Chapter 3 — Revelations in Blood

Kiera Morrell

The Morrell Estate was suffocating. That was the only way to describe it. Every creak of its ancient floorboards, every flicker of shadows dancing along the walls, clawed at my nerves. The weight of the council’s words hung heavy in my chest, tangled with my father’s letter like a barbed wire knot, digging deeper with every breath.

I stood in the doorway of my father’s study, hesitant. The air inside carried the faint scent of leather, ink, and something sharper, metallic—blood, perhaps. It wasn’t overpowering, but it lingered like a ghost, whispering a truth I wasn't ready to face. My fingers brushed the doorframe, and the faint sting of the freshly healed cut on my palm sent a spark up my arm, a painful reminder of the blood I’d given to the Spire.

“You’ve inherited more than your father’s estate,” the council had said. Their voices echoed in my head, a chorus of shadows pulling me toward truths I wasn’t sure I wanted to uncover.

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me with a soft click that reverberated like a tolling bell. The study was exactly as I'd left it after finding the letter—books aligned with surgical precision, maps and notes methodically stacked on the desk, every item quietly proclaiming my father’s obsessive order. Yet now, every shadow seemed sharper, every corner darker, as though the room itself had turned against me.

The desk pulled at me, the letter lying there neat and folded, its edges too crisp for something that had shattered my world. But I didn’t sit. My gaze traced the shelves along the wall, drawn by a quiet instinct. There was something about them—something I’d missed that night when I found the hidden chamber.

I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, the leather cool and cracked beneath my touch. The titles ranged from the mundane to the arcane—histories of the order, treatises on blood magic, and even a few novels that seemed too ordinary for this place. My fingertips froze on one book. Its spine was unmarked, its leather smooth and glossy, as if untouched by time.

I tugged it free. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a low groan, the shelf shifted and slid back, revealing the hidden door once more.

I swallowed hard, memories of the first time I’d opened that door rushing back to me—the heavy scent of damp stone, the glow of ancient runes, the fear and curiosity twisting like vines around my ribs. But this time, I hesitated only a moment before stepping inside. The weight of my father’s letter pressed against me, urging me forward.

The hidden chamber greeted me with the same bare stone walls, the single shelf of worn texts, and the central table that seemed to hum faintly with energy. But the air was different now. It felt heavier, alive, like the room itself was breathing.

I approached the table, fingers brushing its cold surface. The envelope that had contained my father’s letter was gone, but in its place lay a small leather-bound journal. Its edges were frayed, and the clasp that sealed it shut gleamed faintly, tarnished with age.

My pulse quickened as I picked it up, the leather cool but somehow thrumming against my skin. The journal wasn’t large, but it was heavier than it should’ve been, like it carried more than just words. The clasp opened with a soft click, the sound seeming louder in the charged air.

The first page was blank, but the faint, iron-tinged scent of blood rose from it, subtle but unmistakable. As I turned the pages, words began to emerge from the blank parchment, dark letters etching themselves into view as though the journal was awakening under my touch. The handwriting was sharp, precise, and deeply familiar.

*“To my daughter,”* the first line read. *“If you have found this, it means you are ready to know the truth of our bloodline.”*

I sank into the nearest chair, my legs trembling. The words blurred slightly before sharpening again as I forced myself to focus.

*“The Morrell bloodline is not like others. We are the bridge between two worlds, a lineage born from the union of humanity and the wild, ancient power of the werewolves. But this union is not a simple one. Our blood carries immense power—power that the order has sought to control and harness for centuries.”*

My breath hitched. My skin prickled as I read on, my father’s words relentless.

*“Your mother, Elara, was the first werewolf to willingly join the order. She believed in my vision—our vision—of uniting the two worlds. But the council saw her as a threat, a monster to be tamed. When you were born, they feared you. A hybrid. An anomaly. A weapon.”*

A weapon. The word burned through me, searing into my chest.

*“I tried to protect you from their eyes, to raise you as a human, to shield you from the truth of your heritage. But I failed. Elara saw what the order was becoming, the darkness it was willing to embrace to maintain control, and she left to protect you. To protect us both.”*

The journal’s pages seemed to pulse under my fingers, alive with the weight of my father’s confessions.

*“Kiera, you are more than a Morrell. You are more than human or wolf. You are the bridge. And that is why I must ask you to make a choice. The order will try to use you. The werewolves will try to claim you. But you must decide for yourself who you are and what you will fight for.”*

I closed the journal with trembling hands, the world spinning around me. My father’s truths were heavier than I could bear, suffocating and sharp.

The knock at the study door made me jump, the journal slipping from my grasp and landing with a dull thud. My heart raced as the door creaked open, revealing Ezra standing in the doorway. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his eyes flickered with a hint of something—guilt? Concern?

“You’ve been hiding,” he said, stepping inside.

I snorted, the sound bitter. “I needed time to think.”

His gaze drifted to the journal on the floor before meeting mine. “And what have you decided?”

“That my father was a liar,” I snapped. “And so are you.”

Ezra flinched, barely, but it was enough to chip at my anger.

“I’ve kept things from you,” he admitted. “But I’ve never lied. Everything I’ve done has been to protect you.”

“Protect me?” I said, my voice rising. “By keeping me in the dark? By letting the council throw me to the wolves without so much as a warning?”

He took a step closer, his movements slow, deliberate. “I made a promise to your father. To keep you safe. To guide you.”

“Well, you’re doing a hell of a job,” I said, crossing my arms.

Ezra sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. “You’re angry. You have every right to be. But if you’re going to survive this—if you’re going to take control of your legacy—you need to learn. You need to understand what you’re capable of.”

I hesitated, the journal’s words still burning in my mind. “You mean blood magic.”

He nodded, his expression grim. “It’s in your veins, Kiera. It’s a part of you. And if you don’t master it, it will master you.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Fine. Teach me.”

Ezra’s expression hardened, his usual stoicism returning like a mask. “This won’t be easy. Blood magic demands control, precision. Even the smallest mistake can be catastrophic.”

“Good,” I said, stepping closer, defiance flaring in my chest. “I don’t need easy. I need answers.”

Ezra studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well. Let’s begin.”

The lesson began with Ezra’s calm, measured guidance, his voice steady as he demonstrated the flow of energy through runic formations etched into the stone. His precision was unnerving, every movement deliberate, every word heavy with warning.

But when it came to my turn, the magic surged through me like lightning, sparking wild and untamed. Symbols carved into the walls flared to life, pulsating in time with my racing heartbeat. Objects on the table rattled, then lifted into the air, spinning like leaves caught in a hurricane.

Ezra shouted something, his voice drowned out by the roaring in my ears. My breath caught as the energy swelled, overwhelming and electric, before it snapped back, receding into silence.

The objects crashed onto the table. The glowing runes dimmed. My knees buckled, and I caught myself on the edge of the table, gasping for air.

Ezra stared at me, his expression caught somewhere between awe and alarm. “You’re stronger than I thought,” he said softly.

“And more dangerous?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.