[redith].
So minutes later, I stood before the iron door underground.
It lood heavy and unwelcoming, its surface cold even before my knuckles touched it. I knocked twice, evenly, then waited.
After a brief pause, the door creaked open. The caregiver greeted with a respectful bow and stepped aside without question. Draven must have inford her of my visit in advance.
I offered a brief nod and entered the small living space, the air noticeably cooler and faintly damp compared to the upper levels of the estate.
I took a seat on the sofa as the door was locked behind .
"Mrs. Oatrun has just finished bathing," the caregiver said, turning to face . "She is about to have breakfast."
I glanced around, my eyes flicking instinctively to the small clock mounted on the wall. "It seems she woke up a bit late today," I observed mildly.
The woman hesitated, then nodded. "She was restless last night. She didn’t sleep until very late."
"I see." My gaze returned to the clock. It was already past nine. "Has her food arrived?"
"It will be sent shortly," the caregiver replied.
For soone unwell—soone supposedly fragile—that was far too late to have food.
I folded my hands in my lap. "She needs to eat on ti. Especially in her condition."
The caregiver shifted uneasily.
"How about this," I continued smoothly, not giving her ti to object. "Go and fetch her breakfast. But before then, inform her that I’m here to visit. I will stay with her until you return."
Her refusal was imdiate. "I’m not allowed to leave Mrs. Oatrun’s side."
I looked at her then—really looked. Her posture was rigid, her tone rehearsed. Too rehearsed. There was more beneath that refusal than re devotion.
Whether it was fear, instruction, or sothing she was guarding, I couldn’t yet tell, even through her thoughts.
"I will take responsibility if anything happens," I said calmly. "You have my word."
She hesitated again, visibly torn. In the end, she turned away and disappeared into the bedroom.
A few minutes later, she returned, guiding Mrs. Oatrun gently by the arm.
Draven’s mother still looked as young as ever—unnaturally so. Her features were elegant, untouched by ti in ways that unsettled more now than they ever had before. But her complexion was paler than I rembered, almost translucent.
Too little sunlight, I thought imdiately.
Living underground like this couldn’t be helping her condition—whatever that condition truly was.
I stood up at once. "Good morning, Mrs. Oatrun," I greeted, bowing respectfully and addressing her properly.
Her eyes slid over without recognition.
That didn’t surprise . Already, I’ve been ntally prepared for it.
The caregiver helped her onto the sofa opposite mine, then turned to with a strained smile.
"Please... be careful," she said lightly, as though reminding not to spill tea rather than warning about a woman capable of violence.
Then she left, locking the door behind her. The sound echoed sharply in the confined space.
Now, only the two of us remained. So, I sat back down slowly, my posture relaxed, my expression open.
The first thing I noticed was how calm she was.
Mrs. Oatrun sat opposite with her back straight and her hands neatly folded in her lap, her gaze unfocused but not wild.
There was no tension in her shoulders, no restless twitching, and no sharp intake of breath that usually preceded her outbursts. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought she was simply resting.
That alone unsettled .
I studied her quietly for a mont before speaking. "Do you rember ?"
Her eyes shifted, slowly finding my face. She tilted her head, studying in return, as though I were a painting she had seen long ago but couldn’t quite place.
"You look... familiar," she said after a pause.
I nodded, keeping my tone gentle. "I’m redith. Draven’s mate."
The words seed to take a mont to sink in. Her brow furrowed slightly, a faint crease forming between her eyes.
"Draven’s..." She trailed off, then looked at again. "Have you visited before?"
Sothing in my chest tightened. "Yes," I answered. "I have."
As she watched , I reached out with my senses, carefully—testing, listening.
Her thoughts were there, but they were scattered. Disjointed. Like pages torn from a book and shuffled back in the wrong order.
Images surfaced without context, nas without faces, emotions without cause. But beneath that chaos, I felt sothing else.
Resistance. Not the natural fog of illness or age—but sothing layered. Pressed down. Altered.
This mory loss... I wasn’t convinced it was natural.
Though I kept my expression neutral and continued. "The last ti I was here, your two sons were with . You told to visit you often."
Her reaction was imdiate. "My sons?" she asked, her eyes sharpening just a fraction. "What are their nas?"
For a mont, I was too stunned to speak. "You don’t rember them?" I asked carefully.
She shook her head. "I can’t rember anything."
I swallowed my disappointnt. Part of had hoped foolishly that today would be easier, that answers would spill out effortlessly, as though all I had to do was ask the right question.
Instead, it felt as though I was standing before a door that had been deliberately locked from the inside.
’At least she wasn’t violent today,’ I told myself. ’At least she was calm.’
But calm could be just as dangerous.
I sat there in silence for a few seconds, thinking hard. I hadn’t co all this way to leave empty-handed. Not today. Not when every instinct in scread that the truth was right in front of , buried just beneath the surface.
Slowly, I reached into my small bag, which I had brought with . I took out my phone, turned on the recorder, and placed it discreetly beside on the sofa.
Then I looked back at her. "Since you don’t rember what I just ntioned," I said evenly, "can you tell what you do rember?"
Her eyes never left my face.
"Who are you?" I asked. "What is your na? Where are you from?"
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