MBUS Book II : Nahat Adelaidein Roosevelt

WHO IS SHE

WARNING: BRUTAL SCENES, HARSH WORDS, ANGER ISSUES, KILLING, DEATHS AND TRAUMA ARE PARTS OF THIS STORY.

-

'·..➭ chapter thirty one
⇉ demon march arc

N A H A T  A D E L A I D E I N

The horses' hooves sank softly into the thick carpet of fallen leaves, their rhythmic crunch the only sound breaking the oppressive silence of the dense forest. The sun, dipping behind heavy clouds, cast long, bruised shadows that stretched like fingers across the twisted undergrowth. I could feel the air grow colder with every step, a biting chill that wasn't caused by the fading day but by something darker—something that clawed at the edges of my senses, whispering warnings I couldn't yet name.

Walter stayed close behind me, his breath steady but the tension in his grip on the reins unmistakable. I could feel him, every inch alert, every muscle ready to shield me from whatever lay ahead. Yuki rode just beside my horse, her small hands clutching the mane, eyes wide with quiet curiosity and that mixture of childish wonder and silent worry only a sister who sees more than she should could hold.

We were close now. The villa stood just beyond a thick wall of ancient trees—an old relic forgotten by time and men. Its wooden beams sagged under decades of neglect; the walls cloaked in ivy and moss, like nature was slowly swallowing it whole. The air hung heavy with dust and decay, the kind that seeps into your lungs and settles deep inside your chest.

I swallowed the sudden tightness in my throat as I dismounted. The cold bit at my fingers through the gloves as I stepped forward, the crunch of leaves beneath my boots sharp against the eerie stillness.

Walter was behind me, silent but present—his shadow moving with mine. Yuki's small figure stayed close, her quiet breaths uneven, matching my own.

I reached for the door's iron handle, cold and rough beneath my gloved palm. A sound broke the silence—a long, slow groan, as the door protested the disturbance of decades of stillness. The hinges creaked, echoing in the hollow shell of the villa like a warning.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and silence. It clung to every surface, to every cobweb that shimmered weakly in the fading light from the cracked windows. The floorboards moaned softly beneath our feet, the only sign that time had not entirely frozen this place.

Old furniture sat shrouded in sheets—the ghosts of better days. The scent of forgotten memories drifted in the air, mingled with something sharper, metallic, almost like the scent of old blood or regret.

And then, there it was.

A massive portrait, hanging on the far wall, catching what little light remained like a beacon in the dark.

My breath hitched.

The frame was ornate but faded, gold leaf cracked and flaking. The canvas, though, was vivid—too vivid.

A woman stood there, regal and imposing. Older than I am now, but unmistakably her—and me.

Her hair was a cascade of glossy black waves, tumbling down her back like a river of midnight silk. Her eyes held that same sharp clarity I saw every morning when I faced my own reflection—the piercing, almost cruel recognition that I wasn't just anyone.

She wore a gown of dark velvet, embroidered with subtle patterns that seemed to move in the flickering light. Her posture was proud, unyielding—a queen or a goddess forgotten.

And in her arms... A small white cat nestled, its blue eyes glowing softly, calm and knowing.

My throat tightened.