She remembered?
I set the bags Judy’s family had given me down, hands trembling, and lifted the lid.
The aroma hit me first-sweet, tangy, spiced. Familiar. My chest constricted. It wasn’t some generic flavor pulled from Celeste’s favorites.
It was mine.
My favorite pie, at least.
Cherry and almond, dusted with cinnamon sugar across the lattice crust.
Images bloomed in the forefront of my mind: my mother carefully teaching me how to bake the recipe when I was five; my father teasing her because the edges had come out slightly charred; me fanning my mouth because I’d been too impatient for a taste to let the pie cool down; Ethan stealing extra bites when he thought no one was looking; Celeste, sticky-fingered and babbling as she took her first unsteady steps across the kitchen tiles.
Not only was it a nostalgic punch in the gut, it was a poignant reminder that once, a million years ago, the Lockwoods had been a happy, whole family.
Tears pricked hot in my eyes.
I couldn’t bring myself to throw the pie away. But I couldn’t bring myself to eat it either. 1
So I placed the box on the kitchen counter, like it was some cursed artifact I hadn’t decided how to handle.
***
That night, sleep dragged me under heavy and deep. And in my dreams, the Lockwood garden bloomed.
Although it wasn’t the garden of today-pruned too carefully, stripped of its wildness, transformed into a sterile showcase for power-I knew it instantly.
It was the garden of my childhood. Alive. Vibrant. Lavender and roses spilled over stone borders, and fireflies sparked like embers in the dusk.
In the dream, I was small again, no older than six or seven, my hair tangled, my dress rumpled from climbing trees with Ethan.
My legs swung, kicking idly at the air, because I was perched on the wooden swing suspended from the great oak.
And there he was.
My father.
Edward Lockwood, in his prime, with his broad shoulders and weathered hands. His eyes softened when they landed on me-full of the love that had waned more and more as the years passed.
He pushed the swing gently, not too hard, letting me soar just enough that the world tilted and the sky spread impossibly wide.
“Higher, Papa!” I squealed.
He chuckled, deep and warm. “If I push you too high, little wolf, you’ll take off flying and forget to come back down.”
“I won’t forget.” I twisted to look at him, hair whipping across my face. “I’ll always come back to you.”
His expression softened in that way I barely remembered-the way that, back then, had belonged only to me. “That’s because you’re my
Seraphina. My precious princess.”
I giggled. “I’m not a princess. Princesses wear crowns. I don’t have one.”
“You don’t need one,” he said simply. “Because one day, you’ll be the heroine of your own story. Like the ones I tell you at night. The ones with courage and fire and wolves who never bow to anyone.”
My eyes widened as he crouched in front of me. “Really?”
He reached out and cupped my cheeks as the swing slowed. “Really.”
I giggled. “A hero is better than a princess.”
He nodded, chuckling. “And you, my love, are going to be the best of them all,”
The swing stopped, his hand warm on my shoulder as he steadied me. His eyes were on the horizon, where the first stars began to glimmer.
A chill swept through the air, but I didn’t shiver. I was never cold when my daddy surrounded me with his warmth.
“Promise me something, Seraphina”
I blinked up at him. I had his eyes. I loved that I had his eyes. “What?”
“That you’ll never let anyone tell you your worth. Not even me. You’ll decide who you are. You’ll fight for it, even if the whole world stands against you.”
“I promise.” I whispered, though my voice trembled.
He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “That’s my girl.”
The dream wavered then, blurring around the edges. The oak tree stretched taller, the stars dimmed, and his voice grew distant, echoing through the thinning air.
“Remember, little wolf. You were always meant for more.”
I reached for him, desperate, but my hands closed around nothing. The swing vanished. The garden dissolved into mist.
And I woke with tears streaming silently down my cheeks.
SERAPHINA’S POV
For a long time, I just sat there in the dark, hugging my knees and staring out at nothing.
My vision warped as hot tears slid down my cheeks unhindered. My father’s voice lingered like smoke after a fire-soft, elusive.
‘You were always meant for more.’
I closed my eyes and pressed the heels of my palms against my lids as if I could hold onto him if I just pressed hard enough.
But the dream was already rapidly fading-an echo I couldn’t chase down, no matter how hard I tried.
When I opened my eyes, all that greeted me was the gradual, dim wash of dawn spilling in through the cracks of my blinds.
And the worst part? Confusion tangled with the yawning ache in my chest.
I couldn’t tell if my dream was a memory or…invention.
Had my father truly said those words to me once, in the garden of my childhood?
Or was I so starved for comfort, had I been so triggered by my mother’s visit and that damn pie, that my mind had conjured those tender moments wholesale?
Whenever I dared to summon thoughts of my father, all that surfaced were the harsh, malicious glares he always shot at me, as if I were his greatest mistake. All I could remember was the cruel anger in his voice as he disowned me.
‘From this day forward, you are no daughter of mine.’
Your birth was a mistake, Seraphina.’
How could that have been the same man in my dream, stroking my hair and telling me I was precious?
An anguished groan tore out of my throat as I dragged my hands down my face. I couldn’t afford emotional turmoil like this. Not today.
Memory or illusion, both were dangerous, and I couldn’t afford to have them soften or dull my edges when I needed them sharp.
I needed to get my ass out of bed, clear my mind, and face what the day had in store for me.
Because today was the second challenge of the LST.
***
The second Arena was called the Resonant Labyrinth.
The entrance yawned before us, a maw of shifting walls that ground against each other with a groan like mountains waking.
Towering slabs slid and re-formed with the patience of melting glaciers, but the precision of clockwork.
It was basically a gigantic puzzle cut out of stone,
While the Misty Woods had been an Arena of muscle and reflex and instinct, this one required us to rely on our minds more than anything else.
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