THE UNBROKEN

They didn't know what to do with the child.

For three days, the ancient halls of the Matteo Estate in Veracchia echoed with the sound of shattering glass, humming wards, and furious wailing. The girl had refused food. Refused caretakers. Refused the velvet-draped crib they'd brought in, the toys carved from rare wood, the lullabies whispered through charmed music boxes.

Every attempt to approach her was met with force.

A crackle of light. A gust of magic that sent trays flying. A pulse of raw, untamed mana that burned sigils into stone. Even seasoned guards found themselves knocked backward, hair standing on end, lips bloodied from invisible blows.

In the center of the storm sat a toddler.

Barefoot, tangled curls wild around her face, Esperanza clung to a silken cushion like a throne. Her tiny hands were balled into fists, her silver eyes glimmering with both fury and sorrow. She was not just angry. She was grieving. Her cries were not for attention. They were summons. They called across wind and sea, heartache and bloodlines.

"MAMI! PAPI!" she'd scream until her voice cracked, her sobs rattling the very chandeliers above her.

And yet… somewhere in her tiny, thundering chest, she knew. They were coming. She could feel them in her dreams. She saw her mother wrapped in green-gold light, her father's soft silver eyes glowing in the dark. They were fighting for her. They always would.

The household staff dared not speak too loud in the corridors.

Whispers filled the manor like smoke.

"That child is touched by the spirits."

"She is the daughter of Guabancex, of the Storm herself-"

"They say the Lion has risen… That Veracchia will drown for this."

Some swore when the child cried, it rained, even inside the halls.

Even the hounds refused to enter her wing. Birds stopped perching on the balconies.

The head steward had made the sign of Coabey twice and quietly warned, "There will be a price."

Meanwhile, in the far east wing of the estate—secluded behind three mana-locked doors and a private library cloaked in ancestral glamour—a woman paced, her heeled boots clicking against marble tile.

Lady Siobhan Matteo.

Silver hair flowed past her shoulders, her gown dark and elegantly embroidered in Veracchian gold thread. Her fingers, long and ringed with obsidian and pearl, drummed against her lips as she stood before an ornate window overlooking the misty coast.

Her son must have had the change by now.

She had sensed it, felt the tremor in the bloodline magic. The old inheritance stirring to life after generations of slumber.

She chuckled to herself, low and bitter. "The first change is always violent," she whispered. "Brutal. Disorienting. If I'm fortunate, that storm-witch has already been torn in two."

She raised a crystal glass of red wine to her lips but didn't drink. Just watched the storm clouds building in the far distance.

"Let the realm tremble," she murmured. "The lion returns home—and this time, the bloodline will obey."

From the corner of the room, a small orb—mana-forged and sealed with ancestral runes—flickered to life. Her informants had sent word: the couple had arrived at Port Clairy.

Her smile vanished.

"So the Mother of Storms survived." Her voice dropped, edged in frost. "How very… inconvenient."

Elsewhere in the house, Esperanza's sobs calmed, just for a moment. She curled into herself on the floor, fingers brushing the mana stone she'd hidden in her pocket since the night she was taken. It still glowed faintly green.

She closed her eyes. The stone pulsed with warmth.

Somewhere far away, thunder answered.

They were coming.