Page 26 of Hero of Havoc

Another thing I’ll never know.

There’s still uncertainty about the fact that their magic became enhanced from grounding me, which hasn’t been discussed yet, but I couldn’t process that on top of everything else I absorbed yesterday.

One thing is for sure: I feel different. I can’t quite decipher how, but I almost feel… lighter.

All I have to do now is pry my eyes open, wrangle my limbs out of bed, and find the strength to get my butt over to the dining hall to eat, then I can consider what the rest of my day looks like.

Regardless, I’m in charge today. Of my thoughts, my feelings, my actions.

All of it.

The sound of a throat clearing yanks me from the final tendrils of sleep.

My eyes snap open, my gaze swinging to find the source of the sound as my heart ricochets in my chest and fear spikes through my veins. The feeling doesn't subside as my gaze settles on a familiar silhouette.

Sapphira Hayworth.

My mother.

She stands at the foot of my bed, hands on her hips as she heaves every breath.

I blink at her in disbelief. First, at the mere sight of her, followed swiftly by the condition she’s in.

This woman has always been so poised, so pristinely put together, not even a single strand of hair out of place.

That's all I remember of her from my childhood. Every memory I have of her is the same. She’s always been manicured to perfection, right up until the day of my not-wedding. Technically, right up until the night I was killed, but thinking about that threatens to send me into a spiral.

Instead, I recall the last time she invaded my personal space. She looked completely disheveled then too, but somehow, this is worse. Especially by her standards.

Her hair is twisted into a messy bun, precariously balanced on top of her head, and she wears a thin-thread sweater and worn-in jeans. To anybody else, she would be unrecognizable, but me? Those narrowed eyes are imprinted on my soul.

I press my lips in a thin line as I watch her fingers steeple on her hips as she glares at me. All of her decorum is gone.

Her lips purse as she sniffs. “I hear you had a run-in with Leonardo,” she states. “Was your father beside him?”

I need a moment to compose myself. Dragging a hand down my face, shuffling to sit, leaning back against the headboard. She’s jittery, shuffling from foot to foot as she waits expectantly for my answer.

Instead of gracing her with what she wants, I cock a brow at her. “Why haven't you been with him?” I ask, wiping the remaining sleep from my eyes.

“With who?” she barks back, and I fight the desire to roll my eyes.

“Father.”

She sniffs again, her gaze darting to the window for a moment. “We’re waiting to relocate,” she answers, her finger tapping growing more incessant.

“In what sense?” I push, and her gaze returns to mine, eyes as narrowed as ever.

“It's none of your business.”

I run my tongue along my bottom lip, refusing to give up. “Why haven't you gone home?” I ask, the state of her confirming my assumption, and she scoffs.

“Still none of your business.”

Irritation coils inside of me. “Then why are you here? Why are you in my space? Again?”

She slams her hand against the bottom beam of my four-poster bed, making the whole thing rattle with a level of strength I didn't know she had.

“Stop asking so many questions,” she snarls, her nostrils flared as desperation seeps from her bones.