Cara and Niamph entered the mansion. As soon as they stepped inside, Aira who was sitting on the couch ran towards cara and practically engulfed her in a tight embrace.

"My sweetie… are you okay?" Aira was crying as though she'd just found her most precious treasure.

"I'm fine, Mom," Cara reassured her.

Aira smiled through her tears at Cara, then turned her gaze to Niamph, who stood silently, clutching her bag. Aira’s expression shifted from relief to fury.

"Oh, her highness has the audacity to show her face here after such an insolent act?" she snapped.

Niamph blinked in confusion, startled by the sudden outburst.

Aira stormed toward her, voice rising. "What are you staring at? Don’t play innocent—I know it was you. You must have convinced my daughter to leave without telling us!"

Niamph’s eyes widened in shock, and she quickly shook her head. "No… no, I didn’t…"

"Shut up! I always knew you were a disgrace to the Moore family. But I didn’t know you could stoop this low," Aira spat venomously, eyeing Niamph up and down as if she were filth beneath her shoes.

Niamph’s eyes turned glassy at the harsh words.

Cara, unimpressed by the drama, rolled her eyes and walked toward the couch. “Let it go, Mom. She’s always been like that.”

Niamph looked at Cara, disbelief flickering in her gaze. Why isn’t she telling the truth—that it was her idea to go to Russia? But deep down, Niamph already knew. Cara had likely brought her along just to shift the blame onto her later. She could defend herself, yes—but what was the point? No one would believe her anyway.

So she stayed silent, swallowing her tears.

Aira suddenly clutched Niamph’s arm tightly. Niamph winced in pain.

“You’re just like your mother. A shameless—”

“Enough,” Niamph cut in sharply, voice trembling but firm.

She could tolerate anything said about herself—but not a word against her mother.

Aira’s eyes widened in disbelief at Niamph’s audacity. “What did you just say?” she hissed, her grip tightening.

“You can insult me all you want,” Niamph said, holding her gaze. “But don’t you dare bring my mother into this.”

Her voice shook, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She had a habit of crying when angry—but this time, she refused to let them fall.

Aira clenched her teeth—and then, with fury in her eyes, slapped Niamph hard across the face.

“You shameless girl! You've forgotten your manners! Is this how you speak to your elders?”

Niamph clutched her cheek, the sting spreading across her skin. She stared at Aira, her eyes burning—not from the pain, but from everything that came before. This wasn’t the first time Aira had raised her hand. She has done it previously too. Probably three or four times.

“Enough.”

Conor’s voice echoed through the hallway.

He had been in his study when he heard the commotion. When he stepped out, his heart lifted momentarily at the sight of the two girls—safe, finally. Relief flooded his chest. But that feeling quickly faded as he took in the tense atmosphere.

He saw Niamph clutching her cheek, her eyes glassy. Cara lounged on the couch, watching the drama unfold with a raised brow, utterly detached.

And Aira—predictably—was fuming.

“See your daughter,” Aira snapped, turning to Conor. “She’s forgotten all her manners. First she does something utterly reckless, and when I, as her mother, try to correct her, she disrespects me in return!”

Niamph looked at him, her voice trembling. “I didn’t do anything…”

Aira scoffed, her expression screaming See? Still refusing to accept her fault.

Conor’s gaze fell on Niamph—stern, detached, cold. “I never expected this from you, Niamph,” he said. “If you wanted to go somewhere, you could have just informed us. Why cause us so much worry? We were genuinely concerned.”

Niamph looked at him, disappointment crashing over her like a wave. She knew better than to expect warmth from Aira or support from Cara. But her father… she had hoped, maybe just once, that he would believe her.

Apparently not.

She wiped her tears, forcing her voice into steadiness. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and ran up the stairs to her room.

Aira crossed her arms, muttering under her breath, “Disgraceful…”

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Mikhail’s hands moved with slow precision, his veined fingers expertly shaping the clay. A skeletal figure took form under his touch—bony, elegant, and crowned. A skeleton king. A masterpiece of death.

Each detail was deliberate. Every ridge, every curve, sculpted with the patience of a man who found peace only in the most cruel way.

Leonid stood a few feet away, watching him in silence before clearing his throat.

“A journalist has published an article about the shipment we sent to Japan.”

Mikhail’s posture didn’t shift. His hands kept working, molding the thorns of the crown now resting on the skull’s head. Another fool had decided to play the hero. How quaint. It wasn’t the first time. Brave hearts always ended up in his hell—and this one had walked straight into it.

“Who is it?” he asked calmly.

Leonid’s voice was even. “Conor Moore. From Ireland.”

Mikhail’s hand froze mid-air, clay still soft beneath his fingertips. The air around him thickened. His body tensed. Ireland.

The word hit him like a blade.

The place where a piece of him had been torn away—by her.

Minhat.

Her name slithered through his mind like a satanic hymn, burned into his memory. The one who had made him crave things too wicked, too unholy for even a monster like him.

His jaw clenched, and for a long second, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the old grandfather clock behind him.

Leonid saw the flicker of something—pain or rage, he couldn’t tell—and cleared his throat gently. “Czar...?”

Mikhail didn’t look at him. His voice was low, but it carried weight.

“Get my jet ready. I’ll deal with this personally.”

He turned back to the sculpture, eyes unreadable.

Let’s see what Ireland has stored for me this time, he thought.

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Niamph looked around the cat sanctuary, warmth softening her expression as she watched the furry creatures lounge and play. The air smelled faintly of fresh hay and lavender, and the peaceful mews calmed the storm inside her.

Jenny stood beside her, smiling gently. When she had returned to the mansion from a quick grocery run, she'd found Cara sprawled lazily on the couch.  She ran straight to Niamph’s room.

There, she saw the girl sitting quietly on her bed, one cheek a little swollen—her eyes distant, like she was trying not to feel.

Jenny had wrapped her arms around her without a word, holding her tight. Then she had brought her here—to the sanctuary—hoping the cats would do what people couldn’t always manage: heal gently, without asking questions.

Niamph smiled softly as she scooped up a fluffy tabby and held it close.

“Thank you, Aunt Jenny… for taking care of them.”

Jenny reached over and caressed her head with maternal affection. “Anything for you, child.”

Niamph looked around at the playful kittens, a soft glow in her eyes. This felt… right. Like home. The quiet mewls, the warmth of fur brushing against her legs—it wrapped around her like a forgotten comfort.

Suddenly, one of the cats darted toward her and gently patted its tiny paws on her feet. Niamph let out a soft laugh and crouched down to scoop it into her arms.

“Yeah, yeah… I missed you too,” she whispered with a fond smile.

The kitten responded by nuzzling its head under her chin, purring contentedly.

Jenny chuckled from where she stood nearby, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with affection.

“He missed you more, I guess.”

Niamph smiled and sat cross-legged in the middle of the soft chaos, surrounded by the gentle purring of little creatures. One kitten curled into her lap, another nudged her elbow. It was peaceful, comforting—like the world outside didn’t exist here.

Jenny joined her, picking up a fluffy orange cat and cradling it in her arms. As they sat among the furballs, Niamph began to share stories from Russia—about the old convent she had visited, nestled between snowy trees. Her voice softened as she described the quiet serenity, the way time seemed to slow inside its stone walls. How, for a moment, she felt… peace.

Jenny listened with quiet interest, her gaze never leaving Niamph’s face. She didn’t interrupt—she didn’t have to. Her presence was enough.

They didn’t realize how quickly the evening melted into night until the sky outside darkened completely.

“We should head home now,” Jenny finally said, rising slowly.

Niamph looked up and nodded. “Yeah.”

She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to each of the cats she could reach, whispering soft goodbyes. Then she stepped outside with Jenny—and just as they did, the rain came.

A sudden downpour.

Jenny slapped her palm to her forehead. “God, this weather is so unpredictable.”

Niamph looked at her, then turned her face toward the sky. Raindrops fell like silver threads under the streetlight’s glow. She smiled, standing still as the rain soaked her hair and skin.

“I like it,” she said softly, voice almost lost in the rhythm of the storm. “Feels like it’s washing everything away.”

Niamph giggled and suddenly grabbed Jenny’s hand, pulling her into the pouring rain. Jenny’s eyes widened as the cold droplets hit her face.

“You naughty child!” she exclaimed, half-laughing, half-protesting.

Niamph threw her head back with a joyful laugh, water streaming down her cheeks like glittering threads. “Aunt Jenny, enjoy the rain! It’s Jesus’s blessing. He wants us to wash away our sins.”

With that, she spun slowly in the downpour, arms wide open, eyes closed—welcoming the sky’s gentle purge. Her soaked dress clung to her frame, but she didn’t care. For once, she felt light. Free.

Jenny watched her for a moment, then gave in, shaking her head with a helpless smile. She always loved this part of Niamph—the part that still held wonder in a world that tried to steal it.

Not far away, a group of roadside children spotted Niamph and came running into the rain, their laughter rising like music through the night. They danced and splashed, chasing puddles and twirling under the sky’s open heart.

Niamph’s eyes sparkled as she watched them, her soul blooming with something rare—hope.

The children grabbed Niamph’s hands, their tiny fingers tugging her into a spin. She laughed, a light, unburdened sound that echoed through the rain-drenched street. Around and around they twirled until their laughter tangled with the storm itself.

Then, something shifted.

Niamph looked up at the sky, the cold rain kissing her cheeks. A strange ache bloomed in her chest—a longing. Not for a place. Not for a person. But for a moment. A moment that belonged only to her.

She let go of the children’s hands gently, stepping into the open space between the flickering streetlights. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she raised her arms.

Then she began to dance.

It wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t perfect. But it was sacred.

Her movements flowed like water—fluid, elegant, purposeful. Though it was a belly dance at its root, there was no seduction in it. Only grace. Reverence. Her soaked white dress clung to her as she moved, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t dancing, She was surrendering.

The rain was her rhythm. The thunder, her drum.

Each spin, each sway of her hips, each curve of her fingers telling a truth ---.  Today she is not dancing for the world, she is dancing for herself.

To Jenny, and even the children, it was like watching a spirit come alive. Niamph’s face was serene, almost otherworldly.

She was speaking to the storm with her body, to the God she still believed in, to the sorrow she carried, and the freedom she rarely tasted.

Niamph ended her dance with a final, fluid sway—arms outstretched, head tilted back, letting the rain cascade over her like a silent blessing. Her breath caught in her throat as she stilled, eyes still closed.

And then—clapping.

Soft, genuine, echoing through the quiet street like a heartbeat.

She opened her eyes.

The children beamed up at her, their small hands clapping enthusiastically, eyes wide with wonder. Jenny stood nearby, her hands pressed together, pride shimmering in her gaze.

Niamph met her eyes and smiled, a quiet, thankful smile.

Something heavy inside of her felt… lifted. As if the storm hadn’t just poured on her skin, but had cleansed something deeper. She felt light. Free. Pure.

But what she didn’t know—what none of them knew—was that they were not alone.

A black car sat parked across the street, just far enough to blend with the shadows.

His icy blue eyes didn’t blink.

They followed her every movement. Still.

He had watched her dance. Every curve, every sway, every defiance of gravity and pain.

Not with lust.

Not with awe.

But with something deeper.

Something sinful.

A cold smile touched the corner of his lips as he whispered, voice low and velvety like sin,

“Found you, little nymph.”

And then, the window slowly rolled back up, sealing the gaze of the storm within the car… and leaving the air outside even colder.