Chapter 99: Seeds in the Dark
That night, sleep evaded Elara and Ariella. Beneath the weight of Albert's rejection, their hearts remained restless, heavy with unspoken questions and guilt. The wind howled outside their homes, yet a deeper chill clung to the air—one not born of nature but of looming dread.
A blue glow shimmered in their rooms simultaneously. Without a word, both girls rose, drawn to the light. When they closed their eyes, they were no longer in their beds, but standing in a crystalline chamber suspended in the stars.
The Blue and White Queens awaited them, their robes flowing like the tides, eyes piercing through time.
"You tried," the White Queen said solemnly.
"But his heart is clouded," added the Blue Queen. "Still, not lost."
Elara stepped forward, her voice shaky. "Is there truly hope for him?"
"There is a moment," the White Queen replied, "a window left ajar. His soul has not fully merged with the shadow. He clings to the pain, but beneath it, a child still whispers."
Ariella's eyes narrowed. "Then what do we do?"
"You must retrieve the Mirror Leaf," the Blue Queen said. "An ancient relic that reflects the soul's truth—not what is shown, but what is hidden. Only by seeing himself fully can Albert break free."
"Where is it?" Elara asked.
The chamber trembled, dimming the stars around them. The Queens exchanged a look.
"It lies where Mira once sought sanctuary. The sunken sanctuary, swallowed by the marsh after her banishment."
Before they could ask more, the dream unraveled like threads of smoke, and they awoke in their beds, gasping.
---
Meanwhile, the village began to change.
Dogs barked through the night at nothing. Children woke screaming from dreams they couldn't describe. Crops wilted despite watering. Water from the river turned bitter. One morning, a cow birthed a calf with two sets of eyes, all blind. The villagers spoke in hushed whispers now, clutching charms, avoiding the forest's edge.
Even the elders who once scorned Elara and Ariella grew uneasy. Something was pressing in, an invisible presence coiling around the village like a noose.
But amidst the fear, the girls knew—this was the shadow's influence creeping forward.
---
Deep within the forest, Albert returned to the old hut—not out of sentiment, but restlessness. Sleep never came easy anymore, and even when it did, it brought only half-memories of warmth and soft humming.
He wandered into the corner where Mira used to store herbs, brushing away a dusty curtain. Behind it, nestled inside a hollow brick, he found a leather-bound book—fragile, stained, and familiar.
His mother's diary.
He sat on the floor and began to read.
> "I speak to you every night, little one, though you cannot answer yet. You move when I cry, when I laugh. I think you feel my sorrow. I try not to weep too much."
> "I saw the Master again today. He came to the village to fight the girls and gain control. He almost killed the girls were it not for the guardians of the chosen ones who came to rescue the girls. He fears the girls now after what the guardians did to him and his son"
> "The Shrouded One returned also came today for the same purpose. He's like the shadow, like Shaza. They all fight the same war—one of control. All of them spill blood and call it peace."
Albert's hands trembled. Mira had seen so much. She had known what he had become part of—what he had chosen.
He turned another page.
> "I don't want you to grow up in hatred. I want you to be kind, even if the world isn't. You deserve warmth, not darkness."
His breath hitched.
This wasn't a woman who deserved to die in the snow. This wasn't a mother who would want vengeance. So why had Shaza convinced him otherwise?
A single tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away fiercely.
"She doesn't understand," he muttered. "She didn't see what I saw. She didn't feel what I felt."
But her words lingered.
---
Unseen, smoke coiled down from the rafters like a silent snake. A chill swept across the room.
Shaza had arrived.
"You read the diary," the voice whispered.
Albert stiffened. "She wrote lies."
"Did she?" Shaza's voice was soft, almost pitying. "Or did she simply write what she believed? It's common. Mothers dream of perfect futures. But dreams are fragile things, Albert. We live in the world of truth—where pain breeds strength."
Albert stood, clutching the diary to his chest. "She didn't want this. Not revenge. Not destruction."
Shaza's smoke form darkened the room like a void, his essence spiraling toward the boy.
"And yet, you survived because of me, not her. When she was gone, who fed you? Who taught you to strike instead of beg? Who gave you power when the world would have buried you?"
Albert's knees weakened.
"You did."
"Yes, my son," Shaza whispered, placing a smoky tendril on Albert's shoulder. "Don't let her ghost fill you with doubt. Her dreams died the day she froze in the woods. You live because you chose strength. Don't forget that."
The smoke curled tighter, not choking—but cloaking, dulling the light inside Albert. The flicker of warmth he'd felt reading the diary dimmed.
He nodded slowly.
"You're right."
"I always am," Shaza said gently. "Now come. There's more to be done."
As they disappeared into the trees, Mira's diary fell from Albert's hand, landing face up in the dirt.
A breeze stirred the pages, stopping at one line:
> "If you ever read this, my child, know that no matter what you become, I loved you before I knew your name."