Chapter 15—The Late Queen's Lineage

"Mother, is this correct?" Lucas, barely six but exceptionally perceptive, eagerly offered his mother the herbs and tonics she required. Iona, taken aback yet amused, chuckled as she delicately retrieved the deadly nightshade from his deft fingers. The flower was charming, bell-shaped, yet its lethal nature was no surprise to her; Lucas had always been adept with such dangerous flora. This unique connection was theirs alone in the Kingdom of Adri.

"Lucas, would you like a story?" His eyes sparkled with curiosity as he nodded. The greenhouse was aglow, sunlight streaming through the glass, bathing the plants in a warm embrace. They thrived, looking content and vibrant. The rhythmic sound of the black mandrake root being ground in the mortar filled the air. Lucas, seated across from Iona, watched her work with rapt attention.

"In a secluded island, unreachable by man, lived a joyous girl. She was far from lonely, cherished by the island's villagers," Iona began, her voice weaving a tale that captivated young Lucas. "With each Flower Festival, they danced and sang, rejoicing as they sipped from a well blessed by the moonlight." Lucas's eyes gleamed with delight as he listened, utterly engrossed in her story.

"They harness it to replenish their mystical essence," Iona's voice dropped to a hush, her laughter mingling with Lucas's. "With the summer's bloom, they can summon a shower of delicate petals, coax plants to sprout at will, and even raise trees tall enough to graze the heavens. They can—oh, they can conjure the most wondrous spectacles, Lucas," she said, her eyes glistening, her voice tinged with melancholy.

But a fateful day arrived when malevolent outsiders stumbled upon the island. The inhabitants scattered, seeking refuge; a brave few stood guard, wielding their arcane gifts. "But you see, they couldn't bring harm to others; their innocence forbade them from using their powers for defense," Iona narrated, her tears held at bay as she ground the mandrake root into a fine dust.

These invaders wielded swords and armaments alien to the islanders, brandishing them to terrorize the young girl and her kin. Yet, in the face of hostility, she offered compassion, conjuring a blooming lotus from her palms.

The aggressors stood in awe, but their nature remained unchanged; they seized the ingenuous girl, whisking her away to their vessel. Iona sifted the powdered mandrake into a separate container. "Unbeknownst to her, she was taken to a foreign land, her fate and that of her village shrouded in mystery. There, she was paraded before crowds, her 'magic' a spectacle for their amusement."

Tears for her lost home spurred her to flee, yet in the unfamiliar land, she was adrift, without direction. The forest she sought for solace, reminiscent of her island, only offered shadows and solitude. Hunger compounded her sorrow, alone in the dark woods. Then, as if by providence, a diminutive girl appeared, her feline ears marking her unique charm. She shared her meal—a chicken, its blood smeared across her face and clothes, a testament to her untamed nature.

"Why would she eat raw meat, Mother?" Lucas grimaced, repulsed by the thought. "She's akin to a cat, my dear, and cats hunt for their sustenance," Iona explained.

A bond formed, enduring through time, until a prince entered the tale, captivating the girl's heart. The cat-eared companion, disapproving, withdrew, severing their friendship. Iona, her task with the nightshade complete, pondered this turn of fate. "The girl longs for her friend, Lucas," Iona murmured, her voice laden with sorrow.

"Mother, perhaps the cat-girl isn't angry, just fearful of losing her friend to love," Lucas mused, prompting a smile from Iona. "Indeed, she was but a young girl, lost and alone."

"And what did this girl look like?" Lucas inquired. "Silver-white hair, a visage of innocence, petite in stature," Iona described, a mirror to herself. "You resemble her," Lucas declared, his youthful intuition discerning the truth in his mother's tale. "Yes, Lucas, she is a reflection of me," Iona conceded, her smile tinged with the bittersweet hues of memory.

Jolted from his reverie, Lucas's eyes flew open, the remnants of the purple poison evaporating into nothingness. He sat bolt upright, a core memory flooding back with startling clarity. "What was that…" he murmured, the weight of his lineage, its latent power, now undeniable. It wasn't Ydric's doing; his own awakening had stirred the ancient blessings bestowed upon him by his mother.

Compelled by a newfound urgency, Lucas sought to delve deeper into his ancestry. Was the feline figure from his mother's past the same vengeful fox that had sought her life? Or did she hold the clues to Queen Iona's enigmatic history?

His musings were abruptly cut short as a bear lunged at him. With a swift motion, his sword—imbued with his own burgeoning magic—cleaved through the threat. Seizing the offensive, he summoned a bramble of thorns, ensnaring the wolves that dared to approach, his heritage's might manifesting with fierce intent.

With a swift arc, his blade cleaved through the air, the released poison making contact with the smoky wolves, their howls fading into the wind as they dissipated. In the aftermath, Datura stood tall, his prowess in battle evident. "Well done, King of Adri, you've certainly outdone yourself." Ydric's voice resonated within Datura's mind, a testament to his growing strength.

Acknowledging the compliment with a nod, Datura watched as the remnants of his foes were drawn away, the dark mist retreating from his presence. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, the rush of battle ebbing away. Then, a sudden constriction in his throat—a coughing fit overtook him, and to his astonishment, he expelled petals. White with a hint of purple at the edges, the unmistakable mark of belladonna.

Bewilderment took hold as he examined the blood-flecked petals. An ominous sign, meddling with his very being—how had they found their way inside him? Dizziness encroached, his eyelids heavy with fatigue from the relentless combat and the tireless trek to the capital of Valadri. The mystery of the belladonna petals remained, a puzzle intertwined with his intriguing lineage.

Sera unleashed a volley of fiery discs, which Caelun evaded with agile grace, the flames instead consuming the forest around them. Caelun, preferring the distance, seemed reluctant to engage in close combat, aware of Sera's advantage in such a duel. Gritting his teeth, he summoned his smoky legion back into his cloak; his focus now solely on her. Datura's fate would have to wait.

"Hand over the spheres, Sera," he demanded, his warning sharp. But in a fraction of a second, Sera closed the gap, her talons a whisper away from his throat. He gasped, immobilized, as she pinned him to the ground, her claws a hair's breadth from his skin. His eyes locked onto hers, knowing any slight movement could be his end.

"What should I return?"Sera queried, his pulse thundering, the memory of past fear resurfacing. Her reply was laced with a cunning edge. Before he could finish his plea for the Aether spheres, her talons pressed closer, drawing blood. "Caelun, your past actions are as vivid to me as the scars on your face," she taunted.

He swore under his breath, her words igniting a fury within him. "I find it fascinating that you harbor no remorse, Sera. If memory serves, I was the victim, not you," he retorted, his tone bitter. Her laughter was tinged with malice. "You yearn to end me, don't you, Caelun?" she teased. "But not while you're at half strength."

With a swift rise, she turned her back on him, dismissing the encounter. "The moon's rise will reveal our true might, Caelun. Remember that," she said, not sparing him a glance. "And convey to your master: Datura Lucas is mine. Dare to cross me, and you'll regret it," she warned, her final words hanging in the air like a threat.