Chapter 3

The sun blinded me as it shone through the dusty, bullet-resistant window of my HUMVEE, turning the world outside into a shimmering white blur. Our convoy stretched along the cracked, sunbaked road—eight vehicles in total, each armored and bristling with antennas, kicking up clouds of fine Afghan dust that clung to every surface and seeped through every crack. Through the glare, I could just make out the silhouette of the lead MRAP lumbering ahead, its gunner scanning the barren landscape. The low hum of engines was broken only by the occasional squawk of the radio and the rhythmic rattle of loose gear in the back. It's been an uneventful convoy—almost two months without real trouble—but the silence felt heavy, unnatural, as if the whole country was holding its breath. According to the latest intel, the road ahead was clear, but I kept replaying the briefing in my mind, doubting the certainty in every word. The air conditioning fought valiantly against the relentless heat, but sweat still pooled beneath my body armor, soaking my shirt and stinging my eyes. The Kevlar vest pressed against my chest like an oven door, and for a moment, I fantasized about stripping it off and just feeling the open air. I forced the thought away, gripping my rifle a little tighter, the weight of anticipation settling over me as we rolled deeper into the Afghan countryside.

We come upon a small village twenty clicks from Kandahar. The convoy slows, tires crunching over loose gravel and broken pottery as we weave between low mud-brick buildings. Sun-bleached doors hang crooked on their hinges, and faded laundry flutters from rooftops, abandoned in the rush to disappear. Unlike previous times through this area, there are no civilians in sight—no old men squatting in the shade, no women peering out from behind curtains, no children darting toward us with wide grins and outstretched hands. Usually, the kids would be yelling for candy, chasing after our gunners, weaving dangerously close to the wheels. The absence of their laughter and the empty, watchful windows send a chill down my spine. The only movement comes from a stray dog slinking between alleys, its ribs showing beneath patchy fur. My knuckles whiten around my rifle. "Trainer," I speak into my vehicle coms to my gunner, "head on a swivel and keep an eye out for any sign of trouble, something doesn't feel right."

"Roger, Sarge," Trainer answers, his voice tight over the comms. I glance up and catch his silhouette tense in the turret, scanning the rooftops and alleyways with the heavy machine gun pointed just left of center. "You're right, it's awfully quiet here today. I don't like it. Last time we rolled through, there were kids everywhere. This... this feels wrong." He shifts his weight, the gun's barrel tracking a shadow behind a doorway. Even from below, I can see his knuckles are white around the grips, the usual cocky humor gone from his tone. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he adds quietly, almost to himself, before raising his voice back to the rest of the crew: "Stay sharp up here—eyes on every window and rooftop."

Static crackles in my headset, then the convoy commander's voice cuts through, sharper than usual—"All Vehicles, SITREP." I can picture him hunched over his radio in the command MRAP, eyes darting over the village through hardened glass, sweat glistening on his brow despite the AC. The tension is clear in his tone, not the usual bored routine. Lead vehicle is quick to respond: "Whiskey 1... Whiskey 3... All clear." The rest of the convoy checks in by call sign, each voice clipped and wary, the phrase 'All clear' echoing down the line like a nervous mantra.

I press the radio button, my gloved finger slick with sweat, and steady my voice before replying: "Whiskey 6, all clear." I scan the empty village through the smudged glass, eyes flicking to every dark doorway and rooftop. My tone is flat, but my pulse is racing—too quiet for comfort. "No movement, no contacts. Area looks deserted, but something feels off. Whiskey 6 out." I release the mic, listening as the rest of the convoy checks in, each call sign echoing down the line. For a moment, I allow myself a deep breath and reach for my Camelbak. The water is lukewarm, but it gives my mouth something to do as I try to ignore the knot of unease in my gut. I force myself to focus on each shadow and alleyway, nerves wired tight, hoping this is just another tense but uneventful transit.

Just as it looks like the convoy is about to leave the cramped maze of mud-brick houses, a deafening roar shatters the uneasy silence. The ground heaves beneath us, a hot shockwave rattling the windows and slamming into my chest. In front of us, the lead MRAP erupts in a column of dirt, smoke, and flying metal. The vehicle lifts off the ground, twisting almost in slow motion before crashing back down on its roof, wheels spinning in the air and debris raining across the road. For a split second, everything is still—then shouts and panicked voices crackle over the radio net. Trainer’s voice cuts through the chaos, raw and urgent: “Fuck! IED! IED! Lead’s hit!” Dust and the sharp tang of burning fuel fill the HUMVEE as adrenaline surges through my veins and I instinctively reach for my weapon.

The radio crackles with urgency, the convoy commander’s voice tight and commanding—"IED! IED! All callsigns, fall back to RP Bravo—repeat, fall back to Rally Point Bravo! Whiskey 1, status report! Whiskey 4, get security on the rear! No one moves until we get accountability!" His words come rapid-fire, cutting through the chaos as he tries to reestablish order. In the background, I can hear the frantic reports and the edge of panic in other voices as everyone scrambles to process the hit, but the commander’s tone is steady, demanding swift action.

I drowned out the rest of the report to HQ. "Smith, get us back out of here quick. Trainer, keep your eye on the rooftops," I shouted to my driver and gunner, my voice barely steady over the chaos. My crew snapped into action—Smith’s hands shook on the steering wheel as he slammed the gearshift into reverse, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the veins standing out on his neck. His eyes darted between the mirrors and the dusty rear window, desperately searching for a way out as the panic crept into his breathing. In the back seat, Rodriguez cursed under his breath, fumbling for extra magazines and pressing himself low against the armored door, knuckles white around his rifle. We started to back up, but before the tires could even gain traction, a second IED erupted behind us, the explosion rocking the HUMVEE and sending a shockwave through all of us. I saw Rodriguez flinch and duck instinctively, face pale, lips moving in a silent prayer. We were stuck in a box, and the realization hit all at once—there was nowhere to go. Small arms fire began raining down from the rooftops, the sharp cracks of AKs echoing in the tight streets. Trainer opened up with his M2 .50 cal, his shouts nearly drowned out by the thunder of the gun. Brass casings showered down into the cab, the acrid smell of gunpowder mixing with sweat and fear. One glowing casing slipped down the back of my armor, burning the hell out of my skin, but I barely registered the pain—adrenaline had taken over, and every sense was focused on survival.

Trainer yells down, “reload!” I grab a box of rounds from behind Trainer and pass it up, hands trembling as I fumble with the latch. The seconds crawl by, every heartbeat a lifetime as the .50 cal falls silent and the enemy fire grows heavier, bullets pinging off the armor like a hailstorm. The radio, once our lifeline, suddenly fills with static and garbled shouts—communications breaking up just when we need them most. I scan the rooftops, desperate for shapes, but my headset crackles again and then dies—comms are out. The HUMVEE's engine coughs, sputters, then chokes as shrapnel tears through the hood, and I hear Smith cursing, slamming his fist on the dash in frustration. I yell for a SITREP, but only silence and chaos answer me. The air inside the vehicle thickens with smoke and the sharp, metallic taste of fear. I never hear Trainer fire off any more rounds. I look back to find Trainer slumped down in his harness, unresponsive to my commands, blood pooling beneath his vest. The windshield spiderwebs with bullet impacts, and the small arms fire hammers all around us as we sit, pinned and unable to move, everything failing all at once—comms, engine, weapons, and hope.

“Fuck, Trainer’s hit!” I scream, the words tearing out of my throat as bullets shatter the side windows and dust pours in through the cracks. Smith and I scramble—he grabs Trainer’s vest, and I reach up, hands slick with blood and sweat, fighting to pull our gunner down into the cab. Every second feels endless as rounds snap overhead and the world shrinks to the frantic chaos inside our armor-plated box. Trainer’s body is heavy and limp, blood soaking his uniform and pooling across the floorboards. As we finally drag him into the cab, his head lolls to the side, eyes glassy and unfocused. I stare at the red stain spreading beneath him, willing him to breathe, to move, to say something—but he’s gone. The realization slams into me, cold and hollow, even as the firefight rages on outside. My hands shake uncontrollably, and for a heartbeat, I can’t hear anything but my own ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart, the world collapsing into grief and disbelief.

We have the only crew-serve weapon here in the box, and in that instant, I know it’s up to me to keep us alive. Heart pounding, I rip off my seat belt and scramble over Trainer’s lifeless body, my knee slipping in blood as I force myself not to look at his vacant eyes. My ears ring with the relentless gunfire and the metallic stench of blood is thick in my throat. I shove open the hatch and haul myself into the turret, the world exploding into chaos and sunlight as bullets ricochet off the armor all around me. The air up top is a furnace of dust, smoke, and burning metal. I grab the handles of the .50 cal, Trainer’s gloves still sticky against the grips, and feel the weapon shudder beneath my hands. I slam the charging handle back, set my thumbs on the triggers, and unleash a barrage of fire at the rooftops. The recoil rattles my teeth, spent casings clattering around my boots, and I sweep the barrel across the skyline, trying to force the enemy back from the edges. I shout target directions to Smith and Rodriguez below, my voice raw, barely audible over the thunder of the gun. The enemy keeps coming, darting between cover, their muzzle flashes winking from broken windows and doorways. I can’t cover both sides—there’s too much chaos, too much ground to defend. An RPG screams out from the left and slams into the cab of the vehicle in front of us, sending a fireball and shrapnel into the air. My ammo can runs dry, the gun hammering empty with a hollow metallic click. Gritting my teeth, I duck back down into the cab, shouting, "Smith, evacuate and get to cover!" I grab my assault pack and M4, my hands slick with sweat and grime, and throw myself out the door. I sprint for the nearest buildings, rounds snapping past my head, when an explosion behind me lifts me off my feet and searing heat tears across my legs and back. I hit the side of a mud-brick wall hard, lungs burning as I scream—pain and adrenaline merging into a single, blinding moment.

***

My eyes fly open as I scream, the sound tearing from my throat before I even know I'm awake. For a long, disorienting moment, everything is confusion—gunfire echoes in my ears, the smell of burning metal and blood fills my nose, and my hands frantically slap at my body, searching for wounds I can still feel but can't find. Sweat soaks my shirt, and my heart hammers like it's still trapped in that bullet-riddled HUMVEE. Shadows flicker in the corners of the room, shapes that morph between Afghan rooftops and cheap hotel furniture. I can’t make sense of where—or who—I am.

Then, arms wrap around me from behind, gentle but firm, grounding me. A soft whisper brushes my ear: "It's ok, it's ok, you are safe." The words anchor me, snapping the world back into focus. The adrenaline ebbs as the nightmare fades, replaced by the sterile light and stale air of a hotel room. Shri'la holds me close, rocking gently, her touch breaking through the fog of terror. But my thoughts are tangled: I’m Kyle Rodgers, Afghanistan still burning behind my eyelids, but at the same time, I know I’m not there—I’m here, with her, in this room. My mind reels, struggling to reconcile the soldier’s instincts with the safety of this embrace. For a moment, I feel like both people at once—caught between battle and peace, the past and the present, Afghanistan and a place where I now, impossibly, feel safe. Why do I, Kyle, feel at home in the arms of this woman whose face I shouldn’t even know?

Slowly my mind starts to piece it all together, the reality both familiar and foreign. I am here because I have returned, and I am Lilith—but the visions that haunt me are not just dreams. My eyes lock with Shri'la as I try to steady my thoughts. "That was a memory of the last convoy I was on. They were ambushed and everyone was killed, most likely. I don't know how I survived to get to that mountain cave you found me in." But as I say the words, a deeper confusion gnaws at me. How is it possible that I, Lilith, remember every detail as if it were my own life? The fear, the sweat, the grit of Afghanistan—memories that are not mine, yet feel like they've always been there, woven into my soul. These memories are so pronounced, so visceral, I feel like it was me that was there, not just watching, but living it. How did I, once the queen of darkness, become the keeper of Kyle Rodgers’ memories? Why do I know his pain as my own?

Shri'la replies, her brow furrowing in concern, "How do you have his memories too? When I released your spirit from being bound to him, his soul should have moved on." She shifts closer, searching my face for any sign of understanding, her fingers unconsciously tightening around my hand. "This makes no sense," she murmurs, her voice low and troubled. "I've performed soul rituals before, but never have I seen anything like this. Did his soul find a way to latch onto yours after you were changed? Or is there something about your return that allowed both of you to exist in the same vessel?" Her eyes glisten with worry and curiosity, the weight of ancient knowledge and maternal instinct flickering behind them as she tries to make sense of the impossible.

I shake my head, "his memories are now my memories. I remember everything that happened to him and me as if I lived both lives. It is like I'm two different people, but my body is as it was when I fought Michael, but I can see his, my, life as if it was me there." As I look down at my hands—these hands that have wielded both darkness and hope—a sudden understanding ripples through me. I see, for the first time, the threads of fate weaving our souls together. When Shri'la freed my spirit, it wasn't just my power and being that returned to this world. Kyle's soul, battered and unfinished, must have clung to mine in that moment between worlds. Instead of moving on, his essence merged with mine, intertwining our memories, fears, and hopes. That is why I know his pain, why I feel his love and loss as my own, and why the world feels both ancient and new to me. I understand the modern world not just because I observe it, but because Kyle's life flows through me—two stories now one, two hearts beating in a single vessel. This understanding settles over me like a bittersweet comfort. I am Lilith, but I carry Kyle Rodgers within me, and together, we are something wholly new.

"This all feels so confusing," I comment to Shri'la, finding comfort in her embrace as my mind spirals. I find myself staring into the darkness of the room, searching for some anchor in the shifting tide of memory and self. I struggle to get a hold of who I am. Am I Lilith or am I Kyle Rodgers? I don't know which one is the more dominant me. No—Lilith is the dominant one now. I can feel my memories in the front, stronger and brighter, but Kyle's life is woven so tightly into my soul that I can never be just one or the other again. For the first time, I wonder if something fundamental was lost in the merging—did my soul truly remain whole, or did it fracture, reshaped into this new existence? I realize that what I am now is not a vessel for two lives, but a new soul born from sacrifice, grief, and a second chance. I may never return to who I was before, but maybe there's meaning in becoming someone new.

I finally calmed down and sat up on the bed, a mischievous grin spreading across my face as I fixed my gaze on Shri’la. "So, you’re married and have a son now, huh? My little succubus all grown up—imagine that! I still remember you stomping your foot and screaming at me, ‘Never! I’ll never let some man boss me around!’ every time I asked if you’d ever find a mate." I smirked and wagged a playful finger at her, unable to resist teasing. "Honestly, your pout could have melted stone—especially when I’d remind you that one day you’d fall head over heels just like the rest of us." A warm chuckle escaped me as I recalled the dramatic way she’d cross her arms and glare, only to sneak a hug when she thought no one was looking. Her being my firstborn made us enjoy all her ‘firsts’—her first crush, her first spell, her first time sneaking out—a little more than the others. Not that we didn’t love them too, but with her, every milestone was new and magical. It just wasn’t something we’d experienced before, so we couldn’t help but measure the others against the bar she’d set. Shri’la was always closer to me than my other girls, and teasing her now felt like stepping right back into those cherished memories.

"Yes, yes mother, you were right as usual. It just took a few thousand years to find a fantastic man. Please don’t give him a hard time like you do other men. He treats me great, and he is a great father. He is a wizard, so you don’t have to hide your magic from either of them. Unfortunately, my mate is mortal, unlike you and mum." Shri'la’s laughter trails off, but her eyes grow distant and misty. She hugs a pillow to her chest, voice softening, "I miss mum. Every day, I wish she could have been here when I brought you back, to see what our family has become. She would have loved David, and she would have been so proud of James—he’s just as stubborn as you always said I was." Shri’la glances away, blinking quickly as if she might cry, then smiles faintly. "Sometimes, when we’re all together, I look around and wish you both could see us—see our little traditions, the way James laughs, how David tries to cook breakfast on Sundays. I hope we find mum in time so she can meet both of my favorite men. Family feels incomplete without her, even with all this happiness. But having you back gives me hope that she’ll come home too."

I swallow hard and try not to frown at the reminder of my succubus queen and her unknown whereabouts. For a moment, I let my gaze linger on Shri’la’s face—the arch of her brows, the shape of her lips, the tilt of her chin. It’s uncanny, almost bittersweet, how she mirrors her mother so perfectly. The same midnight hair, that quiet strength in her eyes, even the way she laughs echoes memories I thought I’d lost. Of all my daughters, you are the only one who looks exactly like her. I’ve never been able to see any of my features in your face, only hers. Sometimes, when you smile, it’s like she’s standing right in front of me again. I expect him to treat you like a queen, you are the daughter of a queen, remember." I force a little levity into my voice, chasing away the ache. "Now, what is a wizard?"

Shri’la leaned forward, her eyes brightening with a touch of nostalgia as she spoke. “Wizards started appearing about two thousand years ago—no one is quite sure how or why. Some say it was a side effect of the great wars between the magical races, others think it was a gift or a curse from the old gods. What we do know is that these are mortal humans who, for reasons no one fully understands, can tap into magic. Their power is limited compared to immortals, and they have to study for years to master even the simplest spells. None are as powerful as you, so you may want to tone your magic down a few hundred notches when you’re around them.” She gave a small smirk, then added, “Some families believe magic is hereditary and trace their bloodlines with pride, while others think a wizard can be born to anyone. It’s all a bit mysterious, even now.”

I lean forward with curiosity, a gentle smile on my face. "Tell me more about your son, Shri'la. What is he like?"

Pride lights up her features instantly. Shri'la sits a little taller, her eyes sparkling as she talks about her boy. "Well, he is the sweetest child I could have ever wanted. He’s mortal like his father, and I’ll admit I was nervous at first—part of me was afraid I might give birth to a little succubus. But James… he’s just James. We raised him around magic, so he understands it, but his magic is so very different from mine or David’s. At first, when I saw he could use magic like David, I wondered if he would have my demon magic, but it’s not that. It almost reminds me of your magic, mother." She pauses, a soft, proud smile lifting her lips. "He has this gentle stubbornness, always asking questions, always looking out for those smaller than him—even if he doesn’t know how to show it yet. And when he laughs, it’s like sunshine. Sometimes I catch myself just watching him, amazed that he’s ours." Shri'la’s voice is thick with love and wonder, and she glances at me, as if inviting me to share in her pride.

Angelic magic? My thoughts tumble in disbelief. How could James possibly have that? I remember the agony and awe of the Tree of Life seed fusing with my soul, the way Michael and Lucifer had to guide me through every secret and trial before I could even begin to wield that power. That magic was supposed to be unique—singular, a gift and a burden only I could carry. I glance at Shri'la, searching her face for an answer that can't exist. "How could he have that magic? I only got it because of the Tree of Life seed, and even then it took years for Michael and Lucifer to teach me. His magic should have been demonic like yours, or wizard magic like David's." The idea stirs an uneasy hope inside me—if James has angelic magic, then something extraordinary is happening in our bloodline, something the world has never seen. But it also brings a surge of worry. What will it mean for him to carry a power meant for angels and ancient queens?

As I wrestle with the impossibility of James having angelic magic, a memory from Kyle’s life suddenly flashes into my mind—so clear and sharp it briefly drowns out my own thoughts. I’m standing in a crowded marketplace, probably Afghanistan, watching a street performer make coins vanish and reappear behind children’s ears. The soldiers around me laugh, joking about “real magic,” but Kyle feels the weight of something else—an ache, a longing, and the certainty that if magic truly existed, it would be both wondrous and terrifying, a secret best kept hidden. That old skepticism and wonder now mix with my own knowledge, giving me a strange, double perspective: the world I once ruled openly is now a place where magic is a rumor, a parlor trick, or a threat.

A realization hits me, part memory, part instinct: the general populace doesn’t know of magic—at least, not the way we do. I look at Shri’la, curiosity and caution tangled in my voice. "How do you all hide magic from the world?" I asked Shri'la.

Shri’la drew her knees up to her chest, her tone matter-of-fact but tinged with a hint of old caution. “We have very strict laws about how we use magic in public. Most of us keep any magic work hidden, performed only behind closed doors or with special wards to keep the outside world from noticing. There are magical enclaves—pockets of the world shielded with powerful wards—where we can live and train our children more openly. In those places, we don’t have to worry about being seen. But outside, we’re careful—it’s all subtle spells, whispered incantations, and lots of mundane explanations. There are magical authorities who investigate breaches, and punishments can be severe if someone is reckless. The risks are too great if we’re exposed.” She glanced at me, seriousness in her eyes. “Magic has to stay a secret, for everyone’s safety. The world isn’t kind to what it doesn’t understand.”

“Why do you hide magic from everyone?” I wondered

"Religion," she replies simply, her voice heavy with the weight of history. "That’s the real reason magic is hidden. For centuries, religion—especially the dominant faiths—condemned magic as evil, claiming it was the work of demons or the devil. Those of us with magic were hunted, burned, or driven out, labeled as witches, heretics, or monsters. Even when we did good, fear and superstition always won out. The Christian church especially was relentless, spreading the belief that magic was sinful or just fantasy, until most people forgot it ever really existed. To survive, we had to vanish into the shadows, practicing the old arts in secret and passing them on quietly to those ready to learn. We still teach the new generation, but always behind closed doors and hidden wards. That's why James goes to a special school for magical children. But even there, because his magic is so different, the teachers have no idea how to help him—they just assume he’s a dud."

“What’s a dud?” I ask, but my mind is racing, struggling to make sense of everything I’ve just learned. I feel anger simmering beneath my confusion—anger at a world that would judge a child for being different, anger that my own family could be hurt by such ignorance. My life—lives—have always been defined by power and survival, by carving a place in worlds that never understood me, whether as Lilith or as Kyle. Now, faced with this new reality where magic is hidden and children are labeled for not fitting in, I can’t help but feel protective and unsettled. Even though I have not met him, he is part of Shri’la, so he is part of me. I want answers, I want to understand, but mostly, I want to make sure my family is safe.

“A dud is a child that comes from magical families but cannot use magic, but I know that he can use magic. I sense it in him,” she tells me, her voice unwavering and full of maternal pride. Shri'la’s eyes shine with certainty as she continues, “The teachers don’t see it because his magic doesn’t behave like theirs—it’s quieter, deeper, like something ancient waiting to be awakened. Sometimes I catch him lost in thought, or making little things happen without realizing it, and it feels so much like you, Mother—like the way you could bend the world without a word. He’s not a dud. He’s just… different. And I know, in my heart, that one day they’ll see it too.”

I lean in, curiosity sharpening my tone. "So, you think his magic is like mine?" I ask, searching Shri’la’s face for any hint of certainty. "None of you girls ever showed any ability to use my magic, probably because you’re all succubus like Shar’li. Has he shown any of the classic signs—like, is he drawn to dreams, or does he have trouble controlling his energy around others? He isn’t showing any signs of being an incubus, is he?" I rattle off the questions, hungry for every detail, wanting to understand every nuance of my grandson’s gifts—and worried about what those gifts might mean for him in a world that doesn’t understand magic or difference.

"No, like I said, he appears to be a normal human wizard with a different type of magic," Shri'la sighs, her voice trembling on the edge of desperation. She wrings her hands together, her eyes shining with hope and worry all at once. "I am hoping that you will be able to help him with his magic. I almost hate to ask you this, because it feels selfish, but you would have to go to his school. I know you just returned to me, and now I’m asking you to leave so soon." She looks down, swallowing hard, her voice cracking slightly. "But, Mother, I don’t know who else to turn to. James needs someone who understands him, someone who can protect him and teach him when I can’t be there. Please—please help him, even if it means being apart from me again. I just don’t want to fail him the way I feel like I failed you."

I reach for her hand, squeezing it with reassurance. "Of course, I will help him. He is our blood, Shri’la—yours and mine. Family is everything to me, and I could never turn my back on him or on you. I know how much it hurts to be apart after all these centuries, but protecting our own comes first. Besides, how could I refuse my grandson?" I attempt a playful smile, softening the seriousness with a little levity. "So, what do you think about a little after-school tutoring on the basics of angelic magic? I’ll make sure he knows he’s not alone—none of us are, as long as we have each other."

Shri’la’s expression turns serious, a crease forming between her brows as she voices her concern. “You will have to be careful about teaching him, though. The school has rules, and I don’t know what they’ll do if they find out you use magic so differently—especially powers as old and rare as yours. You’ll have to keep a low profile, at least until you know who you can trust. And the only way you can stay there with him is for you to enroll as a student too.” She bites her lip, glancing away nervously, worry flickering in her eyes. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Mother. I just got you back, and I can’t lose you again—not to suspicion, or fear, or anything else that place might bring.”

"Why do I need to go to school?" I grumble, crossing my arms and shooting my daughter a stubborn glare. Memories of Kyle’s school years flash through my mind—endless rules, pointless homework, teachers who never saw the real me. I hated it there, and the thought of reliving that nonsense makes my jaw clench. "Besides, it's not like they’ll be able to teach me anything about magic," I mutter, defiance flaring in my voice. I catch sight of Shri’la’s downcast face, her hopeful eyes peeking up at me, and my resolve wavers just a bit. Damn it, I think, I’ve faced angels and demons and never backed down, but one look from my daughter and I’m helpless. My stubborn pride wants to dig in, to refuse on principle alone, but I can already feel it unraveling as guilt and love start to win out—just like they always do.

I push myself up off the bed, every movement radiating reluctance, and wander to the end of the room where my reflection stares back from the black TV screen. My thoughts churn—Shar’li is still out there somewhere, and my heart aches to go searching for her, but I know I can’t let my family down. With a dramatic huff, I wave my hands in the air, rolling my eyes for my daughter’s benefit as I turn to face her expectant gaze. "Fine," I grumble, dragging out the word, "I’ll go. But they better not give me any crap when I get there, or I swear I’ll turn the whole school upside down." My voice is half threat, half jest, but underneath it’s clear that love is what’s guiding me. Without waiting for her response, I stomp off toward the bathroom, muttering under my breath about school uniforms and teenage drama, but already planning how I’ll keep James safe.

I let out a long, resigned sigh as the last of my resistance fades. I glance around at the cramped, stale motel room—the peeling wallpaper, the hum of the old AC struggling to keep up, the sense of limbo clinging to every corner—and realize I can’t put it off any longer. "When do we leave this crap hole and start my new life as a schoolgirl?" I call out, my tone equal parts sarcasm and surrender. "Just so we’re clear, I’m only doing this because James is family, and you know I can never say no when you look at me with those eyes." The words come with a soft edge, affection slipping through the bravado. "You'd better work on finding Shar’li and fast, because I won’t let her suffer any more than can be helped. Family comes first—always." I stand there for a beat, letting the weight of my new commitment settle, feeling a strange mix of dread and hope as I finally submit to what’s being asked of me.