"One more thing," Thalia said quietly. "Cordelia told me why I was really taken in 1987. My bloodline was needed to complete an ancient prophecy. One that's coming to fruition."
"What prophecy?" I asked.
"When the star-bearers' children quicken, the lost daughter shall return to stand witness," Thalia recited. "The breaking of bonds, the cleansing of corruption, the birth of power that will reshape the magical world."
"You're the lost daughter," I realized.
She nodded grimly. "And during the eclipse, I fulfill my destiny. Whatever that means."
Despite that, I felt something I hadn't experienced in weeks. Hope. We might be outnumbered. We might be facing an enemy with tons of stolen power. But we had something Lyra had never possessed. We had each other. Sometimes, that made all the difference.
CHAPTER 13
The sunrise came too soon and not soon enough. We’d put in hours of frantic work establishing refugee sleeping arrangements and trying to coordinate a defense against an enemy who seemed to anticipate our every move. Aidon had finally dragged me outside for what he called self-care. Translation: He was worried I'd collapse from exhaustion before Lyra even showed up.
"You need five minutes to breathe," he insisted, settling me into one of the Adirondack chairs on the back deck. "The babies need you calm, and I need you functional."
"I am functional," I protested, though even I could hear the exhaustion in my voice.
"You're running on adrenaline and pure stubbornness," he replied. His power curled protectively around both of us as the first rays of sunlight painted the sky in shades of gold and pink. "That's not sustainable."
“Thank you,” I told him as I grabbed his hand and leaned back in the chair.
The morning was deceptively peaceful. Birds chirped in the trees that our Fae refugees had enhanced overnight. They’d added protective enchantments. The ocean whispered againstthe shore beyond our property line. For just a moment, I could almost pretend we were a normal couple enjoying a quiet sunrise instead of supernatural beings preparing for war.
Of course, I should have known it was a mistake to let my guard down. That was when I was suddenly somewhere else entirely. I was standing in a cramped cottage. A young girl, maybe twelve years old, was hunched over a wooden table covered in spell components. Her dark hair hung in greasy strings around a face marked by hunger. Even at that age, I recognized Lyra's distinctive bone structure. Holy shit. What was this?
"Please work," the child whispered. Her small hands were shaking as she arranged crystals. "Mama needs this to work."
Through the vision's strange clarity, I could see the woman lying on a cot nearby. She was wasting away from some disease that made her skin gray, and her breathing labored. The girl's magic was raw and untrained. Yet powerful enough to make the air shimmer with potential.
The healing spell failed. They were incredibly difficult to do. The crystals cracked, releasing stored energy in a violent burst. The young Lyra was knocked backward into the wall. And her mother's breathing stopped. On ho! My heart began racing in my chest.
The scene shifted, and I watched as neighbors turned away from the grieving child. Whispers followed her through their small village: "Cursed." "Dangerous." "Should have been properly trained." "Her mother would be alive if she'd controlled her power."
I watched as Lyra grew older in flashes. It was like pages turning in a book. One written in blood. Each failed attempt to find acceptance changed her. Each rejection by potential mentors scarred her. And each lonely night led her to experiment with progressively darker magic.
"If they won't teach me," teenage Lyra snarled at her reflection in a cracked mirror, "then I'll learn to take what I need."
Her first parasitic spell was crude. She had latched onto a dying animal and tried to steal its remaining life force. She told herself she wanted to understand how healing magic flowed in reverse. The reality was that she wanted the power. That was why the creature died. There were no tears as Lyra relished magic rushing through her veins like liquid fire. For the first time since her mother's death, she was in control. That was her turning point.
"Phoebe," Aidon's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Phoebe, come back."
I blinked, gasping as the vision released me. My cheeks were wet with tears I didn't remember shedding. "She was just a child," I whispered. My hands went to my belly, where the triplets were stirring restlessly. "She killed her mother by accident and turned evil when she tried to make up for it."
"Who?" Aidon asked.
"Lyra. I saw her childhood. Her first experiments with stealing magic." I wiped my eyes. My heart ached for the lonely girl who'd grown into a monster. "She wasn't born evil. She was made that way by grief and isolation."
“That is unfortunate. But she made a choice,” Aidon pointed out. “She willingly went down that path. And it doesn't excuse what she's become. Or what she's trying to do to our children."
"I know," I said quickly. "I'm not making excuses for her. But understanding how she became this way might help us stop her."
The back door opened, and Jean-Marc stepped out with his laptop clutched against his chest. "Mom, Dad, we've got a problem. A big one."
My shoulders slumped as I gestured to one of the chairs. "What now?"
"I've been analyzing the anchor feedback patterns all night," he said, settling into the chair next to mine. "The data is showing things we never suspected."
