Persephone's Point of View
♕︎ ♕︎ ♕︎
It took me over ten days to pull myself together before I finally descended that cursed mountain.
Ten long, excruciating days clawing my way back from the abyss, piecing together the shreds of who I used to be. Ten days of solitude, staring out at the barren, lifeless expanse of rock and sky, haunted by the memories of what had happened there. Each moment was a battle against the overwhelming flood of shame and regret. Even now, the memory of what I did to survive—what I had to do—clings to me like a second skin, a constant reminder of just how far I had fallen.
I can still taste the bastard's blood on my tongue.
It's metallic and acrid, the bitter tang of desperation, survival, and the vile truth of what I've become. That taste haunts me, lingering like a shadow I can't outrun. The taste of his death and my own weakness. I didn't kill him because I wanted to. I killed him because I had no other choice. He left me broken, starved, barely clinging to life, and in the end, I had to drain him dry, leaving him nothing more than an empty husk. The memory makes my stomach twist with disgust. Even knowing I had no other option, the shame doesn't fade. It doesn't loosen its grip.
And Vain-Dove doesn't even know the half of it.
She knows her knight failed. She knows he didn't kill me. But she doesn't know what happened before I killed him. She doesn't know the hell he put me through, the torment I endured before I turned the tables. She doesn't know where his body is—or rather, where it isn't. I made sure of that. I hid him so deep in the uncharted parts of Draki Mountain that no one, not even her most loyal servants, will ever find him.
I hope it eats away at her.
I hope it gnaws at her like a parasite, tearing through her meticulously crafted plans. I hope it disrupts whatever grand schemes she's weaving, just as thoroughly as she's torn my life apart. The deaths of my father and mother weren't enough for her. She needed more. She always does. And now, she wants me gone too.
But I'm still here.
Because here's the thing about me: I'm not just a Drakyre. I'm not just some cursed hybrid of dragon and vampire blood. I'm something else entirely, something she and her kind don't know how to deal with. The methods for killing dragons don't work on vampires. The methods for killing vampires don't work on dragons. And the methods for killing a Drakyre? They don't exist. Not yet.
She can't kill me.
Not for lack of trying, of course.
And as for her precious children—the son she idolizes, the daughter she worships—they're not untouchable either. Killing them won't be easy. Killing an Archdemon never is. But it's not impossible. Nothing is. I'll find a way. Even if it costs me every shred of humanity I have left, even if I have to become something monstrous, I'll do it. I'll break myself apart if it means taking them down.
There are only two people who truly understand what I endured on that mountain.
The Headmasters. Chronos and Uranthea. Or Samuel and Diana, as they're known to everyone else.
They're literal deities, ancient beings who see and know everything. They were the first and only people I trusted after that nightmare. The only ones I felt safe enough to confide in. They know my scars. Not just the ones on my body, but the ones I carry inside—the ones no one else will ever see.
And that's precisely why everyone else at the academy hates me.
They think the Headmasters are biased toward me. That I'm their favorite. They whisper that I get special treatment, that I've somehow wormed my way into their good graces. They don't understand. They don't want to understand.
Let them hate me.
They don't remember the person I used to be. They don't remember the girl who laughed, who smiled, who wasn't afraid of the world. Losing my mom shattered me, left me hollow and unrecognizable. And what happened on that mountain? It drove the shards even deeper, until I could barely breathe without feeling their edges cutting into me.
I can't stand to be touched now. Not by anyone.
It's not just a discomfort—it's a visceral, physical reaction that I can't control. Skin on skin makes my chest tighten, my throat close, my entire body scream to escape. So I cover up. Always. Head to toe.
Turtlenecks. Gloves. Long sleeves. Layers.
They're my armor, my barrier between me and the world.
The only part of me I can't hide is my face.
But at least the rest of me is protected. At least the layers give me some semblance of control in a world that feels increasingly out of my grasp.
Of course, the other students don't see it that way.
They think I'm conceited. That I think I'm too good for them. They say I'm cold, aloof, germophobic. They spin their own narratives to fill the gaps in what they don't know.
Let them.
As long as they don't know the truth, they're free to believe whatever lies make them feel better.
"…Dear?"
A soft, familiar voice pulled me from the storm raging in my mind. I blinked, suddenly aware of my surroundings. The nausea I'd been ignoring clawed its way back to the surface, and I realized my vision was blurred.
I looked up and saw the mirrored desks belonging to Headmasters Samuel and Diana—Chronos and Uranthea.
"I… I'm sorry," I mumbled, forcing myself to sit down in the caramel leather chair across from them. "I didn't know where else to go. Tartarus doesn't open until after the ceremony starts. Two hours."
"Did something trigger you, dear?" Diana asked gently, her voice calm and full of understanding.
I clenched my hands into fists, the sharp tips of my nails digging into my palms through the black gloves I always wore. The sting was grounding, a small anchor in the chaos I couldn't control. I dropped my gaze to my hands, to the endless void of the black fabric covering them.
"I can't remember her voice," I whispered.
The words were heavy, bitter, suffocating. I leaned back, closing my eyes in a futile attempt to steady the trembling in my chest.
"My mom. I can't remember her voice."
Diana's expression softened even further, but I couldn't bring myself to meet her gaze. I didn't want to see her pity. I didn't want to see her understanding.
"I remember the way she used to sing to me," I continued, my voice shaking. "A lullaby about the moon and the sun and how they loved each other. She sang it to me every night. I remember the melody. I remember the words. But her voice…" My voice cracked, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Her voice is gone."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Tears stung my eyes, but I pressed my lips together tightly, refusing to let them fall.
But it didn't matter.
No amount of grief, no amount of longing, would ever bring her back. I sat there, drowning in memories, choking on the sharp edges of everything I had lost, and wishing—desperately—for just one more moment with her.