Olesya August tightened her grip as she dragged her daughter, Isolde, into her bedchamber, far away from their sullen family. The house at the ruins of Minster Lovell reeked of rotting corpses of ghosts; the halls and corridors were like a graveyard, filled with the spectral echoes of the dead.
Isolde felt like a seven-year-old again—recalled the sensation of her mother's iron grip, squeezing her bones whenever she found the girl playing with children from outside their kind. It was almost as if she were reliving the worst moments of her life, trapped in a cycle of fear.
She could see her mother trembling with rage, her teeth bared in a snarl. Isolde bowed her head, knowing that defiance would only fuel the fire.
"How dare you speak like that in front of them?" Olesya shouted, her voice a lash. "Them" being the relatives who had come to visit, ostensibly to see Isolde. The girl's ears rang with the heavy breath of her mother, struggling to reign in her fury.
Olesya's finger, pointed like a dagger, hovered in front of Isolde's face. "You know from the start that you have a job to do," she hissed, each word a slice.
Isolde lifted her head just enough to meet her mother's eyes. "A job that I never wanted," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Did you ever ask me if I wanted this?"
"You are to be the matron of this household! You have no choice, Isolde," Olesya roared, her voice reverberating through the room. Outside, Isolde imagined the family, ears pressed against the doors, eager to devour every word of this familial drama. The perfect family was not so perfect after all.
Olesya's gaze softened momentarily, almost sympathetic, almost believable. A counterfeit tenderness that almost fooled Isolde. "You are given a gift, child. Do you not understand that? People would kill for this kind of power. This is glory. You can have it all."
Isolde recoiled, the disgust clear in her eyes.
"They should have killed me then," she replied, voice steady but low. "Mother, I do not want power; I do not want glory. I want...to be free."
The slap came swiftly, the sting of her mother's hand burning into her cheek. Isolde touched her face, the heat of the blow still resonating. This was not the first time Olesya had struck her, and Isolde knew it wouldn't be the last.
Yet, in Olesya's eyes, there was a flicker of regret. She wrapped her arms around Isolde, smoothing her daughter's hair behind her ears and caressing her cheeks as if to erase the violence of moments before. "You could have freedom with power, dearest," she said, her voice softening, a hint of persuasion creeping in.
"Not the kind of freedom I desire," Isolde responded, her voice cold, her mother's sudden gentleness unable to thaw the frost in her heart.
Olesya's smile vanished, replaced by a stony determination. "Whether you want it or not, you will marry Theodore Whitaker."
Isolde stepped back, her eyes wide with shock. "Mother, he is my cousin."
"It doesn't matter," Olesya insisted, her face devoid of emotion.
Isolde's hands began to tremble. "I grew up with him; he's like a brother to me." The thought of it filled her with revulsion.
"You will do as I say, Isolde. It's for the family," Olesya declared, her voice brooking no argument.
She left Isolde standing there, alone and desolate, her future unfolding like a dark, suffocating cloud. Isolde sank onto her bed, the weight of her fate pressing down on her.
Her mother had shaped her, molded her for a destiny she had no desire to fulfill. The firstborn daughter, the girl with the gifted eye, destined to carry on the legacy of her ancestor, Odessa August.
But to Isolde, it was a curse rather than a gift. She had not asked for the ability to see people at their final breaths, to witness their blood spilling forth. She longed for a simple life, a cottage on the hills with butterflies dancing around her, picking fresh flowers under the morning dew. She longed for Roman Xu.
But her mother had forbidden it. Roman Xu was muggle-born, and Olesya despised muggles. In a month, Isolde would turn eighteen and be forced into marriage with Theodore Whitaker, a cousin from her mother's side, from her aunt Brienne August. Among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, such marriages were common—anything to keep the bloodline pure, at any cost.
The Augusts had sacrificed blood and flesh for centuries. From grandmother to mother to daughter, they had been burdened with the Eye. But this gift came with a price. Odessa August, first of her name, had named herself Lady of the Dark Arts.
She was a purist, believing that the blood of outsiders must not mix with the superior blood of her own. Odessa had dedicated her life to becoming the most powerful witch to exist, and she succeeded. She saw everything, even that which lay beyond the human eye. She saw deaths, countless deaths, wars, and bloodshed. She saw it all.
Odessa August had created a legacy, a curse passed down through the generations. The eldest daughters of her line became the matron of their house. But this power required sacrifices.
They had to take lives to trigger the power running through their veins. This was nature's way—giving and taking what was hers.
Isolde remembered the moment all too well. She was fifteen when it happened. It was her childhood friend. Charlotte, with her auburn hair and eyes like burnt wood, whose smile crinkled the corners of her lips.
The family had gathered around under the full moon, waxen candles lit in their hands, their eyes fixed on Isolde. They chanted, "Accipe hunc sanguinem et da ei Oculum." Over and over, the incantation echoed. Olesya had kissed her daughter's forehead and handed her a knife. Olesya saw her eyes in its reflection, olive, and pink from hours of crying.
Lottie lay unconscious on the limestone table, her body bound with rope. Isolde caressed her friend's cheek, her tears falling onto Lottie's still form. She looked up at her mother, her eyes pleading. I do not want to do this, Mother.
But she had no choice. Isolde shakingly raised the knife. Blood flowed over the table as she slowly cut across Needy's throat, her tears mingling with the crimson stream, splattering onto her bare feet.
Pride was etched on Olesya's face as she embraced her daughter. "You made your mother proud, dearest," she whispered.
"I committed a sin, Mother," Isolde replied, her voice hollow.
&. ㅤthis was uhm very short and really simple prologue, nothing that much. just wanna give a slight overview of siobhan's power, and an intro to her mother (who she hates very much haha #mommyissues #generationaltrauma).
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
