Moonwell Estate, Deep Within the Enchanted Grove
The marble chamber was silent but tense—its ethereal blue walls glimmering with ancestral spells that pulsed like heartbeats. Outside, the wind whispered through moonlit trees, stirring ancient energies. Inside, the air was thick with the weight of revelation.
Lysandra stood in the center of the chamber, her arms protectively folded across her abdomen. Her eyes—silver like the first snowfall—darted between her parents, confusion tightening her features.
"What… do you mean the child is in danger?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Lord Moonwell, a towering figure with a regal presence and lines of age carved from decades of bearing the weight of their legacy, stepped forward slowly. His face was grim.
"Your child is no ordinary hybrid, Lysandra," he began. "He—or she—is a Nexus."
Lysandra's brows furrowed. "A… Nexus?"
Matriarch Moonwell stepped beside her husband, her long, silver veil trailing behind like woven light. Her face was unreadable, yet her voice carried the finality of prophecy.
"A convergence of the three most volatile bloodlines," she said. "Fifty percent witch… from you. Twenty-five percent lycan… and twenty-five percent vampire. From Caveen Landon."
Lysandra's breath caught in her throat.
Her heart pounded.
No wonder the bond between her and Caveen had sparked like wild magic. No wonder her body had reacted so violently after that night—her aura had flared for days before she managed to suppress it.
"The Council will never allow such a child to live," Lord Moonwell said sharply. "Not with that mixture. A Nexus child would destabilize the power balance between Elites. They'll call it a threat. They'll call it unnatural."
Lysandra's legs weakened, but she remained standing. "But… it's just a child."
"It's never just a child to them," her father growled. "Especially one that could wield vampire strength, lycan instincts, and witch magic all in one. Add your unique gift into that equation…" He gave her a meaningful glance. "And we're talking about the impossible."
Her throat tightened. She knew what he meant.
Her gift.
The reason she had never been allowed to train with the other witches. The reason she was always cloaked in suppression spells. The reason she was forbidden from entering the bride selection.
Regeneration. Healing Magic.
A lost art that hadn't appeared in generations. Not since the last Moonwell heir who threatened to surpass even the Elders.
"You were never meant to be chosen," Lord Moonwell said. "You were hidden for a reason. If the Council discovers that the child you carry might inherit Healing Magic… they won't wait to destroy it. Or you."
Lysandra's hand trembled over her womb. A life was growing inside her—a life she'd created, even if by accident, even if under the haze of stolen moments and reckless magic. And now… that life was a beacon calling danger.
But then, the Matriarch lifted her chin. Her expression changed—not cold, not cruel, but calculating. Unapologetically so.
"There is… another way."
Lysandra looked up sharply. "Mother?"
"We can still offer you as a bride to Caveen Landon," the Matriarch said calmly. "As if none of this ever happened. The Council knows you as a background daughter with low-tier magic. We simply maintain that lie."
Lord Moonwell frowned. "You want to risk that?"
"I want to protect what's ours," she replied crisply. "And right now, the only way to safeguard this child is to place Lysandra under the Landon Clan's protection legally—through a political match. If she is already his chosen, the Council will not question the timing of the birth later."
Lysandra's voice cracked with disbelief. "But my magic…"
Matriarch Moonwell raised a hand, eyes flashing with finality. "Will be erased by anyone who knew that you possessed it."
Lysandra recoiled slightly. "What?"
"I will cast a memory wipe," she said firmly. "Every member of this estate, every servant, every scribe, every cousin who ever witnessed your true power will forget. Even your nursemaids. Even you, if necessary."
Lysandra's breath caught in her throat.
Lord Moonwell's eyes narrowed. "That kind of spell is irreversible. You're talking about altering an entire bloodline's collective memory."
The Matriarch's expression never wavered. "If we don't… the Council will find out. And when they do, they will take the child and dissect its aura until there is nothing left. Do you want that fate for your grandchild?"
Silence fell again, deeper this time.
Lysandra's shoulders shook with silent emotion. Part of her wanted to protest—to scream, to fight. But her gaze fell to her belly once more, where a pulse of warmth throbbed beneath her skin. Not just her magic. Not just her future.
But his.
Caveen's.
And something more.
The convergence of all their blood. A future that could rise or fall on a single decision.
"If I agree…" she said softly. "You'll make the Council believe I'm just another low-blooded witch?"
"They already believe it," Matriarch Moonwell said. "You've been hidden well all your life."
"And Caveen?"
Lord Moonwell's lips pressed into a line. "He may not forgive you."
"He doesn't have to," the Matriarch said coldly. "He just has to protect you."
Silence stretched between them.
Then slowly, Lysandra lifted her chin, her silver eyes no longer afraid—but burning with quiet defiance.
"Then do it."
The Matriarch nodded.
Lord Moonwell turned away, his expression stormy.
And somewhere, far beyond the glowing groves of Moonwell, the blood of a Nexus stirred with life.
The Council did not yet know.
But the storm had already begun.