One leg stepped through the hall door.
Then the other.
Her right hand held her dress as if time itself were against her. The left moved in an impatient gesture—the kind that said every second away from her daughter had been torture.
And then, the full silhouette emerged.
The woman who entered was the embodiment of elegance and ancestral authority.
She wore a black dress with silver embroidery that shimmered in the torchlight. The fabric hugged her body like night wraps the moon. Around her neck, a dark necklace hung like a fragment of crystallized shadow.
But what truly froze anyone who saw her... were the eyes.
Deep.
Platinum like the first ray of sun over a frozen lake.
Eyes now burning with urgency.
The Countess Selène d'Argêntea.
"Michael... what did you do to our daughter?" Her voice carried the fury of a thousand tides and the sacred sorrow of mothers through the ages.
For a moment, Michael seemed to remember he had a heart. He tried to answer. He even raised a finger.
"Darling, the awakening ritual was neces—"
But Selène crossed the hall like a well-dressed storm, tearing Ligia from his arms with the firmness of someone reclaiming what is hers.
Michael became a wet and irrelevant umbrella.
With a single sigh—the kind that mixes exhaustion, unconditional love, and a hint of homicidal intent aimed at the father of the child—she embraced her daughter.
Ligia sank into that hug like someone returning to a primordial home.
"It's all right, my heart. I'm here now," Selène whispered, caressing her daughter's hair, smoothing the platinum strands with the delicacy of a constellation.
Michael tried again.
"Selène, she needed to go through this to control the affinities—"
"She needed love, Michael," Selène snapped, without even looking at him.
"Not a traumatizing mystical seminar delivered by a grumpy ancestor made of magical smoke."
Michael opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Dorian, leaning against the wall like someone watching a play for the thousandth time, spun a dagger between his fingers, contemplating the reflection of the flame on the blade.
Meanwhile, Harry...
Harry was wondering if vomiting magic could cause permanent damage when he felt two firm arms lift him by the waist.
"No! Wait! I'm still digesting my soul, man!"
Dorian didn't reply. He just gave him that famous "you talk too much" look and traced a teleportation seal.
"YOU'RE NOT GONNA MA—"
And they vanished.
Now only they remained:
Selène. Michael. Ligia.
And like proper aristocrats, the two parents completely ignored the eldest son as they transformed the moment into a high-class emotional duel.
Selène started.
"You subjected her to a ritual that even our most hardened ancestors would call... torture."
Her voice was calm. Almost sweet.
Which only made it more dangerous.
It was the serenity that precedes the storm that tears off rooftops.
Michael crossed his arms.
"Selène, please. She's a d'Argêntea. Our blood doesn't run in weak bodies. It was necessary. She needed to awaken. It's her destiny—"
"Destiny?" Her face turned slowly, and her eyes gleamed with what ancient bards would call elegant wrath.
"Don't come at me with that cursed word. It's not destiny that writes our choices, Michael. And you know that. You told me that yourself, the first time you asked me to marry you."
Michael blinked.
"I was drunk."
"And yet, that was the wisest moment of your life."
"You say that like you're wrong."
"Michael." She said his name like a sealing spell.
"You threw her into pain to prove she was worthy of the name. But she already was. From the moment she was born."
He tried to argue. Took a breath.
Raised a finger. Lowered it.
Sighed.
"You don't understand."
"I understand perfectly," she said, her voice veiled steel.
"You're still the boy trying to please a father who only knew how to measure worth with coldness. You think you're shaping our daughter's strength... but all you're doing is repeating a cycle that should've died with Arcturus."
"He was a great man."
"And a terrible father."
While the two exchanged perfume-laced barbs with historical resentment, Ligia simply... existed.
In her mother's arms.
Feeling Selène's firm fingers drawing slow circles in her hair.
Her body ached. Her soul burned. But the scent of jasmine, the warmth of touch, said: you are seen.
She inhaled.
Now was not the time to get lost in this.
Not yet.
With effort, she looked up and smiled, even with exhaustion carved into every line of her face.
"Mom... I'm so glad you're back."
The phrase rang like a crystal bell in the hall.
The argument stopped. Not because of peace, but because nothing was more important than that.
Selène looked at her daughter with liquid tenderness.
"Love... are you feeling better?"
Ligia slowly pulled out of the hug and took a step forward.
"Yeah. But just for the record: the teleport made me sick. The ritual? Piece of cake."
Selène raised an eyebrow.
That clinical look that detects lies from miles away.
"What's wrong, love?"
Frozen mid-movement, Ligia looked at her father. Her eyes pleaded: save me.
Michael ran a hand down his face, tired.
"Dear... we'll talk later."
Selène hesitated. Looked again at Ligia.
And nodded.
"Okay."
Ligia let out a sigh that almost became a sob but held her composure.
She yawned.
"I'm tired... I want a bath and a bed."
Selène was already walking toward the doors when she replied.
"That's probably for the best, daughter."
Ligia nodded. Massaged her aching shoulders.
And as she passed Michael... she did something unexpected: she hugged him.
Michael froze, like he had been shocked.
Then, slowly, his arms rose, like a bear trying to hold porcelain, and he patted her back.
"Good night, Dad."
He nodded silently.
But the words echoed deep.
Then, Ligia walked over to Selène and hugged her too.
But that one was different.
Selène pulled her tight.
With urgency.
As if she wanted to shield her from the world.
"Sleep well, dear," she whispered in her ear, like a blessing mothers keep in their blood.
With one last glance at them both, Ligia stepped through the door.
Her soft footsteps echoed like the rhythm of a new heart:
still fragile, but beating strong.
Michael looked at his own hand.
The warmth from his daughter's hug had left a trace he couldn't name.
But it stayed there.
Still.
Selène, at his side, kept her gaze on their daughter's back.
Thoughtful.
Silent.
Ligia crossed the threshold.
And behind her... the first chapter of a new era quietly closed.