Enna's Semblance.
This is why my arm spasms. The realization hits harder than a knee to the groin. I glance behind me. Through the murk of Nenuphar's roots and watching eyes, I strain to spot her, but she remains hidden.
My arm jerks again, a puppet's paroxysm.
I see them now—six shapes cutting through the depths with unnatural grace. Enna leads, her golden hair a pale banner in the murk. Talon flanks her right, while four others spread wide to box me in.
My heart hammers my breast. I meet their eyes and freeze. There is nothing there. No rivalry, no competition—just cold intent. Hunters stalking prey.
Panic claws up my throat. They are going to kill me. Right here, under sacred waters, they will make it look like an accident. The perfect crime masked by tradition—who would question a death during the brutal First Baptism?
My eyes burn. I need air, need to think, need—
Instinct kicks through the floor of my being. I thrash forward. If they want me dead, they will have to earn it. I will not go quietly into the abyss.
Each stroke is a battle against Enna's invisible grip. My lungs scream for air, but I glimpse Penelope's pale form ahead, Castor's broad shoulders cutting through the murk beside her.
The threads around my arm constrict, yanking me back like steel cables. My muscles spasm and twist, fighting my commands. I grit my teeth against the pain as my own flesh betrays me.
A flash of crystalline light catches my eye. Through the tangle of roots and watching eyes, I see Talon raise his hands. The water between them freezes, condensing into a gleaming blade that catches what little light filters through the depths. He passes it to our cousin Marius, whose face is a mask of cold purpose as his fingers close around the hilt.
My mind rebels at the sight. Each kick grows weaker as Enna's power spreads through my arm, turning it numb and useless. The distance between me and safety stretches like an endless void while my pursuers close in with predatory grace.
The ice blades glitter in more than one hand.
A promise of a swift but brutal end.
Ahead, Penelope's head snaps around. Her eyes find mine, widening as she takes in the scene behind me. Recognition flashes across her features—she sees the trap closing around me, sees the ice blades coming to claim blood.
I try to call out, but only bubbles escape my lips. Enna's threads dig deeper into my flesh, spreading their paralyzing grip down my side.
Penelope's face hardens into sharp angles. Her jaw sets, determination blazing in her eyes as she starts to turn back toward me. Hope flutters with nascent life.
Castor's hand clamps around her arm. Shakes his head. Ripples dance through my watery tomb. Hope stillborns.
Our eyes lock again. The desperation in her gaze mirrors everything I cannot voice—the fear, the betrayal, the silent plea for help. For one suspended moment, we share the same helpless rage against forces too powerful to fight.
Then something in her expression breaks. Her shoulders slump. She turns away, following Castor toward the surface, leaving me to face what comes next alone.
I twist in the water, facing my attackers. Marius lunges forward, ice blade glinting. My free hand snaps up to block, but too slow—the crystalline edge slices across my side. Pain explodes through my body, hot and sharp even in the cold depths. Red clouds bloom in the murky water.
Enna's threads slither around my legs like hungry serpents. Each tendril tightens, crushing movement from my muscles. I try to kick, to writhe away, but my body refuses to obey. The water grows thick with my own blood.
My mind fractures, splintering between blind panic and white-hot rage. I reach for the futures, desperate to find a path through this trap. But the timelines slip away like smoke, leaving me stranded in this singular, terrible moment. My gift abandons me when I need it most.
Mother's voice drifts through my fading consciousness. A memory surfaces—her lap beneath my head, fingers gentle in my hair. The soft melody of a Netniem lullaby washing over me like warm rain. The scent of night-blooming flowers, sweet and pure.
"Rest now, little Qilin," she would whisper between verses. "The darkness cannot touch you here."
But darkness touches me now, pressing in from all sides as my lungs burn for air. Mother's song feels so far away, drowned by the thunder of my failing heart.
Blades of black ice flash through murky water, each cut precise and ritualistic. My cousins take turns, their movements choreographed like some twisted dance. Slice. Stab. Slice again. Blood clouds drift upward in crimson ribbons.
Pain explodes across my chest as Marcus drives his blade between my ribs. The cold crystal parts flesh with surgical efficiency. Behind him, Lucia's blade opens my thigh, and the last targets my shoulder.
Through the haze of agony, I see Talon's face. His teeth gleam white in a predator's grin, bubbles escaping as silent laughter ripples through the water. His lips move, forming a word—a name. Septimus.
My heart stutters. Revelation hangs on the threshold of understanding. This is not about my mother's bloodline.
Enna floats above, her face a stone mask as she puppets my limbs. Her threads bite deeper, grinding bone against bone. Each new wound is placed with surgical precision, designed to break me piece by piece.
My lungs burn. Agony blurs everything—past, present, future bleeding together like my wounds. I try to summon that familiar rage, that core of defiance that has carried me through every slight and insult.
But as Marcus's blade slides between my ribs again, something inside me cracks. The weight of water, of blood, of failure crashes down. I am four years old again, crying out in the dark.
Mommy. Bubbles escape my lips, carrying away what is left of my pride. Mommy, please... make them stop.
But Mother is not here. She cannot save me from this darkness, this betrayal carved in ice and malice. Just like she could not save me then
Something begins to unravel. I feel the ribbons of blood as if they are still a part of me.
Only I can save me.