few of the group exchanged brief looks—half amusement, half resignation at how often that reaction happened now.
A short, tired laugh broke somewhere in the line.
Maurice stepped forward, clapping Victor once on the arm in a grounding gesture.
"You ain't hallucinating," he said simply.
Joan moved in gently beside Sheila, offering support as she guided her toward the manor entrance.
Lucas caught Dylan before he reached the steps. "Where'd you find them?"
Dylan didn't slow down. "Lake. Being hunted by the same group that hit the mall"
That alone made Lucas' posture change. His shoulders squared, jaw tightening. "I thought they were dead."
"So did I." Dylan turned slightly, just enough for Lucas to see his face—stiff, controlled, but barely holding. "Victor said there's hundreds. Roaming. Doing it again."
Lucas exhaled through his nose, forcing calm into his voice. "Then we deal with it properly. Not like this. Not on impulse."
Dylan scoffed once, short and bitter. "They're still out there, Luke."
"I heard you." Lucas stepped closer now, voice lower but firm. "And I'm angry too. But if we go after them blind, we die. And then nothing changes."
Dylan's grip tightened on nothing—fingers flexing like he was holding a weapon that wasn't there. "They killed my mom."
Silence hit hard.
Lucas didn't interrupt.
Dylan's voice broke sharper the second time. "They raped her. Killed her. Ate her in front of me."
The words didn't come out loud. They came out controlled—too controlled.
Then it snapped just slightly at the edges.
"They don't get to live after that."
Lucas held his stare. No flinching, no softness. "I know what they did," he said. "And I know what you want to do."
Dylan's breathing was heavier now, shoulders tense like he was bracing against something inside him.
Lucas stepped in closer, cutting the space down. "But rage makes you predictable. And predictable gets you buried."
Dylan's eyes flicked away for half a second—anger still burning, but now layered with restraint.
Lucas lowered his voice. "Remember your training."
That landed differently.
A long beat passed.
Dylan's jaw clenched once. Twice. Then his shoulders dropped a fraction—not calm, not peace, just containment. "I'll take the risk if I have to," he said quietly. "But they're not walking away from this."
He turned sharply and walked back inside the manor.
Fast steps. Heavy intent. No hesitation left in them—just direction.
Lucas watched him go, expression tight.
Then he exhaled once, slow.
And followed.
~~~
Sheila didn't let go of the baby. Not even when Maurice spoke softly. Not even when the doors closed behind them.
Her eyes kept flicking—corners, shadows, exits—like the room itself might decide to turn on them if she stopped watching it.
Victor noticed.
"…We're not prisoners," Maurice said, slower now, keeping his hands visible as he guided them deeper inside.
Victor answered immediately, too fast. "That's what people say right before they stop being polite."
A few steps behind them, Joan slowed her pace, watching Sheila's grip tighten every time someone moved too quickly. "You're safe here," Joan said gently.
Sheila gave a short laugh—no humor in it. "I'll be the judge of that."
Victor didn't argue. He just kept scanning the manor interior, eyes lingering too long.
Then his gaze caught something outside.
The Chief in the pool.
Victor froze.
Sheila noticed immediately. "Victor?"
He didn't answer right away. Then, quietly: "That's just wrong."
Joan followed his line of sight and exhaled, like she'd heard that reaction a hundred times before. "You'll get used to it."
Silence dropped.
Victor instinctively shifted his body half in front of Sheila and the baby.
Maurice slowed. "Look—We get it. You've been running. You've seen things that don't make sense. But no one here's going to hurt you."
Victor's voice lowered. "You say that like you've never been wrong before."
A pause.
Then Sheila, softer—barely audible: "They didn't kill us outside."
Victor glanced at her.
She wasn't relaxed. Not even close. But her eyes weren't as sharp as before. "…That's something, right?" she repeated, like she was testing the sentence.
Joan nodded once. "You're safe here."
Victor let out a short breath through his nose. Still tense. Still not convinced. "…They're really sirens?" he asked finally. "Because I've seen monsters. I've seen cults. I've seen people wearing both faces."
Maurice didn't sugarcoat it. "They are sirens."
Victor looked at him sharply.
Maurice continued, calm but firm. "They saved our asses many times than we can count."
A beat. Joan spoke, voice calm. "They're our allies," she said. Then, after a pause, more honestly: "Friends."