BloodMoon: Captivated by the Forbidden Lycan Alpha
Chapter 164: MAGIC MIRA

Chapter 164: MAGIC MIRA

{ "What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us."}

I knelt beside Dante, the dim light of the Mira house hearth casting a soft glow over the deep gash in his side. The scent of herbs still clung to my fingers, sharp and earthy, and I tried not to let my hands shake as I pressed the warm poultice against the wound. He winced, barely. Always too proud to show pain.

"Still breathing?" I murmured, half to myself, half to him.

His lips quirked barely a smile, more like a reflex. "I’d complain, but I think you’d just hit me to keep me quiet."

"You’re lucky I didn’t let you bleed out on the stones," I said, but my voice lacked bite. He knew better. My touch softened as I traced the edge of the injury, blood still fresh, still hot. "You’re worse than reckless. You’re stupid."

Behind me, I could feel my son Frery’s eyes watching me closely, his small fingers curled around the edge of the woven couch. He didn’t speak, but I knew that look, half worry, half curiosity. Rolan stood beside him like a sentinel, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Neither approved of this; I could feel it like thunder in the walls. But neither stopped me.

"I can handle this," I said aloud, not to Dante but to them. "I’ve mended worse," I replied, grinding the herbs into the cloth more forcefully than needed. "And for worse men."

Dante’s eyes opened, hazy with pain but locked on mine. "Are you saying I’m not the worst man you’ve patched up?" His voice was strained yet teasing.

"Don’t flatter yourself. You’re barely second worst," I said, then leaned down to whisper so only he could hear, "But you’re the only one who makes me this furious."

He chuckled then winced again, biting back a cry as I bound the cloth tighter around his ribs. I pressed a hand over the bandage and closed my eyes, letting the warmth from my core rise through my palm. The magic thrummed in me, slow and heavy, like a tide waiting for release. Frery’s breath caught behind me. "It’s happening," he whispered, and I knew that he sensed it all.

Light, faint and golden, bloomed beneath my fingers, and Dante’s body jerked once beneath the touch. I felt the torn muscle start to knit, felt the magic crawl into him like roots seeking soil. My jaw was clenched. It took more out of me than I wanted to admit.

"Almost there," I said through gritted teeth. "Don’t move."

"I’m not," he whispered, softer now. "But your hand’s shaking." I wouldn’t let him see how close I was to collapse. Not in front of my son. Not in front of Rolan. Not when the one man I loved had thrown himself into death’s arms again. The glow faded. I pulled my hand back; the blood still stained the linen, but the worst of it was sealed now, the wound no longer life-threatening.

"It’ll scar," I said quietly.

Dante looked at me, eyes darker now. "Good. I want the reminder."

I exhaled and sat back on my heels, only then realizing how tight my chest had become. Frery came forward, hesitating before resting a small hand on my arm. "Is he okay now ?"

I looked at my son and brushed his hair back, letting my smile reach only halfway. "He’ll live."

I left the living room without a word, the warmth of the hearth already slipping off my skin like a dying flame. My boots whispered over the stone floor of the Mira home, worn smooth from generations of feet. I didn’t look back and knew if I did, I would fall apart right there in front of them. In front of him. My body felt hollow. Not just tired—stripped. Like something sacred had been wrung out of me, and all that was left was the ache.

The corridor to the inner house was dim and narrow. Familiar. I could hear the wind pushing gently against the high windows, a hush like the house itself was breathing. Breathing for me, maybe because my breath came sharp and shallow.

I found the bathroom without thinking. The door creaked the way it always had, and I slid inside and shut it behind me with a soft click that sounded far too final.

The sink was cold. I turned the tap, let the water run, and stared at my hands ,and they were still stained, crimson along the knuckles. Some of it was his blood while some of it was... what came after. Magic had a way of leaving traces behind that soap couldn’t always scrub.

I plunged my hands under the water and watched it run pink, then clear, then pink again. My fingers trembled as I rubbed my palms together, harder and harder, until the skin burned.

"Fuck..." I whispered, to no one, to nothing. My voice caught. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

The sink trembled under my grip, or maybe that was me. I leaned forward, breathing hard. My reflection in the mirror looked a shade removed from human pale, eyes dark, lips pressed so tight they looked bruised. I barely recognized her. "You shouldn’t have done it," I muttered and cursed at myself. But I had, and because it was him, I knew that would always break my own rules for him. A choked breath slipped past my lips, and I bit down on the next one like it was a scream trying to climb out. My shoulders shook, my whole body shook, and I gripped the edge of the sink to steady myself.

The power still hummed faintly under my skin, remnants of what I’d poured into Dante like water into cracked stone. Healing always took something, but this time, it had carved deeper. The cost was coming due, I could feel it pressing against the back of my skull, inside my lungs, in the hollow beneath my ribs.

I stayed like that for a while, hunched over the sink, letting the water run and run and run. Then I turned off the tap. Let silence settle back over the house. And I stood there, staring at my reflection, as if I could find some version of me that wasn’t unraveling. I dried my hands on a threadbare towel, my fingers still twitching from the aftershock. The water had taken the blood but not the weight.

As I stepped back into the corridor, the air felt thicker. The kind of stillness that hums in your ears. I moved quietly, barefoot now, each step slow as I returned to the living room. I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this quiet.

Dante was asleep, laid back on the couch, one arm draped loosely across his chest, chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. Whatever threads of magic I’d pulled through him had done their work. He looked younger like this. Or maybe just less impossible. Frery sat on the rug, knees tucked to his chest, eyes locked on me the moment I stepped in. His small face was too serious, far too serious for a boy his age.

"Ma," he said, low but sharp, "what is this house?"

I froze and realized he wasn’t asking like a child. He was asking like someone who had felt something. Something old. Something real."I felt it," he continued, before I could answer. "All around, In the floor. In the walls. When you were healing him, it was like... like the house woke up."

My throat tightened, and before I could gather words, any words at all,l Rogourau stepped forward from the shadowed corner where he’d been watching in that silent, brooding way of his. "The boy’s not wrong," he said, arms still crossed, voice like gravel and steel. "Power stirred here tonight. Power I haven’t felt since the wars."

He met my gaze, calm and direct. "I once heard Dunco Kayne speak of something like this," Rolan said slowly. "Years back. A rumor he wasn’t supposed to know. He said the Mira line had a hidden branch. Blood-walkers. Soul-menders. Said one of them was a Vampire-born, and thshe vanishesset here we are, hiding in plain sight."

The room spun sideways for a moment, and I steadied myself against the edge of the hearth. Frery was still staring at me, waiting for something I didn’t know how to give.

"It’s complicated," I said. My voice didn’t shake, but my hands still felt like ash, and I sat across from Frery and looked into my son’s eye, the same storm-colored eyes I’d passed down to him.

"This house," I said, choosing each word like a knife I had to swallow, "was built by blood older than this kingdom. Woven with spells no one writes anymore. My family sealed magic into its bones, not for power but for protection. And when I call it, it answers."

Frery blinked slowly. "Is that why it felt... alive?"

I nodded. "It is alive, in its way."

Rogourau’s brow furrowed. "And the part about the blood?"

I met his eyes. Didn’t flinch. "The vampire part is true. Some of it. A drop. Maybe two. A gift... or a curse, depending on who’s telling the story."

He didn’t look surprised. Just thoughtful. As if something he’d long suspected had finally been said aloud. Frery leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper now. "Is that why I feel it too, sometimes? That hum? When I touch the walls?"

My breath caught, and I reached for his hand and wrapped mine around it, warm and trembling.

"Yes," I said. "Because it knows you. Just like it knows me."

"Good," he said. "Then I want to learn it too because we need to face whatever that evil creature in Bloodstone Mountain is, and now that it faced me, I could feel the way it pushed its power trying to learn what I was.

"Then I’ll teach you," I whispered. "But you have to promise something first."

"What?"

"That you’ll never use it in anger. Only to protect. Only when it matters."

Frery nodded solemnly. "I promise."