Page 3 of Emylia

“Your mother will need you,” he said. “Promise me you’ll take care of her. Promise me you won’t let her face this alone.”

It stole what little breath I had left.

How could he ask that of me? I was barely holding on. How could I carry both of us? But how could I refuse him? Not when he was dying. Not when this was the last thing he would ever ask of me. This was a promise I would have to make. A promise I would have to keep.

“I promise,” I whispered. “No matter what it costs.”

He nodded—once.

Slow.

Final.

“The stars may fade,” he whispered, “and everything you know may shift… but she’ll need your light. And I know you’re strong enough to carry the weight of that burden.”

He leaned forward and kissed my forehead.

The warmth of his lips lingered, burning into my skin like a final blessing.

ChapterTwo

Icaught a glimpse of my mother’s face—and my heart shattered.

Her fierce emerald eyes, mirrors of my own, were rimmed in red. Tears streaked down her cheeks—silent, endless—but somehow, she still smiled.

Radiant and broken.

As she watched the man she loved slip further from her.

“My Bella…” My father’s voice cracked as he looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together. Like looking at her might still save him. “I can’t believe how lucky I’ve been,”he breathed. “To love you. To love Emylia.”

She laughed softly—shaking her head as fresh tears glimmered.

“How could I resist these tangled scarlet locks?”she whispered.

She was rewarded with a chuckle. Just for a moment. Then the laughter collapsed into a brutal coughing fit.

His body arched. Rattled. By the time it passed, he sank back into the pillows, pale and shaking, spent.

Before she had me, my mother had been a priestess. A healer.

Not just any healer—the healer.

The best Agertheria had ever known.

My father used to say she’d been touched by the Goddess herself. And I believed him. There had always been something divine about her. A light that clung to her skin, bright and unrelenting—a light so fierce it felt like divinity.

I remembered once—a man had stumbled to our door, half-dead, blood soaking through torn clothes, body barely holding together. His screams pulled us into the night. My mother didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. She shouted for my father to carry him inside. Her voice was steel—sharp and commanding. I watched, frozen, as she tore through the blood-soaked tunic, exposing wounds so deep they split open like cracked earth. Blood spilled across our oak table, staining the wood so deeply it looked black, not scarlet.

She met my gaze—her eyes steel.

Emylia. If you are going to stay, you are going to help.

If you cannot stand the sight, leave.

His arms were shredded.

His chest, torn wide.

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