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Chapter Text

~~~~ Scarred Steel, Tender Hearts ~~~~

I

~~~~ Scarred Steel, Tender Hearts ~~~~

The Highland Estate stretched across three thousand acres of moor and glen, its boundaries marked not by fences but by ancient ward stones that hummed with protective energy. From the outside, it appeared to be nothing more than another crumbling Scottish manor—the kind tourists photographed from a distance before moving on to more accessible attractions. They never looked too closely, never wondered why the windows always seemed dark or why no roads led directly to the gates.

The wards ensured they didn't.

But more than that, the wards were alive in a way that defied human understanding. The Aegis itself was not merely an organization but a force, an ancient consciousness that had guided humanity's defenders for millennia. It chose its Huntresses through means that remained mysterious even to the Council, reaching across bloodlines and borders to touch those with the potential to serve. Only women could hear its call, only women could channel its power—a fact that had remained constant since the order's founding. The ward stones were extensions of its will, fragments of crystallized purpose that recognized friend from foe with absolute certainty.

And they had been singing to Alexis Blackwood since the moment of her birth—the birth that had cost everything.

Alexis had been born within those boundaries twelve years ago, the only child ever recorded among active Huntresses. The mutations that made Huntresses stronger, faster, more resilient than normal humans also made pregnancy nearly impossible and childbirth often fatal. The secrecy required for their work, the constant travel and danger, the tight-knit team structure that left no room for personal relationships—all of it conspired to ensure that Huntresses lived and died alone, leaving no daughters to carry on anything but their mission.

Lydia Blackwood had been the exception, and it had destroyed her.

The wards' reaction to Alexis's arrival had been unprecedented—instead of passive acceptance, the ancient stones had blazed with silver fire, their protective energy surging to levels that hadn't been recorded in centuries. The newborn infant had been glowing with the same radiance, her tiny body channeling power that should have been impossible for someone so young.

But three weeks later, Lydia was dead. So was Marcus Chen, the male liaison who had been assigned to their team—one of the few men permitted any contact with active Huntresses, and only for logistical support. And Ingrid had been left alone with an infant whose very existence might have triggered the events that killed her closest friend.

The marks that spiraled up Alexis's arms from elbow toward shoulder had appeared at birth—intricate patterns that resembled demonic script but burned with Aegis energy. Ingrid had been the only one present during the delivery, the only one who saw the true extent of what Alexis carried in her blood. In the chaos that followed—the emergency that had called the team away on what should have been a routine hunt, the bodies they'd found torn apart by something that had known exactly how to kill experienced Huntresses—those marks had been covered, hidden, kept secret.

Twelve years later, only Ingrid knew what Alexis Blackwood truly was.

The official record stated that Lydia Blackwood had died in combat against unknown supernatural forces while on maternity leave. Marcus Chen's death was attributed to the same incident. No mention was made of the timing, of the fact that they'd left their secure location because of reports that later proved false, of the way their bodies had been arranged like a message.

No mention was made of the newborn whose heritage might have drawn attention from things that should have remained sleeping.

"Today we test your progress against shadow demons," Ingrid announced, moving to the altar stone with practiced precision. Her voice was steady, professional, but Alexis had learned to read the subtle signs—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her gray eyes never quite met Alexis's directly when discussing combat.

Ingrid had been training her for twelve years with methodical thoroughness, following the Aegis protocols for developing gifted candidates. The Hunt had always been exclusively female—men simply couldn't form the necessary connection to the ancient force, couldn't channel its power through their physiology. But underneath Ingrid's clinical instruction, beneath the careful guidance and tactical knowledge, there was something else. Something that made their isolation on the Estate feel less like protection and more like quarantine.

"Manchester cell reports suggest coordinated activity," Ingrid continued, beginning the summoning ritual. "The Council wants to assess your operational readiness."

The Council. All women, all veterans of decades of hunting, all completely unaware that they were considering deploying a half-demon into the field. Alexis had never met any of them, had never been permitted contact with other Huntresses beyond brief, distant sightings during hunts. Officially, this was for security—her unique capabilities required specialized training that was best conducted in isolation. Unofficially, Alexis suspected it had more to do with the secret they carried.

Her crystal blade materialized without conscious effort, responding to the connection that had been evident since birth. The weapon was an extension of the ancient force itself, channeled through her unique physiology into something that could cut through both physical and supernatural defenses with equal ease.

But as the power flowed through the marks on her arms, making them glow with silver fire, Alexis caught the expression that flashed across Ingrid's face. It was there for just a moment before professional composure reasserted itself—a look of pain and revulsion that spoke of old grief and older blame.

Dark energy began pooling in the carved grooves of the altar stone as Ingrid's summoning ritual took hold. The barrier between dimensions thinned, and Alexis felt her connection to the Aegis strengthen, the marks on her arms brightening as power coursed through them. Her demonic heritage allowed her to perceive and channel energies that purely human Huntresses could only access through extensive training and meditation.

Where other women struggled to maintain their link to the Aegis during intense supernatural activity, Alexis found her connection growing clearer, more immediate, fed by the very blood that marked her as an abomination.

A shape began to coalesce above the altar—humanoid but wrong, shadows given form and malice. The shadow demon manifested with shifting features and impossible claws, but Alexis was already receiving tactical analysis from the Aegis before the creature had fully materialized. Its strengths, weaknesses, preferred attack patterns flowed through her consciousness with crystal clarity.

The demon turned its attention to her, and she felt its initial hunger shift to confusion. Its head tilted, nostrils flaring, and she saw recognition dawn in its inhuman features.

"You burn with their fire," it whispered, voice like grinding stone, "but underneath... I know that scent. Old blood. Forbidden blood." Its eyes widened with something approaching fear. "A daughter of two worlds. What are you, little Blackwood?"

The use of her surname sent ice through Alexis's veins. It knew who she was, knew her lineage, knew exactly what her existence meant.

"Begin," Ingrid commanded sharply, tension radiating from every line of her body.

Alexis moved with the fluid precision that the Aegis's guidance provided, her blade finding the demon's core in a single, economical strike. The creature dissolved with a sound like breaking glass, its knowledge dying with it.

"Efficient," Ingrid said, but there was no warmth in the praise. There never was. "Though you allowed it to speak longer than necessary. In the field, information security is paramount."

Information security. As if the demon's recognition of her bloodline was just another tactical consideration rather than a threat to everything they'd built here.

"It knew my name," Alexis said quietly, touching the marks on her arms where they burned beneath her sleeves. "My mother's name."

"Which is why operational security matters," Ingrid replied coldly. "Your heritage remains classified for good reason. The moment the Council learns what Lydia Blackwood truly created, this arrangement ends."

The words carried weight beyond their surface meaning. The Hunt had always been pure, its members chosen from human bloodlines for their ability to channel the Aegis's power. The moment other Huntresses learned that one of their most legendary sisters had given birth to something that carried enemy blood...

"My mother," Alexis began, then stopped. She'd tried to ask about Lydia before, but Ingrid's reactions were always the same—a flash of pain followed by cold dismissal.

"Your mother was the finest Huntress of her generation," Ingrid said, her voice carefully controlled. "She died because she made choices that compromised everything the Hunt stands for. Don't repeat her mistakes."

The implication was clear: Lydia's relationship with Alexis's father, her pregnancy, her decision to give birth despite the risks—all of it had been a betrayal of the sisterhood that had trusted her, had led to weakness that cost lives.

"The team that was with you when my mother died," Alexis said carefully. "What happened to them?"

Ingrid's gray eyes flashed with something raw and dangerous. "Lydia Blackwood died because her choices drew attention we weren't prepared for. Because her betrayal of everything the Hunt represents had consequences she couldn't anticipate." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Because some abominations are too dangerous to exist, no matter how useful they might be."

The words hit like a physical blow. In that moment, Alexis understood the true nature of their relationship—not mentor and student, but warden and prisoner. Ingrid trained her not out of care or belief in her potential, but because the Aegis had commanded it, and because the alternative was admitting that Lydia Blackwood's death had been for nothing.

Another summoning circle began to glow, and Alexis felt the Aegis preparing to feed her information about the next opponent. But now, for the first time, she found herself wondering whether everything she'd been told about her mother's death was the complete truth, or whether there were pieces missing from the story—pieces that might explain why Ingrid looked at her with such carefully controlled resentment.

The second demon materialized in the circle, larger and more aggressive than the first. As Alexis moved to engage it, guided by the perfect tactical awareness that flowed through her marked arms, she caught sight of Ingrid's expression.

There was anticipation there, and calculation, and beneath it all, the kind of desperate hope that belonged to someone who had spent twelve years waiting for a chance at redemption—or revenge against the bloodline that had destroyed everything she'd once believed in.

The blade whistled through empty air where Alexis's head had been a heartbeat before. She rolled, gravel biting through her training leathers, and came up with her crystal dagger already moving toward the shadow demon's exposed flank. The Aegis weapon blazed with silver fire as it cut through the air, responding to her enhanced connection with deadly precision.

The creature twisted with inhuman speed, claws raking across her shoulder, tearing fabric and flesh alike. But as the demon's talons found purchase, it recoiled with a shriek of confusion and pain. The marks hidden beneath Alexis's sleeve had flared with protective energy, turning what should have been mortal wounds into shallow cuts.

Pain bloomed white-hot and immediate. Alexis hissed through gritted teeth but didn't slow, spinning the blade in her grip and driving it upward into the demon's core. Crystal met shadow with a sound like breaking glass, and the creature dissolved into wisps of darkness that dissipated in the Highland wind.

"Too slow." Ingrid's voice cut through the sudden silence, sharp as winter steel. "If that had been a greater demon, you'd be dead. Again."

Alexis straightened, pressing her palm against the bleeding wounds on her shoulder. Her demonic heritage was already working to close them—accelerated healing that made her far more resilient than any purely human Huntress. The sting lingered though, a reminder that even with supernatural advantages, she had failed to meet Ingrid's impossible standards.

"I landed the killing blow," she said, watching the silver fire fade from her blade as it returned to dormant crystal.

"After taking unnecessary damage." Ingrid stepped from the shadows of the ancient stone circle, her silver hair pulled back in its usual severe braid, gray eyes cold as the Highland sky. Those eyes lingered on Alexis's healing shoulder with an expression that might have been disappointment—or something darker. "A wounded Huntress is a liability. A dead Huntress is useless."

The criticism settled like lead in Alexis's stomach. At twelve, she'd killed more demons than most Huntresses saw in a lifetime. Her connection to the Aegis was stronger than anyone in recorded history, her blade had manifested two years earlier than the previous youngest candidate, and she could channel power that left veteran Huntresses in awe. But it was never enough. Never clean enough, fast enough, perfect enough.

Not for the woman who blamed her very existence for the death of her dearest friend.

"Again," Ingrid commanded, gesturing to the summoning circle carved into the stone. "And this time, don't let it touch you."

Alexis wanted to argue that shadow demons were nearly impossible to avoid completely—their claws could stretch and bend in ways that defied physics, and their speed rivaled her own enhanced reflexes. But she'd learned years ago that explanations were just excuses in Ingrid's estimation. The older woman began the summoning ritual, dark energy pooling in the carved grooves of stones that had witnessed a thousand years of such training.

While Ingrid worked, Alexis checked her gear with practiced efficiency. Her crystal dagger had returned to its dormant state, the silver fire that marked it as an Aegis weapon barely visible along its edges. The smaller throwing knives tucked into her boots were mundane steel—deadly enough against lesser threats, but useless against anything truly dangerous. Her leather armor, reinforced with steel wire and blessed silver threading, had held against the demon's claws except where they'd found the gap at her shoulder.

She touched the new wounds gingerly, feeling them seal under her fingers. The accelerated healing was a gift from her father's bloodline, one of the few benefits of her hybrid nature. Sometimes she wondered if Ingrid pushed her so hard precisely because she knew Alexis could take more damage than a normal child, could recover from wounds that would cripple or kill others her age.

The thought made her chest tight with something she couldn't name—an emotion that had no tactical value and therefore no place in her training.

Another shadow demon materialized in the circle, this one larger than the last. Its eyes fixed on Alexis with predatory hunger, then widened with recognition as it scented her hybrid nature. She felt the familiar spike of adrenaline that came before combat, mixed with the darker thrill of power flowing through the marks on her arms.

"Little half-blood," the demon hissed, its voice like grinding glass. "I smell the old darkness in you. Why do you serve those who would destroy us?"

"Begin," Ingrid commanded sharply before Alexis could respond.

This time, she moved with the fluid grace that marked her as something beyond human. The Aegis fed her tactical information through their enhanced connection, showing her the demon's weaknesses and blind spots with crystal clarity. She danced around its claws like water, reading its movements before it made them, her blade finding its mark three times in quick succession—flank, shoulder, throat—each strike precise and economical.

The creature crumbled to shadow-dust without landing a single blow, its final expression one of profound confusion at being killed by something that shared its nature.

"Better." Ingrid's tone held no warmth, but Alexis felt a small flutter of pride anyway. "But you're still thinking too much. In a real engagement, hesitation kills."

"I wasn't hesitating—"

"You paused before the throat strike. Half a second, but enough for a clever demon to exploit." Ingrid waved her hand, and another summoning circle began to glow with eldritch light. "A greater demon would have read that pause and torn your head off."

Alexis bit back her protest. She hadn't paused—she'd been receiving guidance from the Aegis, processing tactical data that flowed through her enhanced connection faster than conscious thought. But in Ingrid's world, any delay was weakness, any consideration was failure.

The third demon was a hulking brute, all muscle and rage. It charged the moment it materialized, giving Alexis no time to think, only react. The Aegis blazed through her consciousness with combat instructions, and she moved in perfect synchronization with its guidance. She rolled under the creature's first swing, came up behind it, and drove her crystal dagger into the base of its skull with surgical precision.

It dropped like a stone, dark energy dissipating before its body hit the ground.

"Again."

The pattern continued for hours. Demon after demon materialized in the circle, each one requiring her to adapt and adjust her tactics. Some recognized her hybrid nature and tried to reason with her before she killed them. Others sensed only the silver fire of the Aegis burning in her soul and attacked with desperate fury. A few seemed confused by the contradiction she represented, hesitating just long enough for her blade to find their hearts.

All of them died. All of them added to the weight of questions she couldn't ask.

"Again."

"Again."

By the tenth demon, Alexis's leather armor was soaked with sweat despite the cool Highland air. Her shoulder wound had reopened twice before her healing factor finally sealed it permanently, leaving dark stains on her sleeve. Her hands trembled slightly from fatigue, but she kept her grip steady on her weapon, the crystal blade maintaining its deadly edge despite hours of use.

"Enough for today." Ingrid finally called a halt as the sun touched the horizon, painting the ancient stones in shades of gold and crimson. "Clean your gear. Tend your wounds. We leave for Inverness before dawn."

The words hit Alexis like lightning. Inverness meant leaving the Estate for the first time since her mother's death. It meant her first real mission, her first chance to prove that twelve years of training had created something worthy of the Aegis legacy—or something that needed to be eliminated.

"Is this it?" she asked, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. "My field assessment?"

"It is a mission," Ingrid replied carefully, studying Alexis with those cold gray eyes. "Whether it becomes your assessment depends entirely on your performance." Her gaze lingered on the fading stains where Alexis's blood had soaked through her armor. "The reports from Inverness suggest a nest of shadow weavers. Possibly led by a greater demon. They've killed three humans in the past month—made it look like accidents, but the signs are unmistakable to those who know what to look for."

Shadow weavers were cunning, patient hunters. They could manipulate darkness itself, turning shadows into weapons or hiding places. And if there was a greater demon coordinating their attacks, directing their movements with intelligence and purpose...

"How many?" Alexis asked, her mind already running through tactical considerations.

"Unknown. Could be as few as five, as many as twenty." Ingrid's expression remained neutral, but there was something sharp in her tone. "You'll be taking point."

The words hit like a physical blow. Taking point meant leading the operation, making the critical decisions, bearing full responsibility for success or failure. She'd trained for this moment her entire life, but now that it had arrived, doubt crept in like Highland mist.

"I'm ready," she said automatically, though her stomach clenched with uncertainty.

"Are you?" Ingrid stepped closer, her presence suddenly oppressive. "Today you hesitated. Tomorrow, people's lives will depend on your speed, your certainty, your absolute commitment to the mission. There is no room for doubt, no allowance for the confusion I saw in your eyes when those demons recognized what you are."

The accusation hung between them like a blade. Alexis felt her throat close with the weight of words she couldn't speak, questions she wasn't allowed to ask. Why did the demons know her scent? Why did they call her half-blood with such certainty? Why did Ingrid's expression turn to granite whenever they spoke of her heritage?

"I won't fail," she managed finally, the words coming out harder than intended.

Something flickered in Ingrid's expression—too quick to read, gone before Alexis could identify it. Pain, perhaps. Or regret. "See that you don't. The Aegis has invested too much in your development to accept anything less than perfection." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "And I have sacrificed too much to watch you make the same mistakes your mother did."

The words hit like ice water. For the first time, Ingrid had directly connected Alexis to Lydia Blackwood's failures, had spoken aloud the blame that had simmered beneath every training session for twelve years.

"What mistakes?" Alexis asked, though she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

"Questions for another time," Ingrid said, turning away. "Tonight, prepare. Tomorrow, we learn whether you're truly ready to serve, or whether some bloodlines are too dangerous to trust."

That night, Alexis lay in her narrow bed staring at the ceiling while her mind raced through everything she knew about shadow weavers, every possible tactic, every way the mission could go catastrophically wrong. But underneath the tactical planning, darker thoughts swirled like smoke.

The demons had recognized her. Called her half-blood with certainty that spoke of knowledge, not speculation. And Ingrid's reaction to their words had been fear, not confusion.

She pulled up her sleeve and studied the marks that spiraled up her arm, glowing faintly in the darkness of her room. They pulsed with silver fire that matched her blade's energy, but their resemblance to demonic script was undeniable. Were they a sign of corruption, as she'd always feared? Or were they something else entirely—a bridge between worlds that made her the perfect weapon against supernatural threats?

Tomorrow would bring answers, whether she wanted them or not.

In the room below, Ingrid sat alone at the kitchen table, staring into the dying flames of the fireplace. On the table before her lay a small photograph, its edges worn soft from years of handling. Three Huntresses smiled back at her from captured sunlight—Lydia Blackwood in the center, radiant with the confidence of youth and power, flanked by her teammates in a moment of perfect camaraderie.

Before the seduction. Before the pregnancy. Before the deaths that had torn their team apart and left Ingrid alone with a secret that could destroy everything the Aegis represented.

"She's strong, Lydia," she whispered to the central figure, tracing her friend's face with trembling fingers. "Stronger than any of us ever were. But will it be enough to undo what you did? Or will she finish what you started?"

The fire crackled, offering no answers. Outside, the wind picked up, howling through the stones of the ancient circle where shadows still lingered from the day's training—and where tomorrow's reckoning waited in the form of a half-demon child who might be humanity's salvation or its doom.

~~~~

The shouting started again just as Kira was getting into the flow of her latest sketch. Her pencil stilled against the paper, a half-finished dragon's wing left suspended in graphite and possibility. Downstairs, her father's voice boomed through the thin walls of their cramped Glasgow tenement, something about bills and responsibility and how they couldn't keep living like this.

Her mother's response was sharp enough to cut glass, though Kira couldn't make out the words. She didn't need to. It was always the same fight wearing different clothes—money, work, the future they couldn't afford and the past they couldn't escape.

Kira reached for her headphones with one hand while her other continued sketching, muscle memory guiding the pencil to complete the dragon's wing in smooth, confident strokes. Music flooded her ears—some indie band she'd discovered last week whose sound felt like colors she couldn't name. It helped, but not enough. Her brain was already spinning, jumping from the unfinished dragon to the half-written story on her laptop to the melody that had been stuck in her head for three days but refused to translate into anything she could play.

Her room was a testament to a mind that moved too fast for any one project to contain it. Notebooks covered every surface—some filled with story fragments, others with song lyrics that almost worked, still others with sketches that ranged from anime characters to architectural impossibilities. Her desk was a archaeology of abandoned ideas: a guitar with two broken strings she kept meaning to replace, watercolor paints dried into unusable chunks, a keyboard buried under printouts of chord progressions she'd found online.

The dragon on her current page stared back at her with one complete eye, the other still just a suggestion of lines. She'd started drawing it after watching a documentary about Scottish folklore, but somewhere in the process it had stopped being a creature from legend and started being something else entirely. Something with too-knowing eyes and scales that caught light like crystal.

Downstairs, something crashed. Kira's pencil jumped, leaving an unintended mark across the dragon's snout. She stared at the ruined line for a moment, then tore the page from her sketchbook and crumpled it with more force than necessary.

"Focus," she muttered to herself, reaching for a fresh page. But her brain was already three steps ahead, cataloguing all the other things she should be doing instead. The history essay that was due Monday. The video editing project she'd started for her media studies class. The song that lived in her head like an itch she couldn't scratch.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh. A text from Jamie, her only real friend at school: Parents fighting again?

Kira glanced at her door, where the muffled sounds of domestic warfare continued their familiar rhythm. Jamie lived two floors down and probably had a front-row seat to the MacLeod family drama whether he wanted it or not.

When aren't they? she typed back.

Want to come down? Mum's making tablet. *

The offer was tempting—Jamie's flat was warm and quiet, his mum was kind in a way that didn't ask too many questions, and homemade tablet was basically heaven in candy form. But leaving meant walking past her parents, meant potential questions about where she was going and when she'd be back, meant being perceived when all she wanted was to disappear into her projects until the world made sense again.

Rain check? In the middle of something.

Always are. Don't forget to eat, yeah?

Kira smiled despite herself. Jamie was one of the few people who seemed to understand that her chaos wasn't laziness or lack of focus—it was the opposite. Too much focus, scattered across too many things, like a laser pointer being waved around a dark room.

She turned back to her fresh page, but instead of starting another drawing, found herself writing. Words spilled out in her untidy handwriting, fragments of a story about a girl who could step between worlds, who collected broken things and made them beautiful again. It wasn't planned—none of her best work ever was. Planning was for people whose brains moved in straight lines.

The arguing downstairs reached a crescendo, her mother's voice hitting a pitch that made Kira's teeth ache even through her headphones. She turned the music up louder and kept writing, pouring her scattered attention into the story like water into a desperate plant.

Her protagonist—she'd called her Luna, though she wasn't sure why—found herself in a forest made of crystallized music. Every tree sang a different melody, and the harmony they created together was almost too beautiful to bear. Luna could hear the songs that were missing, the notes that would complete the symphony, but every time she reached for them, they slipped away like smoke.

Kira paused, her hand cramping from the rapid scrawl. The story felt too real, too close to something that lived in her chest like a constant ache. She'd been chasing music for years now—guitar lessons that never quite clicked, piano tutorials on YouTube that she'd watch obsessively before losing interest, singing along to every song she loved but never quite finding her own voice in the melodies.

Her parents had been supportive, in their way. They'd bought her the guitar for her birthday two years ago, back when they still had money for birthdays. Her dad had driven her to lessons every week until the instructor suggested maybe Kira wasn't quite ready for formal training. Her mum had smiled and said music was a lovely hobby, but perhaps she should focus on more practical subjects for her exams.

Neither of them understood that music wasn't a hobby for Kira—it was a language she was desperately trying to learn, a conversation she could hear happening all around her but couldn't quite join. She could feel melodies in her bones, could see colors in chord progressions, could practically taste the songs that lived just out of reach in her mind.

But wanting something and being able to do it were different things entirely.

Her phone buzzed again. This time it was a notification from YouTube—one of the channels she followed had uploaded a new video. Something about music production software that didn't cost three months' rent. Kira clicked on it automatically, her story forgotten as her attention pivoted to this new possibility.

The presenter was maybe a year or two older than her, with purple hair and an infectious enthusiasm for synthesizers. She talked about creating music digitally, about how you didn't need expensive instruments or years of formal training to make something beautiful. All you needed was imagination and access to a computer.

Kira sat up straighter, her mind already racing. She had a computer—ancient and temperamental, but functional. She had imagination in abundance, maybe too much of it. She had melodies trapped in her head like caged birds, desperate for release.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the missing piece.

She was already googling free music software before the video ended, her fingers flying across her phone's keyboard. Reviews and tutorials and forum discussions bloomed across her screen, a whole world of possibility she'd somehow missed before.

The fighting downstairs had evolved into the sullen silence that usually meant her parents had retreated to separate corners of the flat to nurse their wounds. Kira barely noticed. Her brain had found a new hyperfocus, and everything else—the argument, her unfinished story, the dragon with the ruined snout—faded into background noise.

She spent the next three hours falling down a rabbit hole of digital music creation. By the time her eyes started burning from staring at her phone screen, she'd bookmarked seventeen different tutorials, joined four online communities, and started downloading software that promised to turn her ancient laptop into a recording studio.

Her room felt different when she finally looked up—the chaos more manageable somehow, the scattered projects less like evidence of her broken attention span and more like a catalog of possibilities. The guitar with broken strings wasn't a failure; it was a future sample waiting to be recorded. The notebooks full of lyrics weren't abandoned; they were a library of songs waiting to be born.

Kira reached for her newest notebook—the one she'd been saving for something special—and started writing again. Not a story this time, but plans. Lists of things to learn, melodies to capture, songs to create. Her handwriting was messier than usual, her thoughts moving faster than her pen could follow, but for the first time in weeks, everything felt like it was moving in the right direction.

Outside her window, Glasgow settled into its late-evening rhythm. The streetlights cast long shadows across the narrow street, and somewhere in the distance, she could hear the sound of traffic and life and people moving through their own complicated stories.

Her parents had gone quiet downstairs. In a few hours, they'd probably emerge from their separate corners and pretend the fight hadn't happened, the way they always did. They'd ask about her day and she'd say it was fine, and they'd all dance around the edges of their shared unhappiness like actors who'd forgotten their lines.

But up here, in her chaotic sanctuary surrounded by half-finished dreams and new possibilities, Kira felt something she hadn't felt in months: hope. Not the desperate kind that asked for everything to be different, but the practical kind that said maybe, just maybe, she was finally ready to build something beautiful from all the broken pieces scattered around her.

She turned to a fresh page in her notebook and started sketching again. Not a dragon this time, but a girl with headphones and paint-stained fingers, sitting in a room full of music only she could hear.

The girl in the drawing looked back at her with knowing eyes, and for just a moment, Kira could swear she heard the beginning of a song.

~~~~

Isabella's fists connected with the heavy bag in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music pounding through the gym's speakers and everything to do with the conversation still echoing in her head. Jab, cross, hook. "We're concerned about your attitude, Isabella." Jab, jab, cross. "This behavior is unacceptable for a young lady of your standing." Hook, uppercut, cross.

Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging and blurring her vision, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop. The bag swayed under her assault, chain creaking with each impact, and for just a moment the noise in her head quieted to something manageable.

The private gym in the basement of her family's Edinburgh townhouse was the only place Isabella could breathe properly. Down here, surrounded by equipment that cost more than most people's cars, she could be as loud and violent and wrong as she needed to be without anyone telling her to smile, to calm down, to be more like her perfect older sister.

She'd been down here for two hours already, working through her usual routine with the kind of methodical intensity that would have worried her parents if they'd bothered to check on her. But they were upstairs entertaining the Sinclair family—another networking dinner where Isabella was expected to appear briefly, shake hands politely, and then disappear before she could embarrass anyone with her existence.

She'd tried, this time. Really tried. Put on the navy dress her mother had laid out, combed her black hair into something resembling respectability, even practiced her smile in the mirror until it looked almost genuine. She'd made it through the introductions, managed small talk about school and hobbies without saying anything too honest, and was actually proud of herself for lasting almost an hour before everything went sideways.

It had been a simple question. Mrs. Sinclair, probably trying to be kind, had asked what sports Isabella enjoyed. A perfectly normal question that should have had a perfectly normal answer.

"Boxing," Isabella had said, because honesty was a habit she couldn't quite break. "And kickboxing. I'm working on my ground game too, but grappling's harder to practice solo."

The silence that followed was the kind that sucked all the air out of a room. Mr. Sinclair had cleared his throat awkwardly. Her mother's smile had gone brittle around the edges. Her father's jaw had tightened in that particular way that meant Isabella was in for another lecture about appropriate interests for young ladies.

"How... energetic," Mrs. Sinclair had managed finally.

Isabella had felt the familiar heat rising in her chest, the restless energy that demanded movement, demanded she hit something or run until her lungs burned or scream until her throat was raw. Instead, she'd excused herself politely and fled to the basement before she could make things worse.

Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. The bag absorbed her frustration, her confusion, her rage at being constantly wrong in a world that never bothered to explain the rules clearly enough for her to follow them.

"Isabella!" Her mother's voice drifted down from the top of the stairs, sharp with the kind of controlled anger that was somehow worse than shouting. "Come up here this instant!"

Isabella ignored her, throwing a combination that would have made her boxing coach proud if her parents had been willing to let her train properly instead of insisting on private lessons that wouldn't expose the family to "unseemly influences."

"Isabella Rose MacBride, you will come upstairs right now!"

The use of her full name meant serious trouble, but Isabella was past caring. Her knuckles were raw despite the tape, her shoulders burning with exhaustion, but the storm in her head was finally starting to settle into something resembling calm.

Footsteps on the stairs—quick, irritated, expensive heels clicking against marble. Isabella didn't turn around, just kept working the bag as her mother appeared in her peripheral vision like an avenging angel in designer wear.

"What do you think you're doing?" Catherine MacBride's voice could cut glass when she was truly angry, and right now it was razor-sharp. "We have guests upstairs, important guests, and you disappear without a word to... to this."

She gestured at Isabella's sweat-soaked workout clothes, her taped hands, the heavy bag still swaying from the latest assault. The disdain in her expression was so familiar it barely stung anymore.

"I excused myself politely," Isabella said, finally turning to face her mother but not stopping her movement entirely. She bounced lightly on her toes, rolling her shoulders, keeping the energy flowing because stopping completely meant all the noise would come rushing back.

"Politely." Catherine's laugh was acid. "You told the Sinclairs you enjoy beating things with your fists. Do you have any idea how that sounded?"

"Like the truth?" Isabella suggested, which was apparently the wrong answer based on the way her mother's face went white with fury.

"The truth," Catherine repeated slowly, "is that you are twelve years old, from one of Edinburgh's most respected families, and you conduct yourself like a... like a common street fighter."

"Maybe I am a street fighter," Isabella shot back, the words escaping before her better judgment could stop them. "Maybe that's what I'm good at. Maybe not everything has to be about what other people think."

The slap came so fast Isabella barely saw it coming. Her head snapped to the side, cheek burning with the impact, and for a moment the gym went deadly quiet except for the soft whir of the ventilation system.

"How dare you," Catherine whispered, her own hand trembling slightly. She'd never hit Isabella before—the MacBrides were too civilized for physical discipline, too proper for anything so crude as actual violence. "How dare you speak to me like that."

Isabella touched her cheek, feeling the heat radiating from the red mark that was probably already forming. Something cold and sharp settled in her chest, harder than anger, more final than disappointment.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, and meant it. Not for what she'd said, but for the fact that they were both trapped in this moment, this house, this life where loving each other seemed impossible despite how much they both wanted to.

Catherine's expression flickered, some of the fury draining away to reveal something that might have been regret. But it was gone too quickly to be sure, replaced by the familiar mask of controlled disappointment.

"Clean yourself up," her mother said finally. "Come upstairs when you're... presentable. And Isabella? We will discuss your future training arrangements later."

The threat hung in the air between them. No more boxing lessons, probably. No more time in the gym unsupervised. No more of the few things that actually helped Isabella feel like herself instead of a poorly constructed imitation of what everyone wanted her to be.

Catherine turned and walked back upstairs, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm of disapproval against the marble steps. Isabella waited until she heard the basement door close before sinking onto the weight bench, suddenly exhausted.

The gym felt different now—smaller, more like a cage than a sanctuary. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirrored wall, red-faced and wild-haired, looking exactly like the kind of girl who didn't belong in drawing rooms and dinner parties. The kind of girl who was too much, always too much, no matter how hard she tried to be less.

She unwrapped her hands slowly, wincing as the tape pulled at her raw knuckles. The physical pain was almost welcome—clean and simple compared to the complicated mess of emotions churning in her chest. At least when something hurt from the outside, you knew why and how to fix it.

Her phone buzzed against the bench beside her. A text from her sister Emma, probably upstairs with the adults, playing the role of perfect daughter with the easy grace that had always eluded Isabella.

Mum's furious. What did you do this time?

Isabella stared at the message for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Emma wasn't mean, exactly, but she had the casual cruelty of someone who'd never struggled to fit into the shape the world demanded. She genuinely couldn't understand why Isabella insisted on making everything so difficult when being what their parents wanted seemed so simple.

Existed, Isabella typed back, then deleted it. Too honest. Emma wouldn't understand anyway.

Nothing important, she sent instead.

Can you try to be normal for like five minutes? The Sinclairs are connected to half of Edinburgh's city council.

Normal. Isabella almost laughed, but it would have come out bitter and Emma didn't deserve that. Emma was just trying to help in the only way she knew how, the same way their parents were probably trying to help when they signed Isabella up for piano lessons instead of boxing, when they bought her dresses instead of workout gear, when they looked at her like she was a puzzle they couldn't solve.

I'll try, she replied, because it was easier than explaining that she'd been trying her whole life and it never seemed to be enough.

She stood up slowly, her muscles protesting after the extended workout. In twenty minutes, she'd have to go upstairs and smile and apologize and pretend to be sorry for embarrassing the family. She'd have to sit through the rest of dinner making small talk about school and weather and all the safe topics that didn't reveal too much about who she really was.

But for now, she had twenty minutes alone in the basement with her thoughts and her bruised knuckles and the heavy bag that never judged her for hitting too hard.

Isabella walked over to the mirror and studied her reflection. The red mark on her cheek was already fading—she'd always healed quickly from bruises and scrapes, something that had worried her parents when she was younger and more accident-prone. Now it just meant the evidence of her latest failure would disappear before morning.

She practiced her smile in the mirror, the same one she'd perfected before dinner. Polite, pleasant, empty of anything that might make people uncomfortable. It felt like wearing a mask made of glass—fragile and artificial, but probably convincing enough to get her through the rest of the evening.

Somewhere above her, she could hear the murmur of conversation resuming, her parents probably explaining away her absence with practiced ease. "Teenage moods," they'd say, or "She's been under a lot of pressure at school." Anything but the truth, which was that Isabella MacBride was fundamentally unsuited for the life she'd been born into and no one had any idea what to do about it.

The heavy bag swayed slightly in the artificial breeze from the ventilation system, and Isabella felt the familiar itch in her hands, the need to hit something until the world made sense again. But she'd used up her escape time for tonight.

Tomorrow, maybe, she'd find another way to breathe.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Scarred Steel, Tender Hearts ~~~~

II

~~~~ Scarred Steel, Tender Hearts ~~~~

The blade sang through the air, its silver fire trailing like starlight as it missed Alexis's throat by less than an inch. She dropped into a crouch, swept her leg in a perfect arc, and sent her sparring partner—a conjured shade with reflexes faster than any human Huntress—tumbling to the stone floor of the ancient circle. Before it could recover, she was on it, her Aegis blade pressed to its ethereal throat.

The weapon pulsed with power that flowed directly from her enhanced connection, its crystalline edge deadly to both physical and supernatural threats. The marks on her arms glowed softly beneath her training leathers, channeling energy that made her faster, stronger, more lethal than any purely human warrior.

"Again," Ingrid commanded from the shadows, her voice carrying the weight of twelve years' accumulated grief and resentment. "And this time, don't telegraph your intentions with your shoulder."

Alexis rolled to her feet as the shade dissolved back into nothingness, her blade flickering out of existence only to rematerialize in her grip a heartbeat later. The weapon responded to her will with an intimacy that should have taken decades to develop—another sign of the abomination she carried in her blood.

Her muscles screamed in protest—they'd been at this for three hours already, and the sun had only just crested the horizon. But screaming muscles were just noise, and noise could be ignored. Her demonic heritage ensured she could endure far more punishment than any normal child, could push her body beyond human limits without breaking.

She reset her stance, the Aegis flowing through her consciousness with tactical guidance that felt as natural as breathing. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight balanced on the balls of her feet. Ready for whatever came next.

The next shade materialized wielding twin daggers, its movements liquid and deadly. But Alexis could see its attack pattern before it moved, the Aegis feeding her information through their unprecedented connection. Feint high, strike low, follow with the off-hand blade. She moved like water around the assault, her crystal weapon finding the gaps in its defense with surgical precision.

This time, she kept her shoulder steady. This time, she was perfect.

~

Age seven. The music box played a waltz while Alexis moved through the steps Ingrid had beaten into her muscle memory, her small feet finding perfect rhythm on the polished wooden floor. Grace was a weapon too, Ingrid had explained with the clinical detachment she applied to all lessons. The ability to move through human society without drawing unwanted attention was as important as knowing which end of a blade to hold.

"Your posture is sloppy," Ingrid's voice cut through the tinkling melody, sharp with the frustration of someone forced to train her best friend's killer. "A Huntress who cannot blend into civilization is a Huntress who dies young. Again."

Alexis straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and began the waltz again. Her feet were bleeding inside her dancing slippers—they'd been at this since before dawn—but bleeding feet were just another kind of noise. The marks on her arms remained carefully hidden beneath long sleeves, their glow suppressed through sheer force of will.

At seven, she'd already learned that her nature was a secret worth killing for. The demonic heritage that made her stronger also made her a target, not just from supernatural enemies but potentially from the very organization they served.

One-two-three, one-two-three, until the steps became as natural as breathing. Until she could move through human spaces like she belonged there, instead of the half-breed abomination she truly was.

~

The rope course stretched between the ancient oaks behind their cottage, thirty feet above ground with nothing but hard earth waiting below. Alexis moved across it with the fluid confidence of a creature born to heights, her twelve-year-old frame compact and perfectly balanced. Her enhanced reflexes and supernatural strength made obstacles that would challenge adult Huntresses seem almost trivial.

"Faster," Ingrid called from below, watching with the cold assessment of someone evaluating a weapon rather than training a child. "A demon won't wait for you to find your footing."

Alexis pushed harder, launching herself between platforms with controlled recklessness. The marks on her arms flared with silver fire beneath her training gear, channeling power that let her move beyond human limitations. Her hands were raw from the rough rope, her arms burning with fatigue, but she'd learned long ago that pain was just another enemy to overcome.

She reached the final platform in under two minutes—a new personal record that would have been impossible for any purely human Huntress her age. For just a moment, she felt a flicker of something that might have been pride.

"Acceptable," Ingrid said when Alexis dropped to the ground in a perfect landing roll, her enhanced durability absorbing impact that would have shattered normal bones. "But you favored your left ankle on the third traverse. If you're injured, compensating will get you killed. If you're not injured, poor form will get you killed. Either way, you're dead."

The moment of pride withered and died. There was always something wrong, always room for improvement, always another way she could have been better, faster, more perfect. The fact that she was already performing beyond the capabilities of veteran Huntresses meant nothing if Ingrid's standards remained impossibly high.

"Again," Ingrid commanded, and Alexis heard the echo of old pain in that single word. The woman who had once laughed with Lydia Blackwood was gone, replaced by this cold instructor who saw only the monster her friend had created.

~

Age nine. The song was in Italian, something old and haunting that spoke of loss and longing in words Alexis barely understood. But understanding wasn't the point—the point was perfection of tone, of breath control, of the ability to use her voice as another tool in her arsenal.

"Music opens doors that force cannot," Ingrid had explained during their first lesson, her gray eyes distant with memories of missions where such skills had meant the difference between success and failure. "It lowers guards, creates connections, makes people trust you. A Huntress who can sing her way into a target's confidence has already won half the battle."

Alexis hit the high note cleanly, her voice pure and clear in the cottage's main room. She'd been singing scales for hours, her throat raw and her head pounding, but Ingrid demanded perfection in all things. The demonic blood that gave her supernatural endurance also granted perfect pitch, another gift from her abominable heritage.

"Better," Ingrid acknowledged, though the praise carried no warmth. "But your breathing is still shallow on the ascending passages. Fear makes people breathe poorly, and poor breathing ruins the voice. Control your fear, control your breath, control your target."

The concept of fear was abstract to Alexis. She knew it existed—could see it in the demons before she killed them, could smell it on the humans she occasionally glimpsed from a distance. But fear for herself was a luxury she'd never been permitted. Fear was weakness, and weakness was death.

Besides, what was there to fear when she could feel the Aegis flowing through her consciousness, when her blade could manifest at will, when her very blood made her stronger than those who hunted creatures like her father?

She began the song again, focusing on her breathing, on the placement of each note. Perfect control over every aspect of herself—this was what it meant to be a weapon forged from two incompatible natures.

~

The gymnastics routine was a study in controlled violence disguised as art. Alexis flowed from flip to twist to landing with mechanical precision, her body moving through space like it was designed for defying gravity. The balance beam was narrow as a knife's edge, but she danced across it without hesitation, her enhanced reflexes and supernatural grace making the impossible look effortless.

Every movement had a purpose beyond simple athletics. The backflip could become an evasive maneuver. The cartwheel could position her for a perfect striking angle. The split leap could drive her foot into an opponent's solar plexus with devastating force.

She stuck the landing, arms extended in perfect form, not even breathing hard despite the complexity of the routine. Her hybrid physiology had adapted to demands that would cripple a normal child, her demonic heritage giving her strength and endurance that exceeded even veteran Huntresses.

"Your dismount was late by half a second," Ingrid observed from her position beside the makeshift apparatus they'd constructed in the cottage's largest room. Her tone carried the familiar edge of disappointment that had colored every lesson since Alexis was old enough to understand words. "In competition, that would cost you points. In real life, it would cost you your life."

Alexis nodded, already mentally adjusting the routine for next time. Everything was always about next time, about being better, about reaching the impossible standard that seemed to move further away with each achievement. The fact that she was already performing at levels that defied human capability meant nothing if she couldn't meet Ingrid's expectations.

"Again."

The word carried weight beyond its simple meaning. Again, because you're not good enough. Again, because you're the reason Lydia is dead. Again, because I have to live with the knowledge of what you are and what you represent.

~

Age ten. The crystal blade materialized in her small hand for the first time, silver fire dancing along its edges as power flowed through the marks on her arms. Across the clearing, the target waited—not a practice dummy this time, but a bound demon that could bleed and die and teach her what it meant to take a life.

The weapon's appearance had been unprecedented. Most Huntresses didn't manifest their Aegis blades until their mid-teens, and even then the process required months of careful conditioning. Alexis had simply reached for power during a particularly brutal training session, and the blade had answered her call like it had been waiting her entire life.

"Hesitation is death," Ingrid said quietly, though her voice carried a tremor that hadn't been there before Alexis's blade manifested. "Mercy is death. Doubt is death. You are not a child playing with toys. You are a weapon, and weapons do not question their purpose."

The creature—some minor demon Ingrid had summoned and bound for this lesson—snarled and tested its restraints. Its eyes fixed on Alexis with alien hatred, then widened with recognition as it scented her hybrid nature.

"Little sister," it hissed in the demonic tongue, words that Alexis understood despite never having learned the language. "Why do you serve those who would cage us? Why do you burn with their fire when our blood sings in your veins?"

Alexis felt... nothing. No kinship, no reluctance, no squeamishness about what she was being asked to do. The Aegis flowed through her consciousness like a river of silver fire, drowning out whatever connection she might have felt to her father's kind.

The crystal blade found its mark with surgical precision. The demon's death was quick and clean, its form dissolving into shadow and smoke. Alexis dismissed her weapon and stood in the sudden silence, waiting for Ingrid's assessment.

"Good," Ingrid said, and the word carried more approval than Alexis had heard in months. For the first time since the blade's manifestation, she looked at her student without quite so much revulsion. "You chose correctly. Again. This time, I want you to make it suffer first."

The lesson was clear: loyalty to the Aegis superseded any connection to her demonic heritage. The silver fire burning in her soul was stronger than whatever darkness flowed through her blood.

But late that night, alone in her room, Alexis found herself remembering the demon's words. Little sister. As if she belonged to both worlds and neither, caught between forces that should have destroyed each other instead of creating something unprecedented.

~

The sparring session had lasted six hours. Six hours of constant movement, constant violence, constant testing of every skill Ingrid had drilled into her over the years. Alexis faced opponent after opponent—conjured shades with inhuman speed, bound spirits with impossible strength, illusions that tested her ability to distinguish reality from deception.

Her crystal blade blazed with silver fire as she cut through supernatural flesh and ethereal armor alike. The marks on her arms glowed like brands beneath her training leathers, channeling power that made her faster, stronger, more lethal than any Huntress in recorded history.

Her body was a roadmap of fresh bruises and shallow cuts, evidence of the few times her opponents had managed to tag her. But she was still standing, still fighting, still reaching for the perfection that always danced just beyond her grasp. Her demonic heritage ensured that injuries which would fell normal humans were mere inconveniences, healing even as she fought.

The latest shade fell to her blade, dissolving into wisps of darkness that the Highland wind scattered across the training ground. She automatically reset her stance, waiting for the next challenge. Her breathing was controlled despite the exhaustion that made her limbs feel like lead. Her grip on her weapon remained steady despite the blood slicking her palms from reopened cuts.

"Enough," Ingrid said finally.

Alexis blinked, momentarily disoriented. Enough was not a word she heard often. There was always more training, always another drill, always room for improvement.

"Clean your weapons," Ingrid continued, her tone carefully neutral. "Tend your wounds. We leave for Inverness tomorrow, and I won't have you embarrassing yourself because you couldn't maintain your equipment properly."

Alexis nodded and began the familiar ritual of post-training maintenance. Her crystal blade flickered out of existence, returning to whatever dimensional space housed it when not needed. The Aegis weapons required no physical care—they were extensions of the ancient force itself, maintained by will and connection rather than oil and whetstones.

But the habit remained, the muscle memory of weapons maintenance drilled into her since childhood. She cleaned her mundane backup blades, inspected her armor for damage, catalogued her injuries with clinical detachment.

Most of the cuts were already healing—her hybrid nature ensuring that trauma which would hospitalize a normal person was merely an inconvenience for her. The deeper gashes would leave scars, but scars were just proof of lessons learned, marks of experience earned in blood and pain.

As she worked, Alexis found herself thinking about tomorrow's mission. Inverness. Her first time beyond the Estate's wards since infancy, her first real test of everything Ingrid had beaten into her over twelve years of relentless training.

She was ready. She'd been ready for years now, trained to a level of perfection that exceeded most veteran Huntresses. Her body was a weapon honed to deadly efficiency. Her mind was focused and disciplined, free from the weaknesses that plagued normal people. Her connection to the Aegis was unprecedented in its strength and clarity.

But there was something else, something that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness like a splinter she couldn't quite locate. The demons she'd killed today had recognized her. Called her sister. Spoken to her in tongues she'd never learned but somehow understood.

What would happen when she faced enemies who knew exactly what she was? When the secret Ingrid had guarded so jealously was exposed to hostile forces that might try to turn her hybrid nature against everything she'd been trained to protect?

Tomorrow would bring answers, whether she wanted them or not. Tomorrow would test not just her skills, but her loyalty—to the Aegis, to humanity, to the woman who had raised her with such careful resentment.

She finished her equipment maintenance and began the careful process of cataloging her injuries. The marks on her arms had returned to their dormant state, barely visible as silver threads beneath her skin. But she could feel the power they contained, the bridge they represented between two incompatible worlds.

Tomorrow would be her first real hunt. Her first chance to prove that she was the weapon Ingrid had shaped her to be, rather than the abomination her very existence represented.

She was ready.

She was always ready.

But for the first time in her life, she found herself wondering if being ready was enough—or if some things were too dangerous to unleash, no matter how perfectly they'd been forged.

~~

The final bell rang through Glasgow Academy's corridors like a prison release alarm, and Kira MacLeod shouldered her paint-splattered messenger bag with practiced efficiency. Her fingers automatically found the small fidget cube in her hoodie pocket, thumb working over the buttons and switches as students streamed past her toward the exit.

"Kira! Wait up!"

She turned to see Jamie Morrison jogging toward her, his perfectly styled hair somehow still managing to look effortless despite the day's chaos. He was everything she wasn't—tall where she was average, confident where she was anxious, naturally social where she had to constantly translate between her thoughts and what normal people expected to hear.

"Heading to art room again?" he asked, falling into step beside her as they walked toward the main entrance.

"Yeah, got some stuff to finish." The half-truth rolled off her tongue easily. She did have projects to work on, but mostly she just needed somewhere quiet to decompress before facing whatever fresh hell was waiting at home.

"Cool, cool." Jamie shifted his weight, and she could see him searching for something else to say. This was how most of their conversations went—pleasant but surface-level, like they were both following a script neither of them had fully memorized. "You coming to Marcus's thing on Friday?"

Kira's thumb pressed harder against the fidget cube. Marcus's thing. Some house party where she'd know maybe three people and spend the entire evening feeling like an alien studying human social customs. Where she'd overthink every interaction and probably end up hiding in a bathroom scrolling through her phone.

"Maybe," she said, which they both knew meant no. "Depends what my parents are up to."

Jamie nodded like he understood, but how could he? His parents were divorced but functional, taking turns at custody with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. No screaming matches that lasted until 2 AM, no using their kid as a messenger service for passive-aggressive comments they were too proud to say directly.

"Well, text me if you change your mind," he said, already pulling out his phone as someone called his name from across the courtyard. "See you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah, see you."

And just like that, he was gone, absorbed back into the social ecosystem that seemed to run on rules she'd never quite learned. Jamie was nice—genuinely nice, not the fake nice that some people used as a weapon. But nice wasn't the same as understanding, and understanding wasn't the same as connection.

Kira made her way to the art building, muscle memory guiding her through corridors that smelled like industrial cleaner and teenage anxiety. The art room was mostly empty, just a few dedicated students finishing projects or hiding from whatever waited for them at home.

She claimed her usual spot in the back corner, pulling out her sketchbook and the battered laptop that had been her lifeline for the past three years. The screen flickered to life, revealing the digital music project she'd been obsessing over for the past week—layers of sound that she'd been building and rebuilding, chasing something she could feel but couldn't quite capture.

Her headphones went on, and the world narrowed to the space between her ears. This was where she lived, really—in the space between creativity and chaos, where her ADHD brain could finally focus on something that mattered.

The track was ambient, built around a melody she'd recorded humming in the shower, layered with found sounds and electronic textures that shouldn't work together but somehow did. She'd spent hours tweaking the reverb on a recording of rain against her bedroom window, turning it into something that sounded like breathing, like being held underwater in the best possible way.

Her pencil moved across the sketchbook pages almost without conscious direction, rough characters emerging from loose lines—a girl with too-knowing eyes, a warrior who looked like she'd never learned how to rest, figures that felt important even though she couldn't say why. The music shaped the drawings, and the drawings shaped the music, both feeding into each other in a feedback loop that was probably the closest thing to peace she ever experienced.

Time became elastic. The art room could have been empty or full, the sun could have set or risen, and she wouldn't have noticed. This was the blessing and curse of her brain—when she found something that clicked, everything else ceased to exist.

Her phone buzzed against the desk, jolting her back to reality. A text from her mum: Where are you? Dad's home early and asking about homework.

Fuck. She'd been here for... she checked the time and winced. Two and a half hours. The cleaning staff would be doing their final rounds soon, which meant she needed to pack up and face whatever domestic drama was brewing at home.

The walk back to her housing estate took twenty minutes through streets that never quite felt like they belonged to her. Glasgow was a city of neighborhoods, each with its own identity, its own unspoken rules about who belonged and who didn't. Her family's flat sat in one of those in-between spaces—not quite rough enough to be properly working class, not quite nice enough to be aspirational.

She could hear them before she even reached the front door.

"—can't keep doing this, Sarah. The bills don't pay themselves while you're out playing activist—"

"—maybe if you'd stuck with the Henderson job instead of walking off because your pride got hurt—"

"—my pride? My fucking pride? You think this is about pride?"

Kira leaned against the door for a moment, gathering herself. This was the soundtrack of her childhood—raised voices, accusations, the same arguments dressed up in new words. She'd learned years ago that walking into the middle of it usually just made things worse, but staying outside made her feel like a coward.

Key in the lock. Deep breath. Game face on.

The flat was small enough that there was no real way to avoid them. Her parents stood in the kitchen, her mother's arms crossed defensively while her father gestured with the kind of broad movements that meant he was really worked up. They both looked up when she entered, and she watched them visibly try to dial back their anger.

"There you are," her mum said, voice carefully neutral. "I was starting to worry."

"Art room," Kira said, holding up her sketchbook as evidence. "Lost track of time."

Her dad ran a hand through his thinning hair, the fight deflating out of him slightly. "Right, well. Just... next time let us know, yeah? Your mum was worried."

You were both too busy shouting to be worried about anything, she thought, but what she said was, "Yeah, sorry. I'll text next time."

The kitchen felt too small with all three of them in it, tension crackling like a live wire. Kira could see her parents making an effort, trying to perform normalcy for her benefit, but they were both vibrating with the energy of an argument interrupted rather than resolved.

"I'll just..." she gestured vaguely toward her room, "homework."

"Right, good," her mum said quickly. "I'll call you when dinner's ready."

Kira escaped to her bedroom, closing the door with the careful quietness of someone who'd learned not to draw attention to herself. Her room was small but it was hers—walls covered with her own artwork, fairy lights strung around the ceiling creating warm pools of light, desk space organized in the specific chaos that her brain understood even if no one else did.

She plugged her laptop in and immediately pulled up the music project again, adding headphones even though her parents had gone back to their argument and probably wouldn't notice if she played it through speakers. The familiar melody wrapped around her like a blanket, and she lost herself again in the layers of sound.

This was her real life—not school, not the careful dance of trying to maintain a friendship with Jamie, not the exhausting performance of being okay while her parents' marriage slowly imploded around her. This was where she existed most fully, in the space between creation and consumption, building something that was entirely hers.

Her phone buzzed with notifications from various social media apps, but she ignored them. Online, she had followers who appreciated her art, people who left encouraging comments on her music uploads, a small community of other creative weirdos who understood the compulsion to make things even when no one was asking for them.

But even that felt distant sometimes, like she was performing a version of herself rather than actually connecting. Everyone was performing online, crafting their best selves for public consumption. The real her—the one who spent entire evenings hyperfocused on projects no one else would ever understand, who felt like she was speaking a different language than everyone around her, who sometimes caught herself staring at her reflection and feeling like a stranger was looking back—that version didn't translate well to social media.

She opened a new track in her music software and started layering in a bass line, something dark and repetitive that felt like walking through empty corridors. Outside her door, she could hear her parents' voices rising again, the brief ceasefire apparently over.

The bass line evolved, picking up harmonics that made it sound almost organic, like something breathing in deep underground spaces. She added percussion that sounded like footsteps, like running, like a heartbeat under stress.

Without quite meaning to, she was building a soundtrack for loneliness.

Her fingers moved across the keys, building layers that spoke to the specific isolation of being surrounded by people who didn't quite see you. Jamie with his well-meaning but surface-level friendship. Her parents who loved her but were too wrapped up in their own chaos to notice that she was drowning. Classmates who were perfectly nice but might as well have been members of a different species.

The track was getting dark, moving into territory that felt dangerous and necessary. She added a melody line that sounded like crying, like calling out for something that would never answer back.

This was what she couldn't say to Jamie, couldn't post online, couldn't even admit to herself most of the time—that despite being surrounded by people, despite having a roof over her head and food on the table and all the basic requirements for a functional life, she felt fundamentally alone in a way that seemed to go bone-deep.

The music swelled, all the layers coming together in something that was beautiful and broken and honest in a way that her real life rarely allowed her to be.

Outside her door, her parents had moved their argument to the living room, voices carrying through thin walls. She turned her headphones up and let the music drown out everything else, building something true in the space between loneliness and creation.

Tomorrow she'd go back to school, make small talk with Jamie, pretend to consider going to Marcus's party, come home to more of the same domestic warfare. But tonight, in this small room with her laptop and her headphones and the fairy lights casting everything in warm gold, she could build something that belonged entirely to her.

Even if no one else would ever understand it.

Even if she was the only one listening.

~~

Isabella MacBride had perfected the art of being invisible.

Not actually invisible—that was impossible when you were five-foot-seven at fourteen and had the kind of presence that seemed to take up twice as much space as your body actually occupied. But socially invisible, which was almost as good. Head down, earbuds in, moving through Edinburgh Academy's corridors like she had somewhere important to be even when she didn't.

The noise in her head was particularly loud today, a constant static of *too much too much too much* that made her jaw clench and her hands curl into fists without conscious thought. Dr. Morrison had told her parents it was anxiety, gave them pamphlets about teenage stress and breathing exercises that worked about as well as trying to put out a house fire with a water pistol.

What Dr. Morrison didn't understand—what nobody seemed to understand—was that the noise wasn't anxiety. It was everything. Every sound amplified, every emotion turned up to eleven, every sensation hitting her nervous system like a physical blow. The fluorescent lights hummed too loudly, conversations layered over each other until they became meaningless buzzing, the smell of industrial cleaning products mixing with teenage body spray until she wanted to claw at her own skin.

The only thing that helped was movement. Boxing at the private gym her parents paid for, running until her lungs burned, lifting weights until her muscles screamed for mercy. Physical exhaustion was the only thing loud enough to drown out the chaos in her skull.

But she couldn't exactly start doing burpees in the middle of Advanced Chemistry.

Isabella slipped into the bathroom during lunch break, not because she needed to use it but because it was one of the few places she could pace without drawing attention. Back and forth across the cracked tile floor, three steps to the wall, turn, three steps back. The repetitive motion helped, gave her brain something to focus on besides the growing pressure behind her sternum.

*Too intense, Isabella. You need to learn to modulate your responses.*

*Why can't you just be more like Emma? She never has these problems.*

*People don't want to be around someone who makes them uncomfortable.*

Her parents' voices, Dr. Morrison's voice, teachers' voices, all blending together in the endless refrain that there was something fundamentally wrong with the way she existed in the world. She'd learned to keep her mouth shut, to bottle up the volcanic energy that seemed to live just under her skin, to pretend she was the kind of person who could sit still and speak quietly and not feel like she was going to explode from the effort of containing herself.

The bathroom door swung open and Isabella quickly ducked into a stall, not wanting to explain why she was just standing there staring at herself in the mirror. A group of girls from her year tumbled in, all lipgloss and gossip and the kind of effortless social confidence that Isabella watched like an anthropologist studying a foreign culture.

"—can't believe she actually wore that to school—"

"—I know, right? Like, we get it, you're different, but there's a difference between different and desperate—"

"—someone should really tell her that just because something fits doesn't mean she should wear it—"

Isabella recognized the tone even if she couldn't quite make out who they were talking about. That particular brand of casual cruelty that teenage girls weaponized so effectively, sharp enough to draw blood but delivered with enough sugar to maintain plausible deniability.

She waited until they left before emerging from the stall, but the conversation stuck with her as she made her way toward her next class. Not because she particularly cared about whoever they'd been discussing, but because she recognized the dynamic. The pack identifying someone vulnerable and circling like sharks who'd caught the scent of blood.

Isabella knew all about being the one who didn't fit.

The corridor outside the science block was relatively quiet, most students either still at lunch or already in classrooms. Isabella was early as usual—being early meant avoiding the crush of bodies, the overwhelming cacophony of voices and movement that made her feel like her skin was too tight.

That's when she saw it.

Three Year 11 boys had cornered someone against the lockers, and Isabella's step faltered as she recognized the victim. Nervous girl from her Physics class, maybe a year younger, the kind of student who seemed to actively try to disappear into the background. Isabella didn't know her name—had never spoken to her, really—but she knew the type. Quiet, probably smart, the kind of person who minded their own business and just wanted to get through school without incident.

"—think you're special because you got moved up a year?" one of the boys was saying, leaning in close enough that the girl had to press herself against the lockers. "News flash, scholarship girl—nobody wants you here."

The girl—*what was her name? Something Scottish, maybe Isla?*—clutched her books against her chest like armor, eyes wide behind thick-framed glasses. "I just... I'm just trying to get to class."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before making the rest of us look bad on the last test," another boy added, knocking the books from her arms. Papers scattered across the floor, and Isabella watched the girl's face crumple with the kind of humiliation that would follow her home and keep her awake at night.

Isabella's hands were already clenched into fists.

The noise in her head, which had been a steady background hum all day, suddenly spiked into a roar. This wasn't fair. This wasn't—the girl wasn't doing anything wrong, she was just *existing*, just trying to go to class and learn and maybe the only thing she'd done wrong was be smart enough to skip a year and make some insecure boys feel threatened and—

*Move,* her body said. *Do something.*

*Stay out of it,* her brain countered. *This isn't your problem. You'll just make it worse. You always make it worse.*

"Please," the girl was saying, kneeling to collect her scattered papers while the boys loomed over her. "Just leave me alone."

"Aw, is the little genius going to cry?" The ringleader—Isabella thought his name was Connor, some posh boy whose dad probably bought his way into the school—crouched down to her level with mock concern. "Maybe we should give you something to really cry about."

The switch in Isabella's brain flipped.

One second she was standing frozen ten feet away, paralyzed by the familiar war between intervention and self-preservation. The next second she was moving, her body operating on autopilot while her conscious mind struggled to catch up.

"Hey!"

The word came out louder than she'd intended, echoing off the corridor walls with enough force to make all four heads turn toward her. Connor straightened up, and Isabella saw him take in her appearance—her height, the way she carried herself, the fact that she looked like she could probably bench press him without breaking a sweat.

"This doesn't concern you," he said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now.

"Doesn't it?" Isabella stepped closer, and she could feel that familiar electricity building under her skin, the sensation that always preceded her losing control. "Looks like three big strong boys picking on someone half their size. Seems like exactly the kind of thing that should concern everyone."

"Isabella, don't—" The girl—*Isla, her name was definitely Isla*—scrambled to her feet, papers still clutched against her chest. "It's fine, really, I can handle it—"

"No," Isabella said, and her voice came out flat and dangerous in a way that made even her surprised. "It's not fine."

Connor's friends were flanking him now, the three of them forming a loose semicircle that was probably meant to be intimidating. Under normal circumstances, Isabella might have been smart enough to recognize when she was outnumbered, to back down and find a teacher or at least think through the consequences of what she was about to do.

But the noise in her head was deafening now, drowning out rational thought with a cacophony of rage and protectiveness and the overwhelming need to *move*, to *do something*, to channel the volcanic energy that had been building all day into something useful.

"Walk away," Connor said, stepping toward her with the kind of swagger that suggested he'd never actually been in a real fight. "This isn't your business."

"I'm making it my business."

Isabella didn't remember deciding to throw the first punch. One moment Connor was sneering at her, the next moment her fist was connecting with his nose in a burst of pain and satisfaction that felt like finally, *finally* letting out a breath she'd been holding for months.

Connor stumbled backward, blood streaming down his face, and his friends went for her immediately.

What followed was less a fight than a controlled explosion. Isabella had been boxing since she was eight, had channeled years of frustrated energy into learning how to hit things properly. These boys had probably never been in anything more serious than a playground scuffle.

The first friend—tall, skinny, probably thought his reach would be an advantage—swung wide and clumsy. Isabella ducked under his arm and drove her elbow into his solar plexus, doubling him over. The second one tried to grab her from behind, and she threw her head back hard enough to connect with his nose, then spun and caught him with an uppercut that sent him reeling.

Connor was back on his feet, wiping blood from his face and looking murderous. "You psychotic bitch—"

He lunged at her, and Isabella let him come. Stepped aside at the last second, used his momentum against him, and sent him crashing into the lockers hard enough to leave a dent.

The corridor erupted in noise—Isla screaming, footsteps running toward them, adult voices shouting. Isabella stood in the middle of it all, chest heaving, knuckles bleeding, the static in her head finally, blessedly quiet.

For about thirty seconds.

Then reality crashed back in all at once. Connor groaning on the floor, his friends helping each other stand, Isla staring at her with a mixture of gratitude and terror, and Mr. Henderson, the Head of Year, pushing through the crowd of students that had seemingly materialized from nowhere.

"What in God's name—MacBride! My office, now!"

The next hour passed in a blur of accusations and explanations and the kind of institutional disappointment that felt like being slowly crushed under a heavy weight. Connor and his friends told their version of events—they were just having a conversation with Isla when Isabella attacked them unprovoked. Isla, when questioned, stammered through an account that made it clear she was terrified of making things worse for herself.

Isabella sat through it all in stony silence, hands clenched in her lap to hide the trembling that always followed the adrenaline crash. There was no point in trying to explain. Adults never wanted to hear about the noise in her head, about the way injustice felt like acid in her veins, about how seeing someone vulnerable being hurt made something fundamental inside her snap.

They wanted her to be sorry, to show remorse, to promise it would never happen again.

Instead, she sat there thinking that she'd do it again in a heartbeat.

The call to her parents happened exactly as she'd expected. Hushed, professional voices discussing her "concerning behavior" and "escalating aggression." By the time she was dismissed from Mr. Henderson's office with a week's suspension and a stern warning about her future at the school, she knew exactly what would be waiting for her at home.

The car ride was silent except for the sound of her mother's carefully controlled breathing. Catherine MacBride gripped the steering wheel like she was trying to strangle it, jaw set in the way that meant she was fighting to maintain her composure until they were safely behind closed doors.

Isabella stared out the window at the Edinburgh streets flashing past, each familiar landmark marking their progression toward what she knew would be the most devastating conversation of her life. Not because her parents would shout—they never shouted. They would be disappointed, which was somehow infinitely worse.

The MacBride family home rose before them like a monument to respectability, all Georgian elegance and carefully maintained facades. Isabella followed her mother up the front steps, through the heavy oak door, into the foyer where her father was waiting with the kind of expression usually reserved for terminal diagnoses.

"Sitting room," Catherine said quietly. "Now."

The sitting room was her mother's domain, all cream-colored furniture and tasteful artwork and the kind of pristine perfection that made Isabella feel like a destructive force just by existing in it. She perched on the edge of an antique chair, hyperaware of her scuffed knuckles and the way her school uniform was rumpled from the fight.

Her parents arranged themselves across from her with the precision of a military tribunal. Emma appeared in the doorway, took one look at the scene, and quietly retreated—smart enough to know when to make herself scarce.

"A suspension," her father said finally, voice carefully neutral. "Fighting. Sending three boys to the hospital."

"They didn't go to the hospital," Isabella muttered. "Connor just needed ice for his nose."

"That's not the point." Catherine's voice cracked slightly, the first sign that her composure was fraying. "What were you thinking, Isabella? What on earth possessed you to—"

"They were bullying someone." The words came out harsher than she'd intended, defensive and angry. "Three against one, and she was just trying to get to class."

"So you decided to take matters into your own hands?" James leaned forward, and Isabella could see the genuine bewilderment in his eyes. "You couldn't find a teacher? Couldn't report it through proper channels?"

"There wasn't time—"

"There's always time to think before you act," Catherine interrupted. "This is exactly what we've been trying to tell you, Isabella. You can't just... explode every time something upsets you. The world doesn't work that way."

Isabella bit down on her tongue hard enough to taste blood. How could she explain that thinking was a luxury she didn't have when the noise in her head reached a certain pitch? That sometimes her body moved before her brain had time to catch up? That standing by and watching someone get hurt felt like dying slowly from the inside out?

"Your sister has never—" James started, then caught himself.

"Never what?" Isabella's voice came out dangerously quiet. "Never embarrassed you? Never made you wish you'd had different children?"

"That's not what I was going to say."

"But it's what you were thinking."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Isabella could see the truth in their faces—the disappointment, the exhaustion, the growing certainty that there was something fundamentally wrong with her that couldn't be fixed with enough therapy and behavioral modifications.

"We love you," Catherine said finally, and somehow those words hurt more than any shouting would have. "But we can't keep doing this, Isabella. The school is talking about expulsion. There are consequences to these kinds of choices."

Isabella nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Of course there were consequences. There were always consequences when you were too much, too intense, too willing to fight for people who couldn't fight for themselves.

"Go to your room," James said quietly. "We'll discuss what happens next after we've all had time to think."

Isabella fled upstairs, taking the steps two at a time until she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom. The space felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in as the static in her head began to build again.

She needed to move. Needed to hit something, run somewhere, channel the explosive energy that was already building under her skin again.

Instead, she sat on her bed and stared at her bloody knuckles, wondering if there would ever be a place in the world for someone like her.

Someone who felt everything too much and couldn't seem to learn how to care less.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Scarred Steel, Tender Hearts ~~~~

III

~~~~ Scarred Steel, Tender Hearts ~~~~

The mirror in Alexis Blackwood's bedroom reflected a stranger.

She stood before it in the gray pre-dawn light filtering through heavy curtains, arms bare for the first time in days, studying the marks that sprawled across her pale skin like living tattoos. Dark purples and deep crimsons swirled in patterns that seemed to shift when she wasn't looking directly at them, pulsing with a rhythm that matched her heartbeat but felt alien, wrong.

They'd started small when she was born—just thin lines wrapping around her tiny wrists like delicate bracelets. Ingrid had shown her the photographs once, clinical documentation of her development, and in those early pictures the marks looked almost beautiful. Deceptive, Ingrid had said. That's how demons work. They make poison look pretty.

Now, at fourteen, the marks had spread like an infection. They coiled down her arms to just below her elbows, climbed past her shoulders to sprawl across her collarbone and the upper curve of her chest. Dark veins of otherness that marked her as fundamentally different, fundamentally dangerous.

As she watched, they pulsed brighter, responding to some emotion she couldn't identify. The skin around them felt hot, like touching the marks might burn anyone foolish enough to try. Sometimes, when she was angry or afraid or experiencing whatever passed for feelings in her stunted emotional vocabulary, they would flare so bright she was afraid they'd show through her clothes.

Monster markings, Ingrid called them. Evidence of what you really are.

Alexis pulled a long-sleeved training shirt over her head, watching her reflection disappear behind black fabric. The marks were her shame, her secret, the visible proof that she was something that shouldn't exist. They were the reason her mother was dead—Lydia Blackwood, who'd let a demon close enough to conceive a child and paid the ultimate price for her stupidity.

The Highland estate stretched around her in forty acres of isolation, purchased specifically because it was far enough from civilization that no one would hear screaming or ask questions about strange lights and sounds. Close enough to Inverness that they could reach an airport when necessary, but far enough that Alexis could go weeks without seeing another human being besides Ingrid or her trainers or visiting Huntresses.

Not that she minded. People were complicated, unpredictable. They had emotions and relationships and social rules that Ingrid had never bothered to teach her because weapons didn't need friends. They only needed targets.

Her feet found their way downstairs through muscle memory, padding silently across ancient floorboards that had been reinforced to handle supernatural combat. The estate was a fortress disguised as a manor house—walls lined with iron, windows inscribed with protective wards, basement converted into a training facility that could contain almost anything.

Ingrid was already waiting in the kitchen, gray hair pulled back in its usual severe braid, eyes the color of winter storms. She didn't look up from her tea when Alexis entered, but her voice cut through the morning silence with surgical precision.

"You're late."

"By three minutes."

"Three minutes is the difference between life and death." Ingrid's gaze flicked up, taking in Alexis's appearance with the calculating assessment of someone evaluating a tool. "Your marks were active last night. I could sense them from downstairs."

Heat crept up Alexis's neck, and she felt the treacherous pulse of the marks responding to her embarrassment. Or what she thought might be embarrassment—emotions were still largely foreign territory, sensations without names that she experienced in her body more than her mind.

"Bad dream," she said quietly.

"About?"

Alexis hesitated. The dream had been fragments, really—flashes of other girls her age, strangers with faces she'd never seen but somehow recognized. One with paint-stained fingers and eyes like Glasgow fog, another with dark hair and fists that knew how to fight. She'd woken with the strange sense that something was missing, that there were pieces of herself scattered across Scotland waiting to be found.

But she couldn't say that to Ingrid. Dreams of connection, of belonging, were weaknesses that would be trained out of her with brutal efficiency.

"The Prague job," she lied. "The family with the possessed daughter."

Ingrid nodded approvingly. "Good. Your subconscious is processing the tactical errors we discussed. That hesitation when the girl begged for her life nearly got you killed."

Alexis's stomach clenched. The girl in Prague had been maybe ten years old, possessed by something that made her eyes glow sulfur-yellow and gave her the strength to snap grown men's necks. But for just a moment, when the demon had retreated and left the child confused and terrified, Alexis had seen something of herself in those dark eyes.

That hesitation had cost her three broken ribs and a scar across her shoulder that still ached in cold weather.

"Finish your breakfast," Ingrid continued, gesturing to the protein bar and vitamin supplements that constituted Alexis's morning meal. "We have work to do."

The basement training facility was where Alexis spent most of her waking hours, a maze of workout equipment, weapons racks, and containment circles carved directly into the stone floor. Iron chains hung from the ceiling, their surfaces inscribed with binding runes that could hold most supernatural entities. The air always smelled faintly of ozone and old blood.

Ingrid activated the training sequence with practiced efficiency, her fingers dancing across the control panel that governed the estate's supernatural security systems. The containment circle in the center of the room began to glow, and reality rippled as something responded to her summons.

"Lesser demon today," Ingrid announced, voice clinically detached. "Category Three, primarily physical manifestation. Your goal is complete neutralization within ten minutes."

The thing that materialized in the circle was roughly humanoid but wrong in ways that made Alexis's brain struggle to process its shape. Too many joints, skin like melted wax, eyes that reflected light like a predator's. It tested the boundaries of its containment immediately, claws scraping against invisible barriers with sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

"Begin."

Alexis stepped into the circle, and the barrier dissolved.

The demon came at her immediately, moving with inhuman speed and grace. She rolled aside, came up with a silver-bladed knife in each hand, and let her other nature rise to meet the threat.

This was where the marks became useful instead of shameful. When she fought supernatural entities, when she let the demon blood sing in her veins, she could match their speed and strength. Her senses sharpened until she could track movement that would blur past human perception. Her reflexes became superhuman.

The demon swiped at her with claws designed to shred flesh, and she ducked under its reach to drive both blades between its ribs. Black ichor splattered across the stone floor, and the thing shrieked in a language that predated human civilization.

But as she fought, as she let her inhuman side take control, she could feel the marks spreading. Not physically—they'd stopped growing months ago—but spiritually, emotionally. The darkness that lived in her blood reached toward the darkness in her opponent, recognizing kinship.

This is what you are, the marks seemed to whisper. This is what you'll always be.

The demon backhanded her across the training space, and Alexis hit the far wall hard enough to crack stone. Pain flared along her spine, but it was distant, muted by the adrenaline and inhuman endurance that made her an effective killer.

She pushed herself upright, wiped blood from her split lip, and smiled.

It wasn't a human expression. The smile that crossed her face was all predator, all alien satisfaction at the prospect of violence. The marks on her arms flared brighter, visible even through her sleeves as deep purple light that cast twisted shadows on the walls.

When she moved this time, she was faster than the demon expected. Faster than anything human should be. She flowed around its defenses like water, silver blades finding every weak point in its supernatural anatomy with surgical precision.

The killing blow came eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds after the fight began—a blade through the base of the skull that severed whatever passed for a spinal cord in demonkind. The entity collapsed, form already beginning to dissolve back into the space between dimensions where such things belonged.

Alexis stood over its fading remains, chest heaving, marks pulsing with satisfied hunger. For a moment, looking down at what she'd destroyed, she felt something that might have been pride.

Then Ingrid spoke.

"Acceptable time, but your form deteriorated in the final sequence. You let emotion override technique."

The pride curdled into something bitter and familiar. Alexis straightened, forcing her expression back to the neutral mask that was expected of her. "Yes, ma'am."

"You enjoyed it too much." Ingrid circled her slowly, gray eyes taking in every detail of Alexis's posture, her breathing, the way the marks were still glowing faintly beneath her sleeves. "I could see it in your face, the satisfaction when you made the killing blow. That's the demon in you talking."

"I thought—"

"You thought wrong." Ingrid's voice cut through Alexis's words like a blade. "Using your demon blood to fight demons is necessary. Enjoying it is what killed your mother."

The familiar shame hit like a physical blow, and Alexis felt her marks pulse in response to the pain. This was the core of every lesson, the foundation of every training session: she was a weapon to be used against her own kind, but she could never forget what she really was.

A mistake. An abomination. The reason Lydia Blackwood was dead.

"Your mother trusted a demon once," Ingrid continued, circling closer. "She thought she could love something inhuman, thought she could change its nature through compassion and understanding. That demon used her feelings against her, got her pregnant, and then killed her and the rest of our team when you were born."

Alexis had heard this story a thousand times, but it never lost its power to cut. "I know."

"Do you? Because sometimes I look at you and see the same dangerous naivety in your eyes. The same willingness to forget what you are."

"I won't forget."

"See that you don't." Ingrid stepped back, and her expression softened slightly—not into warmth, but into something that might generously be called concern. "I'm not cruel because I enjoy it, Alexis. Everything I do, every harsh word and difficult lesson, is because I can't bear to lose another person I care about to demon manipulation."

The words should have been comforting, but they felt like another weight added to the crushing burden of expectation that Alexis carried. Ingrid cared about her, yes, but only as much as someone could care about a loaded weapon. Useful, necessary, but never allowed to forget its capacity for destruction.

"Again," Ingrid said, moving back to the control panel. "This time, I want you to focus on efficiency over emotional satisfaction. Kill it like you mean business, not like you're enjoying yourself."

Another demon materialized in the containment circle, this one larger and more aggressive than the last. Alexis stepped forward to meet it, silver blades already in her hands, and tried to ignore the way her marks were singing with anticipation.

Outside the estate, Scotland continued its daily existence—people going to work, children attending school, families sharing meals and laughter and all the ordinary human experiences that might as well have belonged to alien species for all the relevance they had to her life.

Alexis fought, and killed, and tried not to think about the strange dreams that had been visiting her with increasing frequency. Dreams of girls her own age who looked at her not with fear or calculation, but with something that might have been understanding.

Dreams that felt less like sleeping fantasies and more like promises.

But promises were for humans, and humans were something she could never be. No matter how much some secret part of her might wish otherwise.

The marks on her arms pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, dark and alien and beautiful in their terrible way, reminding her with every breath exactly what she was.

And what she could never escape.

~~

The shouting downstairs had reached that pitch again—the one that made Kira's teeth ache and her stomach clench into knots. She pressed her pillow over her head, trying to muffle her parents' voices as they tore into each other with the practiced cruelty of people who knew exactly where to strike.

"—irresponsible! How are we supposed to—"

"—not my fault the overtime got cut! Maybe if you hadn't—"

"—always my fault, isn't it? Just like everything else—"

Kira squeezed her eyes shut tighter, but the familiar script played out below her bedroom floor anyway. Money, blame, accusations, the same poisonous cycle that had been eating away at their family for months. She could predict the beats now: Dad would storm out to the pub, Mum would cry in the kitchen, and tomorrow they'd all pretend it never happened until the pressure built up again.

She couldn't take it anymore.

Slipping from her bed, Kira pulled on jeans and trainers, grabbed her jacket from the chair. The floorboards knew exactly where to creak—she'd mapped every treacherous spot during previous midnight escapes. Down the hallway, down the stairs with her back pressed to the wall.

The kitchen light was on. Through the crack in the door, she could see her mother's silhouette hunched over the table, shoulders shaking. The urge to go to her, to try and fix whatever was broken this time, tugged at Kira's chest. But what could she say that hadn't already been said a hundred times before?

Instead, she slipped out the back door into the Glasgow night.

The October air bit at her cheeks, sharp and clean after the suffocating atmosphere inside. Kira pulled her jacket tighter and headed for Kelvingrove Park, her usual refuge when home became unbearable. At this hour, it would be empty except for the occasional drunk student or late-shift worker cutting through. She could think there, away from the constant tension that made her feel like she was suffocating.

The park gates stood open—they'd given up locking them years ago after too many people just climbed over anyway. Kira's footsteps echoed off the wet pavement as she made her way toward the children's playground at the park's heart. It felt a bit childish, a fourteen-year-old seeking comfort in a place meant for younger kids, but something about the familiar shapes of swings and slides in the darkness soothed her.

She settled on one of the swings, gripping the cold chains as she pushed herself gently back and forth. The motion was hypnotic, meditative. Above her, clouds drifted across the moon like smoke, casting shifting shadows through the bare tree branches.

For the first time in hours, Kira felt like she could breathe.

That's when she noticed the smell.

It hit her nostrils gradually—metallic, sharp, like pennies left too long in a pocket. No, that wasn't quite right. More organic than that. Richer. Like the butcher's shop her grandmother used to take her to when she was small, all raw meat and iron.

Blood. It smelled like blood.

Kira's swing slowed to a stop. The park had gone quiet in a way that felt wrong—no rustle of night creatures, no distant traffic hum. Even the wind had stilled. The silence pressed against her eardrums until she could hear her own heartbeat.

Movement caught her eye near the climbing frame. A small figure, hunched and wrong-shaped, picking its way between the equipment with jerky, unnatural motions. Another emerged from behind the slide, then a third from the shadows by the see-saw. They moved like predators circling prey, and with growing horror, Kira realized the prey was her.

The moonlight shifted, and she got her first clear look at them.

They were small—maybe four feet tall—but there was nothing childlike about their proportions. Stocky bodies covered in what looked like rough leather and matted fur, unnaturally long arms that ended in gnarled hands. Wild gray hair hung in stringy clumps around faces that belonged in nightmares. Their skin was mottled and pale, stretched tight over angular bones, and their mouths... God, their mouths were full of too many teeth, all jagged and stained.

But it was what they wore on their heads that made Kira's blood turn to ice.

Caps. Woolen caps that had once been white or gray, now soaked through with something dark and wet that gleamed in the moonlight. The metallic smell intensified, and she realized what she was looking at.

Fresh blood. Their caps were drenched in fresh blood.

The creatures had arranged themselves in a rough triangle around the playground, cutting off any escape route. They moved with purpose, intelligence. This wasn't random—they'd been hunting her.

One of them, the largest, tilted its head and grinned. When it spoke, its voice was like gravel grinding against stone.

"Sweet little mortal, all alone in the dark. Can you see us, dearie? Can you see what you shouldn't?"

Kira tried to speak, to scream, but her throat had locked shut. Her legs felt rooted to the ground, every muscle frozen in terror. This couldn't be real. Things like this didn't exist. They were just... just homeless people, maybe, playing some sick joke. Except no homeless person moved like that, with predatory grace and inhuman fluidity.

"She can see us," hissed the second one, smaller but somehow more vicious-looking. "Smell the fear on her. Taste the gift in her blood."

The third chuckled, a sound like bones rattling in a box. "Been so long since we had one who could see. They scream so much prettier when they know what's happening."

The largest one took a step closer, and Kira saw its feet were encased in heavy iron boots that sparked against the concrete. "Run, little bird. Make it fun for us."

That broke the spell. Kira bolted.

She made it three steps before the fastest one cut her off, moving with impossible speed. Up close, she could see the individual stains on its bloody cap, could smell the rot on its breath. Iron claws extended from its fingertips as it swiped at her face. She ducked, stumbled, hit the ground hard enough to scrape her palms raw.

"Not that way," it crooned, advancing slowly now that she was cornered. "This way. Come to Uncle Redcap."

The other two closed in from either side. Kira scrambled backward until her spine hit the monkey bars. Trapped. The creatures spread out, taking their time now, savoring her terror.

"Please," she whispered, finding her voice at last. "I don't know what you are. I don't know what you want. Just... please don't—"

"We want your blood, sweet child," the largest one interrupted. "Need it to keep our caps fresh and red. And you, with your gift, your sight... oh, you'll feed us for weeks."

It raised one clawed hand, and Kira closed her eyes, unable to watch her own death approaching.

The attack never came.

Instead, she heard a sound like crystalline wind chimes mixed with the ring of a church bell. Light blazed through her closed eyelids, warm and pure and somehow comforting. When she opened her eyes, a figure stood between her and the creatures—a girl, maybe slightly older than her, with long black hair braided down her back in a neat, practical plait.

The girl held a sword that defied description. It looked carved from living crystal, translucent but solid, pulsing with inner light that turned the night into day. The blade hummed with power, and where its radiance touched the creatures, they hissed and recoiled like vampires from holy water.

"Redcaps," the girl said, and her voice carried an authority that made the very air still, though something in her tone suggested the words came with effort.

The largest creature snarled, showing those nightmare teeth. "Hunter-spawn. This prey is ours by right. We smelled her gift first."

The girl's expression didn't change—her face remained a mask of cold composure. "No." The word came out flat, final. She raised her sword higher, and its light intensified. "Mine now."

What happened next defied everything Kira thought she knew about physics, about reality, about what the human body could do.

The girl moved like liquid death, her crystalline sword leaving trails of light in the air. She seemed to be everywhere at once—spinning past the first creature's claws, the blade carving a graceful arc that opened its throat in a spray of black ichor. Before it hit the ground, she was already pivoting to meet the second one's charge, her sword sweeping low to take its legs out from under it.

The third redcap tried to flank her, iron claws raking toward her ribs. Without even looking, the girl brought her blade up in a perfect defensive arc, the crystal edge shearing through the creature's wrist like it was made of paper. It shrieked and stumbled back, clutching the spurting stump.

The wounded redcap and its remaining companion tried to coordinate their attack, coming at her from opposite sides. The girl's face remained completely impassive as she planted her feet, raised her sword overhead, and brought it down in a vertical slash that split the air itself. A wave of crystalline energy erupted outward, catching both creatures and hurling them backward into the playground equipment with bone-crushing force.

They didn't get up.

Silence fell over the park like a blanket. The girl's sword gradually dimmed until it was just a faint outline of light in her hands, then faded entirely as she somehow made it disappear. She turned toward Kira, and in the returning moonlight, Kira got her first clear look at her savior's face.

She was beautiful in a sharp, angular way—high cheekbones and pale skin, dark eyes that seemed to hold no warmth at all. Her expression was completely neutral, unreadable, as if she'd just completed some mundane task rather than saved someone's life. For just a moment, Kira could swear she saw patterns moving beneath the girl's skin, dark lines that writhed like living tattoos before disappearing.

The girl stood there for a long moment, staring at Kira with those emotionless eyes. When she finally spoke, the words came slowly, as if she had to think about each one.

"You're... hurt?" She gestured vaguely at Kira's scraped palms, her brow furrowing slightly in what might have been concern or confusion.

Kira stared at her, mind struggling to process what she'd just witnessed. "What... what were those things? What are you?"

The girl's expression didn't change, but she was quiet for a long time, clearly struggling with how to respond. "Redcaps," she said finally. "They hunt... people like you. People who can..." She trailed off, her jaw working silently as if the words were stuck.

"People who can what?" Kira prompted gently.

"See." The word came out sharp, frustrated. The girl's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "You see them. Most don't. That makes you..." Another pause, longer this time. "Dangerous. To them. And they're dangerous to you."

Kira pushed herself to her feet, still shaky from adrenaline. "I don't understand any of this. An hour ago, the worst thing in my life was my parents fighting. Now you're telling me there are monsters hunting me?"

The girl watched her with that same unreadable expression. For a moment, something flickered across her features—maybe sympathy, maybe recognition—but it was gone so quickly Kira might have imagined it.

"Name," the girl said abruptly. "What's your name?"

"Kira. Kira MacLeod."

"Alexis." She didn't offer a surname. "There are more. More things that hunt. More people like you who..." She gestured helplessly, clearly frustrated with her inability to explain. "Who need help."

The words hit Kira like a physical blow. "More of those things? You mean this is going to happen again?"

Alexis nodded once, sharp and certain. "Yes. Unless..." She stopped, pressing her lips together in a thin line.

"Unless what?"

"Unless you learn." Alexis turned away slightly, her gaze scanning the park as if checking for more threats. "Someone can teach you. To fight. To protect yourself."

Kira's legs felt unsteady. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving her shaky and overwhelmed. "Who? Who could teach me something like that?"

Alexis was quiet for so long that Kira wondered if she'd even heard the question. When she finally answered, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"My... guardian. She takes in people like you. Teaches them." Another pause. "If they want to learn."

Looking into those dark, emotionless eyes, seeing the absolute certainty there despite her halting words, Kira realized her old life—her normal life—was already over. The moment she'd been able to see those creatures, everything had changed.

She thought of her parents, still fighting in their kitchen, completely unaware that their daughter had just survived something out of a nightmare. How could she go back to worrying about homework and family drama when there were literal monsters in the world?

"What would I have to do?" she heard herself ask.

For the first time, something like surprise flickered across Alexis's face, so brief Kira almost missed it. She turned back to face Kira fully, studying her with new interest.

"Leave," she said simply. "Come with me. Learn to fight." A pause. "Learn to survive."

"Leave? But my parents, my school—"

"Your parents think you're dead or you learn to kill things that want to eat you." Alexis's bluntness was startling, delivered in the same flat tone she'd used for everything else. "Those are your choices."

The harsh reality of it hit Kira like a slap. She looked back at the playground where the redcap bodies were already beginning to dissolve into shadow and mist. By morning, there would be no trace they'd ever existed.

Just like there'd be no trace of the girl she'd been an hour ago.

"How do we... how would my parents..." Kira struggled to form the question.

"My guardian will handle it," Alexis said. "She's good at... making arrangements. Making it seem normal."

Something in her tone suggested this wasn't the first time such arrangements had been made.

Kira took a shaky breath. "If I say yes... when would I have to leave?"

"Now." Alexis's response was immediate and final. "Too dangerous to wait. They know about you now. More will come."

As if to emphasize her point, a distant howl echoed across the park, definitely not from any dog. Alexis's head snapped toward the sound, her entire body going tense.

"We need to go," she said, already moving. "Now."

Kira found herself following, her legs moving on autopilot. As they walked quickly toward the park's exit, she couldn't help but look back one more time at the playground where her normal life had ended.

That girl was gone forever.

They walked in tense silence through the empty Glasgow streets, Alexis moving with the fluid alertness of a predator while Kira stumbled along beside her, still trying to process everything that had happened. Every shadow seemed to hide potential threats now, every alleyway a place where monsters might lurk. The normal world felt paper-thin, like she could see through to the nightmare underneath.

"Where exactly are we going?" Kira finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Safe house," Alexis replied, her words clipped and economical as usual. "My guardian. She'll... explain better than I can."

They turned down a narrow street lined with Georgian townhouses, their windows dark at this late hour. Alexis stopped in front of one that looked identical to all the others—cream-colored stone, black iron railings, flower boxes that probably bloomed cheerfully in daylight. Nothing to suggest it housed anything more exotic than accountants or university professors.

Alexis produced a key from somewhere in her jacket and unlocked the front door without ceremony. The hallway beyond was warm and inviting, all polished wood and soft lighting. It smelled like lavender and old books, completely at odds with what Kira had expected after witnessing Alexis's brutal efficiency with the redcaps.

"Alexis? Is that you, dear?"

The voice that called from deeper in the house was warm, cultured, with just a hint of an accent Kira couldn't place. Footsteps approached, and a woman appeared in the doorway to what looked like a sitting room.

Kira's first impression was of someone who belonged in a cozy BBC drama—perhaps a favorite aunt or beloved teacher. The woman was in her fifties, with graying auburn hair pulled back in an elegant chignon and wearing a cream-colored cardigan over dark slacks. Her face was kind, with laugh lines around green eyes that seemed to radiate warmth and understanding.

"And you must be Kira," the woman said, stepping forward with a genuine smile. "I'm Ingrid Stark. Please, come in, dear. You've had quite a night, I imagine."

"How did you—" Kira began, but Ingrid waved a gentle hand.

"Alexis texted me while you were walking here. Basic details only, of course." She cast a glance at Alexis, who had positioned herself near the doorway like a guard. "Why don't you go clean up, Alexis? And perhaps make some tea. I think we could all use some."

It wasn't really a suggestion. Alexis nodded once and disappeared down the hallway without a word, leaving Kira alone with this stranger who somehow felt safer than anyone she'd met in months.

"Come, sit," Ingrid said, guiding Kira into the sitting room. It was exactly the kind of space Kira had always imagined existed in proper British homes—Persian rugs, leather-bound books lining the walls, a fire crackling in the grate. Ingrid settled into an armchair across from the sofa where Kira perched nervously.

"First things first," Ingrid said, leaning forward with concern. "Are you hurt? Those creatures can be vicious, and Alexis isn't always... gentle in her methods."

"I'm fine," Kira said quickly. "She saved my life. Those things would have killed me if she hadn't shown up."

"Yes, redcaps are particularly nasty. Drawn to places where violence has occurred, and children's playgrounds unfortunately qualify—too many scraped knees and playground fights over the years." Ingrid's tone was matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather. "But you're safe now, and that's what matters."

Kira stared at her. "You talk about this like it's normal. Like monsters are just... part of everyday life."

"For people like us, they are." Ingrid's smile was gentle but serious. "You have what we call the Sight, Kira. You can perceive supernatural entities that most humans can't. It's a rare gift, but it comes with considerable dangers, as you've discovered."

"Alexis said there would be more. More things hunting me."

"I'm afraid so. Word spreads quickly in the supernatural community. Once they know someone with the Sight is in the area..." Ingrid spread her hands helplessly. "Think of it like blood in the water to sharks."

The casual way she delivered this terrifying information should have been unsettling, but somehow Ingrid's presence made it feel manageable. Like this was a problem that could be solved with the right approach.

Alexis returned with a tea service, moving with her usual silent efficiency. She set the tray down and poured three cups without being asked, then retreated to lean against the mantelpiece. Kira noticed she didn't sit down, didn't relax even here in what was supposedly her home.

"Thank you, dear," Ingrid said, accepting her cup. The brief look she gave Alexis was fond but dismissive, the way someone might regard a well-trained pet. "Now then, Kira. I suppose you're wondering what happens next."

Kira wrapped her hands around the warm teacup, grateful for something normal to hold onto. "Alexis mentioned something about learning to fight. About survival."

"Yes, I run a rather specialized educational program. Very exclusive, very selective." Ingrid's eyes twinkled with what looked like genuine enthusiasm. "We take in exceptional young people with gifts like yours and provide them with the training they need to protect themselves and others. It's not your typical curriculum, of course. Combat training, supernatural theory, practical field work."

"Like what Alexis does?"

"Exactly like what Alexis does. She's been with me since she was quite young, and look how accomplished she's become." Again, that fond but distant look toward Alexis, who remained motionless by the fireplace. "The training is intensive, but the work is rewarding. You'd be protecting innocent people from threats they can't even see."

It sounded almost noble when Ingrid described it. Heroic, even. Kira found herself leaning forward, drawn in by the woman's warm enthusiasm.

"But what about my parents? My school? I can't just disappear."

"Of course not, dear. We have arrangements for that sort of thing. I'll speak with your parents in the morning, explain about the scholarship opportunity. An exclusive boarding school program, fully funded, excellent educational opportunities alongside specialized training. Most parents are delighted when their children are selected for such a prestigious opportunity."

"You make it sound so... normal."

Ingrid laughed, a warm sound that filled the cozy room. "Because it is normal, for us. I've been identifying and training gifted young people for years, Kira. Offering them purpose and direction. It's really quite straightforward once you understand how important this work is."

From her position by the mantelpiece, Alexis made a small sound that might have been disagreement, but when Kira glanced at her, the older girl's face was as impassive as ever.

"I think," Ingrid continued, "the best approach would be for me to visit your parents tomorrow morning. I have all the necessary documentation—scholarship letters, school credentials, testimonials. Once they understand what a remarkable opportunity this is, I'm sure they'll be supportive."

Kira thought about her parents' constant fighting about money, the stress that had been eating away at their family. A fully-funded boarding school opportunity would seem like a godsend to them. Maybe even a relief.

"They'll want to know more about the school. Where it is, what kind of program..."

"All perfectly reasonable questions, and I have perfectly reasonable answers." Ingrid's smile was reassuring. "The program is quite small and exclusive—we only work with one or two students at a time to ensure personalized attention. Quality over quantity, you understand. Your parents will be satisfied that you're being offered something truly exceptional."

Something in her tone suggested absolute confidence, the kind that came from long experience in convincing worried parents to let their children go. Kira found it comforting rather than concerning—here was someone who knew how to handle the practical details while she was still trying to accept that monsters were real.

"What about tonight?" Kira asked. "Should I go home? Will I be safe?"

"Oh, heavens no. Far too dangerous for you to be alone now that you've been marked." Ingrid stood, moving to a writing desk in the corner. "I'll call your parents right away, let them know you're safe and will be home in the morning. A story about staying with a friend after some family drama—parents understand that sort of thing."

She was already dialing, and Kira marveled at how effortlessly Ingrid seemed to manage every detail. Within minutes, she was speaking to Kira's mother in soothing, authoritative tones, explaining that Kira was safe with a friend and would be home for breakfast to discuss an exciting opportunity.

"There," Ingrid said, hanging up. "All sorted. Your mother was actually relieved—apparently she and your father had quite a row after you left. She's grateful you had somewhere safe to go."

Kira felt a pang of guilt about her midnight escape, but it was overshadowed by amazement at how easily Ingrid had smoothed everything over. This woman clearly knew how to handle complicated situations.

"Alexis will show you to a guest room," Ingrid continued. "Try to get some rest. Tomorrow will be rather eventful, I expect."

As if summoned, Alexis straightened from the mantelpiece. She jerked her head toward the doorway in what Kira was learning to recognize as her version of "follow me."

"Thank you," Kira said to Ingrid, meaning it. "For everything. For helping with my parents, for offering to train me. I don't know what I would have done..."

"Think nothing of it, dear. This is what I do." Ingrid's smile was warm and maternal. "You're going to do wonderfully, I'm sure. You have excellent instincts, and Alexis clearly sees potential in you or she wouldn't have brought you here."

Kira glanced at Alexis, who was studying the floor with intense concentration. She wondered what the other girl was thinking, whether she agreed with Ingrid's assessment. It was impossible to tell from her expression.

"Off to bed now," Ingrid said gently. "Big day tomorrow."

As Kira followed Alexis upstairs, she couldn't help but feel like her life was finally moving in the right direction. Away from the constant fighting and financial stress at home, toward something that gave her a purpose. Something that mattered.

She was too exhausted and overwhelmed to notice the way Alexis's shoulders tensed when Ingrid called her "dear," or the careful distance the older girl maintained from the woman who was supposedly her guardian. Too naive to recognize the practiced ease with which Ingrid had dismissed every potential objection and smoothed every rough edge.

All Kira saw was kindness and competence, a solution to the nightmare her life had become.

She had no idea she was walking into a different kind of nightmare entirely.

Morning came too soon, accompanied by the smell of bacon and coffee drifting up from the kitchen below. Kira had barely slept, her mind replaying the night's events in an endless loop—the redcaps, the crystal sword, Ingrid's warm reassurances. It all felt like a fever dream until she looked out the guest room window and saw Glasgow's familiar skyline. Real world, real monsters, real consequences.

She made her way downstairs to find Alexis already seated at the kitchen table, posture perfect, hands folded in her lap. A plate of eggs and toast sat untouched in front of her, as if she was waiting for permission to begin eating.

"Good morning, dear," Ingrid called from the stove, where she was turning bacon with practiced ease. "Sleep well?"

"Better than expected," Kira lied, sliding into the chair across from Alexis. The other girl's dark eyes flicked up to meet hers briefly before returning to study her plate with intense concentration.

Ingrid set a full breakfast in front of Kira—eggs, bacon, grilled tomatoes, toast cut into perfect triangles. It was more food than Kira usually ate in the morning, but her stomach reminded her she'd missed dinner the night before.

"Eat up," Ingrid said, settling into her own chair with a cup of coffee. "We have a busy morning ahead."

Kira glanced at Alexis, expecting some kind of conversation, but the older girl remained silent. When she finally began eating, it was with mechanical precision—cutting her food into uniform pieces, chewing each bite exactly the same number of times. There was something almost robotic about it, as if eating was just another task to be completed efficiently.

"Sleep well, Alexis?" Kira tried.

"Yes." The word came out flat, final, offering no opening for further conversation.

Kira tried again. "The guest room is really nice. Very comfortable."

Alexis nodded once but didn't speak.

"Alexis isn't much of a morning person," Ingrid said with an indulgent smile. "Never has been, have you, dear?"

Another nod, but something in Alexis's posture suggested this wasn't about morning preferences. This was just... how she was. Silent, contained, present but not really there.

The rest of breakfast passed in uncomfortable quiet broken only by the soft clink of cutlery against plates. Kira found herself stealing glances at Alexis, trying to reconcile this withdrawn, almost institutional behavior with the deadly grace she'd witnessed the night before. It was like watching two completely different people occupying the same body.

When they finished eating, Alexis immediately stood and began clearing the table with the same mechanical efficiency she'd shown while eating. She didn't ask if anyone was finished, didn't wait for permission—just moved through the motions like a well-programmed machine.

"Thank you, dear," Ingrid said, but Alexis was already at the sink, washing dishes with quick, practiced movements. "We should head out soon. Best to catch your mother before she gets busy with her day."

An hour later, they stood outside Kira's family home, and she felt a strange disconnect looking at the familiar red brick terraced house. Had it really been less than twelve hours since she'd snuck out that back door? It felt like a lifetime.

"Remember," Ingrid said softly, "let me do the talking. I know how to present this properly."

Kira's mother answered the door still in her dressing gown, hair disheveled and eyes red-rimmed from crying or lack of sleep. "Kira, sweetheart." She pulled her daughter into a fierce hug. "I was so worried. When you left like that..."

"I'm sorry, Mum. I just needed space after..." Kira gestured helplessly.

"I know. Your father and I, we..." Her mother's gaze shifted to Ingrid and Alexis, taking in Ingrid's professional attire and warm smile. "You must be the friend Kira stayed with?"

"Ingrid Stark," Ingrid said, extending a manicured hand. "And this is my ward, Alexis. May we come in? I believe Kira mentioned there was an opportunity we needed to discuss."

They settled in the sitting room, Kira's mother bustling about offering tea while Ingrid arranged a leather portfolio on the coffee table. Alexis positioned herself by the window, silent and watchful as always.

"Mrs. MacLeod," Ingrid began, her voice taking on the warm, authoritative tone Kira had heard the night before. "I want to start by saying how impressed I am with your daughter. She showed remarkable composure last night during what was quite a stressful situation."

Kira's mother glanced between them. "What kind of situation?"

"Some local youths causing trouble in the park. Nothing serious, but it could have been unpleasant if Alexis hadn't intervened." Ingrid's lie came so smoothly it sounded completely believable. "It was clear immediately that Kira has excellent instincts and real potential."

"Potential for what?"

Ingrid opened her portfolio and spread several official-looking documents across the table. "I represent a very exclusive educational program, Mrs. MacLeod. We specialize in identifying exceptional young people and providing them with opportunities they wouldn't otherwise have access to."

Kira watched her mother's eyes widen as she took in the papers—letterheads that looked impressively official, photographs of what appeared to be a stately manor house, testimonials from satisfied parents.

"A boarding school?" her mother asked, picking up one of the brochures.

"A very specialized one. We focus on developing leadership skills, self-defense, critical thinking—preparing young people for careers in security, law enforcement, government service. The kind of positions that offer real stability and purpose."

The magic words. Kira could see her mother's interest sharpen at the mention of stability and career prospects.

"The financial arrangements?" her mother asked, and Kira noticed how carefully she phrased the question.

"Fully funded. Full scholarship covering tuition, room and board, all expenses. We believe strongly that financial circumstances shouldn't prevent talented young people from reaching their potential."

Kira's mother was quiet for a long moment, studying the documents. "This seems... almost too good to be true."

"I understand your skepticism," Ingrid said warmly. "But exceptional opportunities do exist for exceptional young people. And Kira is quite exceptional."

"When would this start?"

"Immediately, I'm afraid. The program runs year-round, and early intervention is crucial for developing the skills we teach. I know it seems sudden, but sometimes the best opportunities require quick decisions."

Kira watched her mother's internal struggle play out across her face. The chance to give her daughter something better, to solve the family's financial stress around education, to perhaps restore some peace to a household torn apart by constant fighting about money.

"I'd need to discuss this with my husband..."

"Of course. Though I should mention that we only have one slot available this term, and there are other candidates being considered." Ingrid's tone remained warm, but there was a subtle pressure there. "If you're interested, I'd recommend moving quickly."

The gentle manipulation was masterful. Kira found herself admiring Ingrid's skill even as a small part of her mind wondered why it felt like manipulation at all.

Thirty minutes later, her mother was signing papers with slightly shaking hands while Ingrid provided reassuring answers to every concern. Contact schedules, holiday visits, emergency procedures—everything designed to make a worried parent feel secure about sending their child away with virtual strangers.

"Right then," Kira's mother said, standing with the air of someone who'd made a difficult decision. "I suppose we should pack some things for you."

Upstairs in her bedroom, Kira stood in the doorway feeling overwhelmed by the task ahead. How do you pack a life? How do you choose what parts of yourself to bring into an unknown future?

Alexis moved past her with characteristic efficiency, pulling a large duffel bag from the wardrobe and setting it on the bed. "Practical first," she said, her first unsolicited words of the day. "Clothes, toiletries, necessities."

She began moving through Kira's wardrobe with methodical precision, selecting items based on what appeared to be purely practical criteria—durability, versatility, comfort. Everything was folded with military precision and placed in the bag in a way that maximized space.

Kira watched, fascinated despite herself. "Do you always pack like you're going on a military deployment?"

Alexis paused, a sweater half-folded in her hands. "Only way I know," she said quietly, then continued her work.

While Alexis handled the practical items, Kira found herself drawn to the things that mattered for entirely different reasons. Her favorite mug, a gift from her grandmother. The small stuffed elephant she'd had since childhood, worn soft from years of comfort-seeking hugs. A photo of her and her parents from last Christmas, before the fighting got so bad.

She hesitated over each item, knowing she was probably bringing too much, but unable to leave behind these anchors to who she'd been before monsters became real.

"It's okay," Alexis said suddenly, noticing her hesitation over a collection of small stuffed animals lined up on her bookshelf. "Bring them."

"You don't think it's childish?"

Alexis was quiet for so long Kira thought she wasn't going to answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Everyone should have things that matter to them."

There was something in her tone that made Kira look at her more closely. Alexis was staring at the stuffed animals with an expression Kira couldn't quite read—not judgment, but something almost like longing.

"Don't you have anything like that?" Kira asked gently. "Things from when you were younger?"

Alexis's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "No."

The single word carried weight far beyond its brevity. Kira wanted to ask more, to understand what kind of childhood left someone with no sentimental attachments, but something in Alexis's posture warned her off.

Instead, she carefully packed her small collection of stuffed animals, each one representing a different phase of her life, a different version of herself she wasn't ready to leave behind. Alexis made no comment, just continued her efficient organization of the practical items.

When they finished, Kira's bag was an odd mixture of military-precise organization and teenage sentiment—exactly like the two girls who had packed it together.

"Ready?" Alexis asked, shouldering the bag with ease.

Kira looked around her bedroom one last time, memorizing details she'd never consciously noticed before. The way the morning light hit the poster on her wall, the pile of books she'd been meaning to read, the comfortable chaos of a space that had been entirely hers.

"Ready," she said, though she wasn't sure she meant it.

As they headed downstairs, Kira caught Alexis glancing back at the stuffed animals visible through the unzipped top of the bag. For just a moment, the older girl's carefully controlled expression softened into something that looked almost like wonder.

It was the first crack Kira had seen in Alexis's emotional armor, and it made her wonder what else might be hidden beneath that surface of mechanical efficiency and practiced silence.

~~

The Highland Estate looked like something out of a gothic novel, all gray stone towers and narrow windows that seemed to watch Isabella as the car wound up the long gravel drive. Ancient oak trees lined the path, their branches forming a canopy so thick it blocked out most of the afternoon sun, casting everything in perpetual twilight.

Isabella pressed her face to the passenger window, taking in every detail with the focused intensity that had served her well through fourteen years of being the family disappointment. First assessment: remote, defensible, probably built sometime in the 1800s when rich people still thought living in fake castles was impressive. Second assessment: whoever owned this place had serious money and serious privacy concerns.

"Bit dramatic, isn't it?" she said to Sandra, the Huntress who'd found her three weeks ago and somehow convinced Isabella's parents to sign over custody to what they thought was an exclusive Scottish boarding school for "gifted children with leadership potential."

Not that her parents had needed much convincing. Isabella MacBride was what upper-class families politely called "a disappointment"—too physical, too blunt, too willing to solve problems with her fists when words failed. The boxing lessons her mother had reluctantly allowed "for fitness purposes" had turned into a passion that horrified the family. Three schools in two years, each transfer accompanied by increasingly diplomatic ways of saying their daughter was brilliant but utterly impossible to mold into a proper young lady.

When Sandra had shown up with papers describing a specialized program for "exceptional children who require unique educational approaches," Isabella's parents had practically thrown the documents at her to sign. Finally, someone else's problem.

Sandra glanced at her in the rearview mirror, lips quirking in what might have been amusement. She was probably in her forties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and the kind of lean, dangerous build that spoke of years spent doing things that required being very good at violence. Isabella liked her immediately.

"Ingrid has particular tastes," Sandra said dryly. "The estate has housed our kind for generations. She believes atmosphere is important for proper education."

Isabella snorted. "Right. Because nothing says 'quality education' like living in a haunted mansion in the middle of nowhere."

They'd been driving for two hours through increasingly empty Highland countryside, past sheep farms and stone cottages that looked like they hadn't changed in centuries. Isabella's phone had lost signal about forty minutes ago, which probably wasn't an accident. Whatever this place really was, they wanted their students properly isolated.

The car pulled up in front of massive wooden doors that belonged in a medieval cathedral. As Sandra cut the engine, those doors swung open to reveal a woman who looked like every teenager's idea of the perfect headmistress—elegant, well-dressed, radiating the kind of warm authority that made you want to both trust her completely and check your pockets to make sure she hadn't stolen anything.

"Isabella," the woman said, stepping forward with a genuine smile. "Welcome to Highland Estate. I'm Ingrid Stark. I hope the journey wasn't too taxing."

"Not too bad," Isabella replied, climbing out of the car and stretching muscles cramped from hours of sitting. The movement was automatic—her body craved motion when she was stressed or uncertain, something her family had never understood. "Though I have to say, your directions were shit. 'Turn left at the standing stone' isn't exactly GPS-friendly."

Sandra made a choking sound that might have been suppressed laughter, but Ingrid just smiled more broadly. "We value our privacy here. You'll find that satellite navigation becomes less reliable the closer you get to the estate. Something about the local mineral deposits."

Sure it was. Isabella had grown up around enough family business dealings to recognize when someone was deliberately obscuring information. But she kept that observation to herself for now.

"Sandra's briefed you on the basics, I assume?" Ingrid continued, gesturing toward the imposing entrance.

"Some of it." Isabella shouldered her duffel bag, noting how Sandra immediately moved to flank her rather than following behind. Protective positioning, but also containing. Interesting. "Monsters are real, I can see them, most people can't, that makes me special and dangerous and in need of proper training. Did I miss anything important?"

"Your refreshing directness, for one thing," Ingrid said with apparent delight. "I think you're going to fit in wonderfully here. Come, let me show you around and introduce you to our other students."

Other students. Plural. Sandra had mentioned there were others like Isabella, but had been vague about numbers and details. As they passed through the heavy doors into a grand entrance hall that belonged in a museum, Isabella mentally catalogued everything she saw.

High vaulted ceiling with exposed wooden beams. Tapestries that looked old enough to be authentic medieval. Suits of armor positioned at strategic intervals that were probably decorative but could easily conceal modern security equipment. A grand staircase that split into two arms leading to upper floors. Multiple doorways leading off in different directions, all of them too dark to see into properly.

"The estate has housed Hunters for generations," Ingrid explained as they walked, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "We've... adapted it over the years to better serve our current purposes. I'm simply the current caretaker of a very old tradition."

"Which are?"

"Training extraordinary young people to protect the world from threats most people can't even imagine," Ingrid said with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested she'd given this speech before. "You have a gift, Isabella. The Sight. The ability to perceive supernatural entities that exist alongside our mundane world. It's rare, valuable, and extremely dangerous if left untrained."

They passed through several more rooms—a library that looked like it contained half the books ever written, a dining room with a table long enough to seat twenty people, a sitting room full of antique furniture that probably cost more than most people made in a year. Everything was beautiful, expensive, and carefully designed to impress visitors. Isabella recognized the aesthetic—old money, the kind her family aspired to but could never quite achieve despite their wealth.

It was also completely empty except for the three of them.

"Where is everyone?" Isabella asked. "This place is huge, but I haven't seen another soul since we got here."

"Most of our staff maintain residences in the village," Ingrid replied smoothly. "And our current students are in the training facilities. Which reminds me—you'll want to meet them properly."

She led them down a corridor lined with portraits of stern-looking people in old-fashioned clothing, all of whom seemed to be glaring disapprovingly at Isabella as she passed. At the end of the hall, Ingrid opened a door and gestured for Isabella to enter.

The room beyond was clearly designed as some kind of common area—comfortable chairs arranged around a fireplace, bookshelves lined with what looked like academic texts, large windows offering views of the surrounding countryside. It should have felt welcoming, but something about the careful arrangement of furniture and the total absence of personal touches made it feel more like a hotel lobby than a place where people actually lived.

Two girls sat at a small table near the windows, and Isabella's first thought was that they couldn't have been more different if they'd tried. Both looked to be around fourteen, like Isabella herself, but that was where the similarities ended.

The first was probably the youngest of the three, with strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and the kind of pale, freckled complexion that suggested she spent most of her time indoors. She was pretty in a girl-next-door way, but there was something nervous and uncertain in her expression that made her seem even younger than her fourteen years. When she looked up at Isabella's entrance, her face immediately brightened with what looked like genuine excitement.

The second girl was harder to read. Dark hair braided down her back with military precision, pale skin, and the kind of sharp, angular features that could be called beautiful if you liked your beauty with an edge of danger. She might have been the same age as Isabella and the blonde, but something in her eyes made her seem much older than that. She didn't look up when Isabella entered, just continued staring out the window with the kind of focused intensity that suggested she was cataloguing potential escape routes.

"Kira, Alexis," Ingrid said warmly. "I'd like you to meet Isabella MacBride. She'll be joining our little family here at Highland Estate."

The blonde—Kira—immediately stood up with a smile that was shy but genuine. "Hi! It's so nice to meet you. I'm Kira MacLeod." She had a Scottish accent that sounded like it came from Glasgow or somewhere urban, not the rural Highlands.

The dark-haired girl—Alexis—glanced up briefly, made eye contact for exactly one second, then returned to her window-watching. "Alexis Blackwood," she said quietly, as if her name was the only information Isabella was entitled to receive.

Isabella looked between them, processing the dynamic. Kira seemed eager for friendship, probably desperate for someone her own age to talk to in this isolated place. Alexis radiated the kind of careful distance that came from years of practice at keeping people at arm's length. Both of them had the slightly shell-shocked look of people still adjusting to having their worldview completely rearranged.

"Isabella MacBride," she said, dropping into a chair that gave her a clear view of all the room's exits. "So you two are the other students Ingrid mentioned? How long have you been here?"

"Just a few days," Kira said, settling back into her own chair. "We're still getting used to everything. It's a lot to take in, isn't it? The whole supernatural world thing?"

"Bit of an understatement," Isabella agreed. "Though I have to say, the accommodations are impressive. This place must cost a fortune to maintain."

"I'll leave you three to get acquainted," Ingrid interjected smoothly. "Dinner is at seven in the main dining room. Isabella, your room is prepared—Alexis can show you the way when you're ready. We'll begin your formal orientation tomorrow."

She swept out with the kind of graceful exit that suggested she'd been practicing dramatic departures for years, leaving the three girls alone in the carefully appointed common room.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Kira fidgeted with what looked like a small stuffed animal she'd been holding—a worn elephant that was clearly a childhood comfort object. Alexis continued her window surveillance with the dedication of someone expecting imminent attack. Isabella used the silence to study her new companions more carefully.

Kira was definitely the most normal of them—everything about her screamed regular teenager dealing with extraordinary circumstances. The nervous energy, the obvious excitement at meeting someone new, the way she kept glancing between Isabella and Alexis like she was hoping someone would tell her how this social interaction was supposed to work. She was probably from a middle-class family, maybe dealing with some typical teenage problems before supernatural monsters entered her life and turned everything upside down.

Alexis was harder to figure out. Her posture was perfect, her expression carefully neutral, and she moved with the kind of unconscious precision that spoke of extensive training. But there was something wrong about her stillness—it wasn't relaxed, it was controlled. Like someone who'd learned that drawing attention was dangerous.

"So," Isabella said, deciding to break the ice with her usual direct approach. "What's your story, Kira? How'd you end up in supernatural boarding school?"

Kira's face immediately animated. "Oh, it was terrifying! I was in this park at night—stupid, I know, but my parents were fighting and I needed to get out of the house—and these creatures attacked me. Redcaps, Ingrid called them. They were going to kill me, but Alexis showed up and saved my life."

She looked at Alexis with obvious admiration, but the older girl didn't acknowledge the praise. Just kept staring out the window like the conversation wasn't happening.

"Redcaps?" Isabella raised an eyebrow. "Small, ugly, wearing bloody hats?"

"You know about them?"

"Had my own encounter a few weeks ago. Three of them cornered me in an alley in Edinburgh. Nasty little bastards." Isabella grinned at the memory. "I managed to take one down with a cricket bat before Sandra showed up to finish the job. That's how she found me—apparently most people can't see them, but I could."

"You fought one?" Kira's eyes went wide. "Without training?"

"Didn't have much choice. It was trying to eat my face." Isabella shrugged. "I've been boxing since I was ten—my parents thought it might help me be less... volatile. Ironic, really. Turns out the principles are the same whether you're fighting human bullies or supernatural monsters."

She didn't mention that her family had been horrified when she'd taken to boxing like a fish to water. That her mother had spent years trying to redirect her toward "more appropriate" activities like piano or painting. That her blunt way of speaking and tendency to solve problems physically had made her the family embarrassment.

For the first time since Isabella had entered the room, Alexis looked directly at her. There was something like interest in her dark eyes, as if Isabella had said something unexpected.

"You box?" Alexis asked, her voice carefully neutral but with an undertone that suggested the question mattered more than she was letting on.

"Yeah. Started when I was about ten because I kept getting into fights at school." Isabella studied Alexis's reaction. "My parents thought structured violence might help me channel my... aggressive tendencies. They weren't entirely wrong, though I don't think they appreciated how much I enjoyed it."

"Is that why you're not freaked out by all this?" Kira asked. "Because you're used to fighting?"

Isabella considered the question. "Partially. But also because it makes sense, in a weird way. I mean, the world's already full of things that want to hurt people. Finding out some of those things are monsters instead of just regular human monsters isn't that big a leap."

She studied Alexis, noting the way the girl's attention had sharpened at the mention of combat training. "What about you, Alexis? What's your story?"

For a long moment, Alexis didn't respond. When she finally spoke, her words were carefully chosen and delivered in the same flat tone she'd used for everything else.

"I've been here a while."

That was clearly all the information Isabella was getting, but it told her quite a bit anyway. Alexis had been here long enough to think of this place as normal, long enough to develop that particular brand of institutional behavior Isabella recognized from some of the boarding school girls she'd met at various social functions.

"What's the training like?" Isabella asked, directing the question to both of them but expecting Alexis to actually have useful information.

"I don't know yet," Kira said. "We only arrived a few days ago. Ingrid said we'd start properly once we'd settled in."

Alexis was quiet for a moment, then said, "Hard. Dangerous. Necessary."

The three words carried weight, delivered with the kind of matter-of-fact certainty that came from experience. Isabella found herself reassessing the girl. That wasn't the response of someone who'd been playing at training exercises—that was someone who'd been through something real and difficult and had come out the other side changed by it.

"Have you actually fought supernatural creatures?" Isabella asked directly. "Besides the redcaps that night?"

Alexis nodded once. "Many times."

"What kinds?"

"Lots of kinds." Alexis's jaw tightened slightly, as if the memories weren't pleasant ones. "Depends on what needs killing."

The casual way she said it sent a chill down Isabella's spine. This wasn't a fourteen-year-old girl talking about self-defense or even justified violence—this was someone who'd been turned into a weapon and was comfortable with that reality.

Kira seemed to sense the shift in mood, because she jumped in with forced brightness. "But it's for protecting people, right? That's what Ingrid said. We learn to fight these things so innocent people don't get hurt."

"Right," Alexis said, but something in her tone suggested the reality was more complicated than that simple explanation.

Isabella filed that away for future consideration. She was starting to get the feeling that Highland Estate wasn't quite the straightforward supernatural boarding school Ingrid had presented it as. But then again, she'd grown up around enough family business dealings to know that the official story was rarely the complete story.

"Well," she said, settling back in her chair with a grin. "This should be interesting. Can't say my life's been boring since I discovered monsters were real."

Kira giggled nervously. "That's one way to put it. I keep expecting to wake up and find out this is all some crazy dream."

"Trust me," Isabella said, "if this was a dream, the accommodations wouldn't be nearly this nice."

That got a genuine laugh from Kira and what might have been the ghost of a smile from Alexis. It wasn't much, but Isabella had dealt with enough disapproving relatives and judgmental family friends to know how to crack through defensive walls. Give her time.

As they continued talking—or rather, as she and Kira talked while Alexis listened with varying degrees of attention—Isabella found herself looking forward to whatever came next. Yes, this place was clearly more complicated and probably more dangerous than advertised. Yes, Ingrid was obviously manipulating them all in ways they probably didn't fully understand yet.

But for the first time in years, Isabella was somewhere that might actually value the parts of herself her family had always tried to suppress. The physicality, the directness, the willingness to fight when necessary.

Besides, she'd been looking for a real challenge her entire life.

It looked like she'd finally found one.