When the pulse came, Kleo struggled to wake, her exhaustion weighing her down. The day's emotional turmoil had taken its toll, pulling her into a deep sleep where her mind drifted through a hazy dreamscape.

  A gentle warmth radiated over her, enveloping her, and she floated within its embrace. The gentle buoyancy was similar to that of the sanctuary’s pool, requiring no effort. She drifted, thoughtless, letting herself drift through the soothing expanse.

  The presence permeated her dream, brushing against her—a tender hand sweeping the hair from her face. Kleo didn’t flinch, even as the compassion emanating from the touch overwhelmed her, flooding her with trembling waves of emotion. It was almost too much, too pure, and she feared the vibrations might tear her apart. Yet, she didn’t want it to end.

  A soft finger traced the line of her cheek, wiping away the remnants of a dried tear. Kleo’s lips parted, but no sound came. Her mind grasped for a single word, one she was scared to think. Mother?

  The answer came not as words but as a rush of love, surging into her like a tidal wave and filling the empty spaces she never knew she had. Then she heard the voice—soft, warm, and impossibly vast. It wasn't only sound; it was feeling, its ripples resonating through her consciousness.

  You are more than I ever dreamed for you, my Kleo. That is what he calls you—Kleo. Your bonded soul—Jack.

  At Jack's name, Kleo's heart erupted with love—a fiery cascade intertwining with the radiance of the presence.

  The voice lingered on a word, soft and deliberate: love. The sound resonated within her like a crashing wave, then settled into gentle ripples that draped over her like a delicate veil.

  Kleo lifted her hand, marveling as tiny points of light floated upward into her vision. They shimmered like stars, responding to her touch as she playfully poked them, the force causing them to drift lazily away.

  I love this name—Kleo. The voice was tender, sweet. Though it wasn't the name I gave you, it suits you. It has become your true name. Kleo is who you are.

  A question rose unbidden in Kleo's thoughts. What name? Though she hadn't meant to ask, the words surfaced on their own.

  A soft, melodic laugh filled her, rippling through her mind like the sweetest song. A simple, sweet name—Lily. When I held you in my arms and touched my finger to your tiny nose, I called you my Lily Bean.

  Kleo's breath caught as her heart ached, yearning to reach out and embrace the presence. But the harder she tried, the further it slipped away. Panic seized her as she scrambled to hold onto the feeling, her desperation clawing for any anchor to that precious warmth.

  The voice, now distant, faded like the final notes of a song.

  You must come to me, Kleo. Bring me home. I would hold you in my arms again.

  Her mind responded with a silent, fervent vow. I'm coming. I will bring you home.

  The voice whispered one final time, a gossamer thread of sound just perceptible above the growing void—Daughter.

  Then, silence descended.

  Kleo stirred restlessly in her sleep, her chest rising and falling as tears slipped from her closed eyes. The warmth was gone, replaced by a hollow ache and the fading echoes of her mother’s love.

  The following day, Jack awoke, body and mind sluggish, the weight of the previous day still heavy on his shoulders. Beside him, Kleo lay curled in a cocoon of blankets, her face slack with exhaustion. Throughout the night, she had tossed and turned, muttering incoherent words—her restless sleep mirroring the emotional storm she'd weathered.

  Jack sat up carefully to avoid disturbing her. She needs this, he thought. Let her rest.

  Padding softly into the main room, he found Rugr awake, seated at the table with his head resting in his hands. The older man looked worn, his broad shoulders sagging under the weight of unspoken burdens. Jack nodded a silent greeting as he moved toward the fireplace.

  “Tea?”

  Rugr lifted his head, offering a tired nod. “Sounds good.”

  Jack placed two cups on the table and set a pot of water over the fire. The quiet crackle of flames and the occasional creak of wooden beams were the only sounds as the hut settled around them.

  "Still sleeping?" Rugr asked, breaking the silence.

  "Yeah," Jack replied, adding tea leaves to the cups. "She had a rough day yesterday, and her night wasn't much better. She kept muttering in her sleep—troubled dreams, I imagine."

  Rugr grunted, his expression unreadable. "She's carrying more than she should," he muttered as if to himself. "Always has."

  Jack nodded while preparing the tea. "She's stronger than she appears, but yesterday took its toll. She needs to wake up on her own—no rushing."

  Rugr's gaze drifted toward the door, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the table. "I don't mean to push, Jack, but we can't delay much longer. That box... if what we discussed last night is true, then Kleo would agree—we need to move."

  Jack sighed, leaning against the counter. He knew Rugr was right, but the thought of thrusting Kleo back into danger gnawed at him. She deserved better than this endless chain of crises. "Yeah," he replied. "You're right. But let her sleep. We'll leave when she's up."

  Rugr nodded, and silence fell over the room once more as Jack busied himself with the tea. While Jack wasn't looking, Rugr raised his hand toward the pot. A faint red glow flickered in his palm, sending heat into the water. The pot began to steam, and Rugr withdrew his hand, settling back into his seat as if nothing had happened.

  Jack turned back as the water began to boil. He frowned, suspicious, but remained silent as he poured the steaming water into the cups, the fragrant aroma of Woog tea filling the air.

  Jack handed Rugr a cup and took one for himself. "Why don't we take this outside?" he suggested. "I'll introduce you to a few people."

  Rugr hesitated, glancing toward the bedroom where Kleo still slept. After a moment, he nodded and rose, following Jack into the village. Morning sunlight filtered through the dense foliage, casting dappled shadows across the ground. The Woogs bustled about, their cheerful chatter and busy movements contrasting sharply with Rugr's somber mood.

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  Jack led him toward the central square, stopping to greet familiar faces and point out notable sights. It felt good to be back in the Woog village. The familiar smells of his home brought a faint smile to his face.

  Rugr's rigid posture gradually relaxed, and Jack felt a spark of hope. Even amid their looming uncertainties, these simple moments offered quiet comfort—an anchor against the chaos that lay ahead.

  When Kleo awoke, the little house was quiet; the only sound was the faint rustling of leaves outside the window. Jack was gone, and the absence of his usual chatter felt comforting and unsettling. She lay still, her body weighed down by a deep, lingering fatigue. Thoughts of the dream filled her mind—a strange mix of happiness and loss that left her chest tight and her limbs reluctant to move.

  Yesterday had been too much. Seeing Rugr after their long separation had stirred emotions she’d buried for years. Feelings of abandonment, raw and unresolved, had clawed their way to the surface. And when those emotions had finally overwhelmed her, they had spilled out in an angry torrent, directed at the one person who had been her rock. She regretted the outburst, but part of her knew it was necessary. There were things she had needed to say—things Rugr needed to hear.

  Still, the aftermath of it all left her feeling hollow. Lying in the dimly lit room, her mind raced as her body resisted the urge to rise. The faint scent of Woog tea lingered in the air, and for a moment, she considered getting up to make herself a cup. But as tempting as it was to ease herself into the day with a quiet routine, she realized that this was the most time she’d had alone since Jack’s recovery.

  The realization brought a flicker of resolve. Alone in the stillness, she decided it was time to confront what she had been avoiding. Something best faced in solitude.

  The battle with Morghadus had unlocked something within her—a change she couldn’t quite explain, but she felt it humming beneath her skin like a barely restrained current. It wasn’t the pulse, the signal she’d come to associate with the ‘goddess.’ This was something inevitable—her transformation.

  She needed to learn to control it and not the other way around. The night in the woods was a stark message: Embrace or be consumed.

  Curiosity gnawed at her. She flexed her fingers, studying her hand in the faint sunlight that filtered through the curtains. Slowly, deliberately, she called to the power, coaxing it forward as though coaxing a timid creature from the shadows.

  At first, nothing happened. Then, a faint tingle prickled at her fingertips, spreading down her palm like warm honey. She inhaled sharply as her skin shifted, darkening and rippling like the surface of a still pond disturbed by an unseen force.

  Her nails extended, lengthening into razor-sharp claws that shimmered faintly, catching the light with an unnatural gleam. Her skin darkened further, taking on a rich, obsidian hue that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. The texture transformed—smooth and flawless, yet unnervingly otherworldly. Faint lines of molten gold coursed beneath the surface like veins of living fire, pulsing with a heartbeat that wasn’t entirely hers.

  Her hand swelled, growing larger, more powerful. The structure of her bones shifted, elongating her fingers and enhancing the curve of her knuckles. It was her hand, but it wasn’t. It was something more—a weapon, a symbol, a revelation.

  Kleo’s breath caught as she tilted her wrist, watching the light play over the transformed limb. Her pulse quickened, a mix of fear and exhilaration coursing through her. The sheer power it radiated was intoxicating, yet she couldn’t ignore the whisper of unease that threaded through her thoughts.

  This is who I am. This is who I’ve always been. Why does it still feel so alien?

  She flexed the claws, testing them, marveling at their effortless sharpness, the way they seemed to cut through the air itself. A flick of her wrist sent a faint ripple of energy outward, making the room feel charged with static. The sensation was thrilling and terrifying, a reminder of what she was becoming—what she had always been destined to become.

  And yet, she hesitated. Her other hand, still her own, still demana, rested beside the demon’s hand. The contrast was stark, a visual representation of the duality that defined her existence—the familiar versus the inevitable. Kleo versus the Arch Demana she was destined to be.

  Her thoughts turned to Jack. Would he still look at her the same way if he saw this? If he saw all of her? The thought made her chest tighten, but she pushed it aside. Jack loved her. She knew that. He had bound his soul to hers, accepting her before she understood herself. And yet, the fear lingered—a fear she couldn’t quite shake.

  Slowly, she willed the transformation to recede. The claws retracted, the darkened skin lightened, and the molten veins dimmed until they disappeared from view. Her hand was her own again, but the memory of the transformation remained, burned into her mind.

  She exhaled, her body trembling with the aftershocks of the power she had tasted. This was her Kadas Shadoom—her unyielding fate. It was not something she could avoid or suppress. It was who she was. Who she would always be.

  But as she lay there in the quiet stillness of the room, staring at her now-normal hand, she couldn’t help but wonder: How much of myself will I lose before this transformation is complete?

  Though a part of her feared how this metamorphic power might alter Jack’s perception of her, the Kasad Shadoom would not allow her to deny it any longer. The transformation was no longer something to resist; it was a truth she had to face. For now, she would confine it to her hand—testing the limits of this strange new power while sparing their quiet, tiny home from unnecessary destruction—the thought of what a complete transformation might bring excited and terrified her.

  Kleo focused on her hand, willing the transformation again. Her breath hitched as the change began—not painful, but alien, as if her skin remembered something she had yet to know.

  The pale glow spread over her fingers, and as the transformation took hold, her skin shifted, darkening to a rich, opalescent black. But this time, it was not smooth. She watched in growing awe and unease as the surface of her hand rippled and divided. Segments formed, each piece distinct yet interconnected, like scales—but more intricate. Each segment locked seamlessly into the next, moving with a liquid grace that suggested flexibility and unyielding strength.

  It reminded her of interlocking armor, but this was alive, not forged. The edges of each piece shimmered as though they were infused with energy, the glow pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She flexed her fingers, marveling at how the segmented plates moved as one, their intricate design defying logic. Where one piece ended and another began was impossible to discern.

  Her thumb brushed the surface, and a faint shiver ran through her. The texture was smooth yet impenetrable, a fusion of silk and steel. She clenched her fist, testing the strength, and the segments locked together in perfect harmony, forming a gauntlet that felt indestructible.

  She frowned, her gaze lingering on the faint glow beneath the plates. The light wasn’t hers—not her mana, not the energy she wielded. This was deeper, older, something born from the essence of her Arch Demana nature.

  “Gods and Fates,” she murmured, though the words felt inadequate. This wasn’t armor—it was her. A part of her she’d never known existed, yet it had been waiting, lying dormant, until the Kadas Shadoom stirred it to life.

  The realization hit her like a chill: this hide wasn’t only protection—it was a weapon. She could sense it now, humming under her skin, as if it longed for battle, for destruction. A dangerous thrill coursed through her veins at the thought.

  But then came the unease, settling like a stone in her stomach. What would she become if she embraced this power? Would she still be Kleo—or would this new form consume her, piece by interlinked piece, until nothing of her old self remained?

  The creak of the front door startled her, and with a sharp exhale, Kleo released the power in a burst of blue light that lit the room. She glanced down at her hand, relieved to see it had returned to its original form. Gods, what would Jack have thought if he had seen the transformation?

  Jack popped his head through the doorway, his brows furrowed in puzzlement. “What was that?”

  “What was what?” she replied, masking her nerves with a yawn and an exaggerated stretch. She hoped he’d think she had just woken up.

  “I thought I saw—” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Never mind. Glad you’re up. Want some tea?”

  “That sounds wonderful,” she said, her tone light. “I’ll be right out.”

  As he disappeared down the hall, Kleo drew a deep, steadying breath and exhaled. The moment had passed, but her mind lingered on the transformation. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, planting her feet firmly on the floor. It was time to face the day. They needed to get moving. She needed to get to the box.

  She needed to be with her mother.