Chapter 43: The Terrifying Genius
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Zyrenia sprinted down the stone corridors, one hand clenched tight around the candle sculpture. The wax dug into her palm, but she didn't care.
She had to talk to him. Now.
"I have to talk to Daddy. I have to talk to Daddy. I have to—"
The guards outside her father's chambers exchanged glances. One stepped forward.
"Lady Zyrenia, the Duke is currently—"
She shoved past him, slamming her fists against the heavy wooden door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"It's important!" she shouted. "Right now!"
A pause. Then her father's voice, low and steady:
"...Let her in."
The door creaked open. Zyrenia stumbled in, breath ragged.
The Duke looked her over—calm, unreadable—but his gaze paused at her puffy eyes.
"Who did this to you?"
Still calm. Still measured.
But Zyrenia knew what that tone meant.
She shook her head quickly. "No one hurt me."
He said nothing, waiting.
"I—I spoke to her," she stammered. "Jessica Moran."
His expression didn't shift, but something behind his eyes did.
"She's not a charlatan, Daddy."
Zyrenia held up the sculpture, knuckles white around it.
"She's a genius."
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The Duke leaned back slightly.
"...You're just a child," he said. "She may have seemed clever to you—"
"No," Zyrenia snapped. "You're not listening."
She stepped forward.
"She's not just clever—she's terrifying. She thinks like Lilith, but she's not like Lilith. She's different. She knows things."
Her voice quickened. "She knew about the war. The bomb. She knew things humans shouldn't remember."
Still, her father said nothing.
She set the sculpture down on his desk.
He glanced at it—and paused.
Zyrenia pointed, voice shaking. "She said she didn't even know our family's name. Didn't know anything about us."
He raised an eyebrow. "But she made this?"
Zyrenia nodded.
His eyes dropped to the carving.
It wasn't the general. Not the martyr. Not the warrior.
It was Lilith—before the war. The princess.
The version erased from every record outside the palace.
His fingers curled slightly against the desk.
"She wasn't lying," Zyrenia whispered. "She didn't know who we were."
Her hands trembled.
"But she still made this."
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The Duke picked up the sculpture.
It was Lilith.
Not just her features—but the quiet sorrow. The stillness. The loss behind the eyes.
Jessica Moran shouldn't know this version existed.
And yet—
"Go on," he murmured.
"She knew I was a fire-user before I told her," Zyrenia said. "She said she could see my mana."
His fingers stilled on the wax.
"She also said..." Zyrenia hesitated, then repeated it word for word. "I believe it's better to make everyone stronger than to be strong alone."
She swallowed. "Aura lets your soldiers believe in something. Gives them something to aspire to."
He leaned forward slightly.
Zyrenia lowered her voice.
"She spoke the vampire language," she said. "Perfectly. No accent."
The Duke's eyes narrowed.
"She didn't even know the name of it."
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The silence was sharp.
"What did she smell like?" he asked.
Zyrenia froze.
Her mouth opened—then closed.
"...I don't know," she admitted.
He waited.
"There were too many candles," she said. "I couldn't smell her at all."
The Duke said nothing.
But in his mind, the pieces began to shift.
Jessica Moran had no known vampire blood. No records. No demonic ancestry.
Just a human girl.
But—
She had recreated an image of Lilith no human should remember.
She had spoken a dead language without learning it.
She had rejected magic in favor of aura—a concept even nobles struggled to grasp.
She had solved Lilith's final strategy.
And now, his daughter—whose sense of smell was so sharp she once identified a maid's breakfast by scent alone—couldn't even detect her.
He gripped the sculpture tighter.
Not a vampire. That would've been obvious.
But something else?
And if she were a spy—why reveal any of this?
If she were a traitor—why remain unnoticed for so long?
No. This wasn't treason.
It was something stranger.
His eyes darkened.
"...We need to meet her."
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Silence stretched.
The Duke's mind ran in loops, theory after theory collapsing under its own weight.
Then Zyrenia spoke.
"Daddy."
He looked at her sharply.
"You're not very patient when you're angry," she said.
His brow twitched.
"...Excuse me?"
Zyrenia folded her arms. "You shouldn't talk to her like this."
He stared.
"She's not dangerous on purpose," Zyrenia added. "She just says things the wrong way. Or maybe the right way at the wrong time."
She paused.
"Oh—she said she has a few screws loose."
The Duke blinked.
"So if you talk to her when you're frustrated," Zyrenia continued, entirely serious, "you'll probably end up more frustrated. You should wait until you're calm."
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"She's not quick," Zyrenia went on, "but she doesn't guess. She waits. Then she says something that makes your head hurt."
She tilted her head.
"If you can't change how you think, she sounds wrong. But if you listen long enough—she's not."
The Duke closed his eyes.
"...Fine."
Zyrenia nodded, satisfied.
She headed toward the door, sculpture still in hand. Paused. Looked back.
"Good luck."
She slipped out, leaving the room quiet again.
The Duke remained motionless, shoulders still tense.
His fingers pressed into the wax.
A long breath escaped him.
"...I am going to lose my mind."
The guards outside pretended not to hear it.