"I watched her die." That day would forever be etched into her mind, preserved with merciless clarity, every single detail down to the weather itself. It had been a pleasant spring afternoon, the kind filled with gentle warmth and cloudless blue skies, as though the world had chosen to celebrate while hers was quietly unraveling. It was, without question, one of the worst days she had ever lived through.

Just three days after Rowen was born, Circe had sat at her mother’s bedside, her fingers wrapped tightly around Thalora’s hand, unwilling to loosen her grip. She had watched the slow, fragile rhythm of her breathing falter then cease. She had watched her mother close her eyes for the very last time. "And I watched her burn on the funeral pyre."

She would like to believe that her mother was somehow alive out there. She wanted to cling to that possibility with everything she had. But there was no reality she could imagine where such a thing could be true.

Yet the priestess’s unseeing gaze remained fixed on her unnervingly, as though she were looking far beyond Circe’s body and straight into the marrow of her being.

"Your soul might be ancient, but there is still so much you are unaware of," the priestess said. "And that will remain the case until you can access your power to its fullest."

Her voice no longer carried that deep, resonant timbre and it had returned to its earlier cadence. "Your mother lives, no matter how hard it is for you to believe. She is out there, unaware of the world around her and in a state not much different from that of the other half of her soul. But even my knowledge and power are limited. I cannot tell you where she is. Only her sisters can feel her essence strongly enough to track her. And since one of them is unable to... it leaves only one."

Which meant Circe was, once again, beholden to Dena.

The fragile excitement she had felt at finally receiving answers was swiftly eclipsed by trepidation and a creeping sense of dread. After years of grieving, of forcing herself to accept that her mother was gone, learning that she might still be alive planted something dangerous inside her, a small, stubborn seed of hope.

Hope that she could find her. Hope that she could finally demand the truth about everything that had been hidden from her. Hope that when all of this was over, Rowen might know his mother, an opportunity that had been stolen from him.

"What about my other dreams?" Circe asked quickly, the question spilling out before she could stop herself. "The ones where I see visions and moments from the past?"

"They are manifestations of your power," the priestess replied. "There is little more I can tell you. You must become attuned to it. Your instincts will speak as you move through life, and when they do, it is imperative that you listen."

As Circe left the temple, her mind churned with a tumult of emotions, relief tangled with agitation. The answers she had sought had come, but they had only opened the door to questions far more complicated.

It was no surprise, then, that when she fell asleep that night, she found herself once more in the cave from her dreams.

Before she could rise from the slab of cold stone on which she lay, Dena’s voice reverberated through the cavern, echoing along its walls.

"I see that you have been making inquiries about me."

There was something threaded through her tone, something Circe could not quite decipher.

Circe had almost forgotten that Dena could still access her thoughts. She pushed herself upright and turned toward the voice. It sounded close and when she faced it, she found Dena standing only a few feet away.

"And I’m glad I did," Circe replied evenly, holding her gaze. "How else would I have learned all the things you deliberately kept from me?"

Now she knew where Dena had come from. She knew the truth of her heritage.

"And it’s all because of that husband of yours." There it was—that hateful tone Dena always used when speaking of Ragnar or any other vampire. Her lips curled into a sneer that seemed carved from pure contempt. "I should have gotten rid of him long ago, along with the rest of his wretched kind."

A warning bell rang sharply in Circe’s mind. The malice oozed Dena’s words and it ignited an instinctive urge to retreat, to put as much distance between them as possible.

Dena had always spoken disparagingly about vampires. That was nothing new. But this was different. It felt more personal now.

Circe could not speak for all vampires. Yet during her time in Lamora, she had met many, some who were cruel but others who were undeserving of such hatred. Mina. Elara. Casilo. So many who had shown her kindness without hesitation.

And Ragnar, most of all, did not deserve it.

So Circe held her ground. She even took a step closer, though every instinct screamed at her to turn and flee.

It was not her responsibility to change Dena’s beliefs. But she did have questions that demanded answers.

"Where is my mother?" she asked, surprised by how calm her voice sounded in the charged silence.

"She is exactly where she deserves to be for what she did to our sister and for how irrevocably she doomed her own kind simply to chase after her foolish desires. Even if she had truly died, it still would not have been enough," Dena seethed, the disdain in her tone sharp enough to cut.

Yet she still had not answered the question.

"My mother has been alive, and you knew all this time." It was no longer phrased as a question.

It always felt like a standoff whenever Circe confronted her aunt, and now was no different from all the other times, except that Circe could now see the minute shifts in Dena’s expression, the faint cracks in the carefully constructed mask she wore so often in Circe’s presence. Through those fissures, Circe glimpsed something darker, something long concealed: a quiet, simmering malevolence.

"I did," Dena replied, her posture rigid. "I felt it the moment her human form gave out. When she did not cross over the veil, I celebrated. I rejoiced because it meant she was condemned to the very same faith she forced upon our sister decades ago. Your mother has only been asleep for eight years. Eight years is nothing compared to thirty."

"And you will never regain your full power, not without my mother. Not even if you manage to revive the other half of your soul," Circe said, her voice steady despite the storm building inside her.

"If you truly believe that, then you are as foolish as Thalora. Like mother, like daughter," Dena said derisively. "I can feel her essence within you every time I summon you here, and it grows stronger as your power continues to manifest. Why would I need Thalora when so much of her already lives in you? You would suffice perfectly. You were born for a reason, to mend your mother’s mistakes and restore the power of the Liraelith to what it once was. It is your duty."