Chelsee offered him a tired but genuine smile. "
Then be the one who reminds me who I am—when I forget."
They hugged. It lingered.
Then she broke it gently and stepped away, cloak draped over her arm.
"I'm going home. To somewhere that isn't lit with neon and regret."
The island manor had a stillness that city life couldn't replicate.
Chelsee's heels clicked softly on polished stone floors as she stepped inside. She shed her shoes by the door. The tide whispered against the cliff base outside—far, steady, and strangely comforting. Her estate was modest by nobility standards, but elegant: high ceilings, vaulted arches, and a central skylight that caught moonlight like a promise.
She walked toward the kitchen, loosening her collar.
And stopped.
On the center of the table—
the letter.
The same velvet pouch she'd received earlier tonight sat atop a folded square of aged parchment.
But she hadn't brought it home.
She hadn't touched it since Ravvi handed it over.
Something was wrong.
Her eyes narrowed as she approached. Slowly, with reverent tension, she lifted the note.
The parchment unfurled with creases soft as breath. It wasn't printed—
handwritten, in dark red ink that smelled faintly of spiced iron.
The words read:
You wear your mask well. But the night always remembers what you are.
I watched your fall once. I wonder if I'll watch it again.
We are made of hunger, Chelsee Gray.
You just haven't stopped pretending you're full.
— B
The moonstone pendant had been replaced.
This one was cracked.
Just slightly.
But the fracture glowed.
Chelsee folded the letter back with shaking fingers.
For a long moment, she just stood there in her empty kitchen. Silent. Still.
Then she opened a hidden drawer in the cabinet beside her.
Inside sat a curved blade—ancient, silver-steeped, etched with runes from a forgotten tongue.
Her fingers curled around it with familiarity.
"Let him come," she whispered.
