It might have been raining that day, but the sky wept more than just water. Theron City was a suffocating beast, the heavy smoke lifting into the air only to be beaten down by the relentless downpour. Every raindrop striking roofs was a tiny, discordant symphony. The atmosphere walked a edge between chaos and the dying gasps of a revolution.
At least that's what Phoebe felt.
The King's cousin, backed by Kean Theron—the patriarch and grandfather to Lily and Vivi—had led a rebellion right from the city's blackened heart.
But treason breeds treason. Betrayed by his own son, the rebellion was choked to death in the middle of the streets.
Inside a sleek, armored car brought to a sudden halt, the political turbulence felt distant, yet suffocating. It was the third day since Kristen, the Lady of the Frostbane family, and her mother had vanished. Despite the immense, chilling power her father commanded, the rising tensions had rendered their influence useless.
She looked at her father sitting beside her.
He sat in the dim light of the car, exhausted. His eyes were dark, sunken pits of sleepless agony. He hadn't slept in nearly three days. When he finally spoke to break the silence of the stalled vehicle, his voice was dry, stripped of any hint of life.
"What has happened?"
Beside him, twelve-year-old Phoebe paid no mind to the ruin outside. She was quietly sucking on a melting popsicle, her icy blue hair brushing against the cold glass of the window. Even at her young age, a trace of aristocratic haughtiness rested on her delicate features, a cold arrogance that demanded the world bow to her whims.
"Sir," the driver answered, his voice trembling slightly over the rhythmic thrum of the rain against the roof. "Something is happening ahead. A large crowd has gathered in the square. A display of power... or perhaps a protest."
Her father's heavy brows burrowed together. A protest? The rebellion had just been purged in blood; what fool would dare incite an uproar now?
He pushed the car door open, stepping out into the biting rain. He reached back, lifting Phoebe effortlessly into his arms to shield her from the wet streets. The sky above them was strangely melancholic, a bruised purple. As they waded toward the thick of the bodies, a sound washed over them, rhythmic and terrifying.
"Death to traitors... Death to traitors..."
"What happened, Father?" Phoebe asked, her voice small against the roar of the mob.
He held her tight against his large frame, using his broad shoulders to carve a path to investigate.
As they walked towards the crowd, Phoebe caught something in her eyes. Maybe something familiar.
And then, Phoebe stopped moving.
The rhythmic sucking of the popsicle ceased. She stiffened in her father's arms, her small hands suddenly gripping the collar of his coat. She began to climb, pulling herself higher up his neck with a sheer, desperate urgency that broke through his exhaustion.
"What are you doing, darling?" he asked, struggling to balance her weight.
The popsicle slipped from her fingers. It hit the wet concrete road, the bright colors bleeding away into the muddy, rain-slicked road. Phoebe stared straight ahead over the heads of the crowd.
"Mom?" she whispered.
That single syllable struck a deep, resonant chord of terror in his chest. "What do you see?" he demanded, turning his head, trying to follow her gaze.
"It's Mom," she repeated.
"Mom?" he echoed, profound confusion muddying his thoughts.
Before he could tighten his grip, Phoebe squirmed out of his arms. She dropped to the wet ground and slipped into the dense crowd.
"Phoebe!" he shouted, his voice finally cracking with panic. He threw his weight forward, chasing the flash of her icy blue hair, shoving citizens and guards aside. "Phoebe!"
He broke through the front line of the crowd. The chanting, which had seemed like background noise, suddenly deafened him. "Death to traitors!"
Then his eyes searched the centre.
A row of tall, iron-wrought pikes stood erected in the center of the square. Atop them sat the grotesque trophies of the King's justice. His breath hitched in his throat, choking off the air to his lungs. A half-stifled, broken sound scraped its way out of his mouth.
"Kris-te-n."
It was her. The same midnight hair that used to flow like silk was now hacked short, plastered to her cold skin by the relentless rain. The same platinum eyes that had always looked at him with such tremendous, overwhelming affection were wide open—hollow, glassy, and lifeless. The face that had pouted, that had cried, that had smiled and laughed and shown him a thousand beautiful emotions, was now frozen in a permanent, silent nightmare.
He stared at the spearhead. His wife. His everything.
No, his mind violently rejected the image. This is surely some kind of bad dream. A nightmare born of no sleep.
He stood frozen, a mountain of a man reduced to trembling stone, when a small, cold hand tugged at the fabric of his wet trousers. He looked down.
Phoebe was standing there, the haughtiness completely washed away. Her icy blue hair was plastered to her cheeks, and her eyes were shining with a mixture of rain and tears. She looked up at him, asking the one question he was desperately trying to deny.
"Is..." her voice broke, small and shattered. "Is that Mom?"
Then, the world broke.
The wet cobblestones beneath Phoebe's boots began to quake violently. Phoebe looked down at her hands and watched in horror as her small fingers stretched, her arms lengthening, her clothes shifting. In a matter of seconds, the twelve-year-old girl vanished, replaced by the adult she was meant to become.
The crowd's chanting faded into a dead silence. The earthquake stopped abruptly. Out of the lingering smog, three objects came rolling across the ground, stopping right at her feet.
Three heads. Her mother, Kristen. Verya. And Sarah Leodra, Nolan's mother.
"Ah-"
Phoebe shot up from her pillows, gasping for air. Her chest heaved as her hands instinctively grasped the tangled bedsheets, her eyes wide as she stared into the dark, quiet space of her bedroom.
"Nightmare," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Again."
A heavy wave of relief washed over her as the terrifying images faded back into the recesses of her mind. These dreams had become so frequent lately. She sat there for a long moment, letting her racing heart slow down to a normal rhythm. Reaching over to the nightstand, she grabbed her smartphone, the bright screen illuminating her pale face. It was time to get up. With a heavy sigh, she threw off the covers and forced herself to get ready for the day.
A short while later, she walked down the grand staircase and into the main hall of their home. It was a sprawling, luxurious space, the walls lined with a myriad of expensive, tasteful artwork. But despite the wealth, it always felt too big, too quiet.
Sitting on the plush sofa, holding the morning newspaper, was her father.
Phoebe paused at the bottom of the stairs, just watching him. The darkness from her dreams seemed to have followed him into the waking world. Deep, heavy bags lingered beneath his eyes—a permanent physical scar from years of sleepless nights.
She felt a sudden, sharp pang of sadness. When was the last time she had truly paid attention to her own father?
He had deteriorated over the years. He was still built like a tank, a massive man with broad shoulders, but he had grown noticeably thinner. His clothes hung on him a little looser now. Yet, the strangest part was how he looked whenever she entered a room. This giant of a man suddenly looked completely vulnerable. He looked like a stiff breeze could blow him over, and he wouldn't even raise a voice to complain. He looked like a man whose entire world was reduced to the single daughter standing in the hallway.
Which, she supposed, was true.
Usually, this was the part where she would look away. She would walk past him, announce briskly that she was leaving, and head out the door. She usually ate breakfast at a café or the academy. It wasn't because she hated her father. Far from it. It was just that the distance between them had become a comfortable routine. They had existed in this quiet, grieving house for so long that she simply didn't know how to take the first step to change it.
But as she stood there, a conversation from a particular night echoed in her mind.
Dammit, she cursed inwardly.
She hardened her jaw, gripped the strap of her bag, and forced herself to take a step forward.
Hearing the quiet thud of her boots, her father immediately set the newspaper aside and stood up. He didn't expect much. He expected her to just walk away, as she always did. He offered her a gentle, tired smile and repeated the same words he said every single morning. His voice was husky, mellowed by time and sorrow.
"Take care, Phoebe. Make sure to eat something good outside."
He nodded to her, then slowly sank back down onto the sofa, picking up his paper once more to let her pass.
But this time, Phoebe didn't walk to the front door.
Come on, Phoebe, she screamed at herself internally as she took a slow step toward the center of the room. Why is it so hard to speak to my own father? You have faced monsters. This is nothing.
Yet, somehow, her boots felt like they were made of lead. This simple walk across the carpet felt infinitely harder than fighting a threaded beast.
She stopped right in front of the sofa.
Hearing the pause in her footsteps, her father lowered his newspaper. He peeked over the top of the pages, his brow furrowing in mild confusion. Phoebe was just standing there, looking down at him. Her hands were curled into tight fists at her sides.
"Dad..." she started, but suddenly froze, causing her words to hang in the air.
She opened her mouth, closed it, and then forced the words out.
Come on, spit it out already.
"Ahem. Would you... would you like to have breakfast together?"
The large room went completely silent. Her father stared up at her, the newspaper slipping slightly in his hands, utterly speechless.