Chapter 1
A soft, delicate, and majestic voice whispered through the air, carrying a lullaby more familiar than breath itself. She had sung it day and night—while he played, sipped tea, studied at the table, or drifted beneath the covers at night. At times, the family would gently ask her to sing something new, weary of hearing the same old melodies, yet none of them could ever truly resent the sound. For no matter how often it filled the house, the song never lost its warmth; it wrapped around them like sunlight spilling through a window, steady and unyielding in its comfort. The boy, pale as ivory, never minded in the slightest. To him, the melody was more than pleasant noise—it was a mystery, a secret that seemed to know him, steadying him in ways words could not. It was as if the lullaby itself was alive, watching over him as faithfully as she did.
In her rocking chair, she swayed, the needles in her hands clicking as scarves, gloves, and sweaters took shape for her grandchildren. The gentle creak of the chair became part of the music, folding itself into the rhythm until the two were inseparable—her voice and the wood's soft groan weaving a harmony as old as time. Though she sometimes wandered into one of two or three other tunes, her voice always circled back to her favorite: The Dreamer's Road. She sang it again and again, not out of need, but with quiet intention—so that the boy would carry it within him, so the melody would root itself in his memory and never fade. It was her way of leaving him something eternal, a song he would know without ever thinking, a comfort he could never forget.
And whenever she sang The Dreamer's Road—whether as a whisper, a hum, or in full voice—something else seemed to stir within it. The family never truly noticed, perhaps because the song worked upon them like a gentle spell, disguising what was strange beneath what was soothing. Her voice carried more than one tone, as though layered with echoes, soft and endless, each note trailing into another voice hidden just behind it. Not sharp or haunting, but vast—like the chorus of something older, something eternal, woven into the melody. It was the kind of sound that brushed against the edges of understanding, like a truth too big to name. To the ear it was only a lullaby, but somewhere deeper it rang with the weight of the stars.
It was not frightening. There was no shadow in its mystery, no coldness in its depth. If anything, it felt benevolent—an ancient warmth that reached across time and space to soothe whoever listened. To hear her sing was to feel smaller and yet safer, as though one were resting in the palm of something greater. Even the house seemed to know it. The walls carried her voice gently from room to room, and the floors softened their creaks to let the sound pass. And when her song at last faded into silence, that silence was not empty. The air grew lighter, the rooms settled, and the whole house seemed to sigh in quiet relief. It was as if the melody had smoothed away its restlessness, leaving behind a calm so deep that even the bones of the home itself felt at peace.
🧚🏻♂️✨🪷🌙 The Dreamers Road 🌙🪷✨🧚🏻♂️
Hush now, darling, close your eyes,
Hear the breeze where dragonflies
Roam the air with fairy wings,
While garden gnomes make wondrous things.
Beyond the wall, past cobbled street,
Where shadows and the lamplights meet,
There lies a path no Carnal sees,
But souls touched by grace walk with the breeze.
Hush now, darling, drift to sleep,
Seek the flame that casts no light,
It flickers soft in day as night.
Follow whispers in the air,
Though Carnals pass, there's nothing there.
Step on stones that hum with sound,
They call when no Carnal's around.
Even so the paths will show,
But harder to find the way will go.
Turn to where the oak tree bends,
Its hollow marks where daylight ends.
Touch its bark with quiet hand,
And trace the rune the winds demand.
Whisper low:
By root and leaf, by sky and sea,
The hidden door will turn to me.
Where none can see, yet all is near,
The path will shine, the way is clear.
Hush now, darling, dream so deep,
There, a gate of silver air,
Shines for souls both true and rare.
By day or night its veil will part,
For those who bear a steadfast heart.
Beyond it lies a land untold,
Of crystal streams and roots of gold.
Fireflies crown the twilight glen,
Mountains hum their secret hymns.
Dragons sleep in caves of glass,
While fairies guard the meadow grass.
For no Carnals are allowed.
Clocks run backward, dreams take flight,
Morning glows with gentle night.
A world where joy shall never cease,
And every breath is bound in peace.
Hush now, darling, rest in peace,
Rest, my dear, the day is done,
Moonlight guards till morning sun.
Dream of lands where wandlings play,
And sorrow drifts like mist away.
With every passing verse of her song, it seemed as though a year slipped quietly into the next. Each breath she drew carried more than melody; it carried the weight of seasons turning, leaves budding and falling, snow melting into spring. The boy, pale and fragile beneath her watchful gaze, grew with every stanza—his laughter ringing down the hall, his steps growing stronger, his shadow stretching taller. The lullaby wove itself through his days, a thread binding him to the home, even as time itself hurried him forward.
The walls bore witness as childhood blurred into youth: ink-stained fingers bent over books, hurried footsteps up the stairs, the crackle of a deeper voice calling out in the evenings. And still, through it all, the song endured, patient as the tide, unchanging even as the boy changed around it.
Until at last, the motion stilled. The rocking chair creaked, the final note lingered, and standing at the door was no longer a boy but a young man. He waved to them all with a grin too quick to linger, his hand already reaching for the handle. In the rush of morning, he barely noticed the way their eyes followed him—her eyes most of all—as he slipped out, late for the world that now called him away.
But as the door shut behind him, the air did not settle the way it once had. The silence that followed was different—thinner, strained, as though some part of the house had left with him. Her needles paused mid-stitch, and the old chair gave a long, uneasy creak as if it, too, felt the absence. She pressed her lips together, tasting the echo of the last note she had sung, and for the first time in years, she wondered if the song had finished too soon.
There was a shift in the rhythm of things, subtle but undeniable. Where once her melody had wrapped around him like a shield, now it hovered in the air, reaching for someone no longer there to receive it. A chill stirred along her arms, not of fear but of knowing. Seasons had turned swiftly before her eyes, carrying him into the world beyond her grasp, but this… this felt different. This was not just change. This was a parting.
Her gaze lingered on the door long after it had closed, her heart whispering the verses she dared not sing aloud. For she sensed—whether by instinct or by something older flowing through her song—that the path of The Dreamer's Road had only just begun for him, and it would not be a gentle one.
She had never felt this uneasy in the seventeen years she had lived here. Seventeen years since… since the young man who had just walked out the door had been no more than two months old. The day she made a choice that shaped his fate—though in truth, she had always known she was powerless before fate itself.
The rocking chair creaked once more—not from its usual rhythm, but because she rose. She rose with the elegance and majestic presence of a queen. Francesca, noticing the troubled lines etched across Mira's face, hurried to her side, her own eyes wide with worry. "Nonna Mira, where are you going?" she asked, voice trembling, for in seventeen years the old woman had never once stepped beyond the threshold.
"Don't worry, child. I only need a breath of fresh air, nothing more," Mira replied, her voice soft, steady, yet carrying a weight Francesca could not name.
"But Nonna," Francesca pressed gently, "you never want to go out. Why the sudden change? Are you worried about Micah? He'll be fine, you'll see. He'll be back soon. Please—sit, and I'll bring tea."
Antonio, leaning against the table with folded arms, spoke with a half-forced casualness that betrayed something deeper. "Don't burden yourself with him, Nonna," he said. His words carried no sharpness, for Mira had always been loving toward him—gentle, kind. Yet everyone in the room knew the truth: envy stirred beneath, envy of the bond Mira and Micah shared. Antonio had never lacked her affection, but it had never been that same fierce, unshakable love.
"I just need some air, that's all," Mira repeated, her tone cool but unmoving.
"I'll move your chair closer to the window," Francesca offered quickly, almost pleading, "so you can feel the breeze. That way you won't tire yourself. We wouldn't want you getting hurt out there, do we?"
"Francesca…" Mira's voice deepened, sharpened. "Step aside, dear."
"Nonna, please listen. We're busy this morning, and we can't take you for a walk right now. Sit, I'll fetch you that pastry you love so mu—"
"I said move, you blabbering baboon!" The words cut like a whip. The sweet, caring Mira had never spoken so harshly, and the family gasped in stunned silence. Shock rippled through them; this was not the Nonna who soothed fevers and told stories by the fire. Several of them began moving hesitantly toward her and Francesca, as if to intervene, confusion etched into their faces.
"Nonna—please, stay," Francesca begged, her voice breaking.
"Don't," Antonio added, this time softer, guilt dimming his envy. "Don't go, please."
Others murmured too—voices overlapping. One child asked in a small, frightened tone, "Why is Nonna angry?" Another whispered, "She's not well… she can't go."
But Mira stood taller, straighter, as if unseen hands had lifted her from within. Her presence swelled until the very air seemed to bend around her. What had been the air of a grandmother was now something greater—the bearing of a queen, no, an empress.
Her eyes hardened. "But now I need—no, I must go after him. After Micah. Something isn't right. I think… no. I know he is in danger. I must go." The words were cold, final, ringing with authority none dared challenge.
"Nonna…" Francesca whispered, but Mira did not falter.
The family clustered around, four, then six, then seven of them, their voices tumbling over one another. "You can't." "You'll fall ill." "We'll bring him back!" "Please, Nonna, please sit." "Don't go, don't leave."
Mira's gaze swept across them. Her eyes, dark and unyielding, silenced them all. Where once her gaze had been love, it was now dominion—absolute, merciless, majestic. In that moment she was not merely Mira, the grandmother who had sweetened their tea and kissed their brows. She was something greater, inexorable, dreadful.
Antonio's mouth opened, but no sound escaped. His protest withered in his throat.
Her eyes, dark and unyielding, swept the room.
A single look from her silenced them all. Where once her gaze had been love, it was now dominion—absolute, merciless, majestic. In that moment she was not merely Mira, the grandmother who had soothed their fevers and sweetened their tea. She was something greater, inexorable, dreadful.
Antonio's mouth opened, but no sound escaped. His protest withered in his throat.
"You will not keep me," Mira said, her voice final as a gavel. "And you will not sway me. My path is mine alone, and I will walk it. For seventeen years, I have been at your side—my love, my care, my support given freely. Never once have I asked for anything in return. I have poured into you the same warmth, the same devotion I have shown Micah. And now, when he needs me most, you dare—" her tone sharpened like a drawn blade, "—you dare to bar my way?"
Francesca stirred first, her voice a whisper: "Nonna, we only worry—"
Mira's gaze turned on her, cold and imperious. "Worry is no chain strong enough to bind me. Sit down, child." Francesca dropped her eyes, shame flooding her cheeks.
Another cousin spoke, faltering, "The streets are a gauntlet—men, carts, thieves, filth—they'll swallow you whole; it'll be the death of you, Nonna—"
Mira's hand rose, palm outward, silencing him before the thought could finish. "Danger bends to will. And my will is absolute."
A third voice, timid, "What if you're hurt, what if—"
Her eyes blazed. "I have bled for this family, quietly, unseen. I have carried your burdens in silence. Do not speak to me of hurt."
The room recoiled. Every feeble excuse, every fragile protest shriveled under the weight of her words.
It was Antonio who broke. His chest rose and fell like a man drowning, and then at last, his voice erupted—raw, bitter, unchained. "Always him!" he spat. "Always Micah! From the day you took him in, you looked at him the way you never looked at me. I was seven years old, Nonna. Seven! And already I knew your heart belonged to him. I begged for scraps—your smile, your praise, your touch. And he—he had it all without asking!" His voice cracked, fury bleeding into grief. "Seventeen years I've stood here, waiting for you to love me the same. But you never did."
The room went still. Even Francesca, who had clutched her hands to her chest, dared not move. Antonio's confession hung heavy, a storm finally given tongue.
Mira did not flinch. She did not soften. Her gaze was a blade, her voice steady as the grave. "Antonio," she said, each syllable deliberate, "you were never unloved. I gave you food, shelter, knowledge. I clothed you, guided you, raised you as my own blood—when your own mother cast you aside like refuse. No, forgive me—she did worse. She sold you, child. Sold you for a handful of coins." Mira's eyes darkened. "And yet I took you in. But love is not a coin to be traded, nor a prize to be won. You wanted what was never mine to give—the bond that only grows when two hearts meet freely. I did not choose Micah over you. I answered the call of a boy who needed me, and you mistook that call as theft."
Antonio staggered back as though struck, his face paling. Mira's words were not cruel, but they were merciless. "You speak of love as though it were envy's crown," she continued, "but true love cannot be measured against another. What you demanded of me was not love, but possession. And that, child, I will never grant."
The last vestiges of his defiance snapped. Antonio fell to his knees before them all, his chest heaving with sobs he could not hold. Tears burned down his face, his hands clawing at the floor as though he could dig a grave for his shame. His voice tore itself raw in a bitter wail. "Why him? Why not me? Why always him?" The words cracked into curses, his grief twisting into venom. "I wish him gone—I wish him dead! Micah should have never been! He took everything from me!"
But the fury, the spite, the hatred found no ground to stand on. Before Mira's truth, his rage collapsed into ruin, leaving him nothing but a broken boy kneeling in his own shadow. He wept until his strength failed, his curses falling hollow, powerless against the weight of her gaze.
Mira's voice, low and final, pressed the last weight upon him. "Seventeen years, you have measured yourself against Micah, and in doing so, you have chained your own soul. Break that chain, Antonio—or live forever in its shadow. But know this: I will not bow to envy. Not his. Not yours. Not anyone's."
The silence that followed was absolute. None dared breathe too loud, as though sound itself might rouse her wrath.
For the first time in seventeen years, Mira turned toward the door, her hand brushing the wood as if testing the threshold. Yet she did not step across. Slowly, she turned back, and her gaze swept the family with a depth that seemed to pierce through time itself. Her presence no longer belonged merely to the room; it was as though an ancient figure had descended into their midst, a sovereign draped not in robes but in years of unyielding poise.
Her eyes lingered on Antonio, still broken upon the floor. Her voice, though vast and resonant, bore no anger—only truth. "Child, I do not hate you. Do not think yourself unloved, for in my heart you remain my blood as surely as Micah. I have clothed you, fed you, guided you, and my love has never withered. That will never change." Her tone softened for a breath, carrying the weight of comfort like a cloak laid upon trembling shoulders. But then it sharpened, dreadful in its majesty. "Yet you wished harm upon one I love dearly. Know this—whether Micah, or you, or any who dwell within these walls—if you are mine, I will defend you against the world itself. None may claim you, none may break you, not envy, not fate. You are family, and for family I will bare fang and flame alike. Remember this, Antonio: my love protects, but it also commands. Do not test where one ends and the other begins."
A hush fell again, but this silence was different than before—not heavy, not fearful, but steeped in awe. Her words filled the room like scripture, binding themselves into the marrow of all who heard them. Some bowed their heads in reverence, others wept silently, and Antonio—shaken to his core—pressed his face to the floor, unable to lift his eyes to hers.
Yet as her gaze drifted back to the door, Mira's expression changed once more. The majesty did not fade, but it folded inward, retreating into thought. In truth, she had lived two lives here. Once, long ago, she had woven false memories—an echo of a past self, a disguise meant to make her place believable. But these last seventeen years were no illusion. She had been here in full: knitting scarves with her own hands, telling stories at the hearth, soothing fevers with cool cloths, singing lullabies until tears dried on small cheeks. Those were no enchantments. They were hers—given freely, lived truly.
But they can never know the whole of it or could they, she thought. For the role she wore was more than grandmother. She had taken on a mask to conceal what she once was, and beneath it burned the truth of why she had come.
She had not come here as Mira Anna Petrillo by birth, but as protector. She had crafted her second life to shield her great-great-grandchild, wrapping him in a web of belonging so no eye would suspect, no hand would reach for him.
Because the line he bore in his veins was ancient and dangerous. Their family carried a covenant sealed long before his birth, a pact whispered in blood that demanded its price. And for any male born of their bloodline, the price was worse than death. Taken young, they would be stripped of their will, their name erased, their soul chained to powers that fed on obedience and despair. They became hollow vessels, alive but emptied—pawns bent to the supremacy their family worshiped.
But it was not only men who suffered. The women were little more than cattle, prized only for their ability to bear heirs. Their own strength, their voices, their hopes—all silenced beneath the crushing weight of the family's supremacy. Many of the children born to them withered beneath impossible expectations, dying in their youth, their bodies and minds broken by the pressure to prove their bloodline's greatness. Of those who survived, too many lost themselves to madness or despair, and more than a few chose the mercy of death by their own hand.
To replace them, the women were forced to birth more and more. Potions and elixirs were poured down their throats, not for healing but to hasten their return to the breeding bed. And though the tonics mended flesh for a time, the body paid the price. Each draught bred dependence, each dose lost its strength until their bodies grew immune. Still the family forced more upon them, until wombs tore and spirits shattered. And when even that was not enough, dark magic was used to hasten pregnancy itself, twisting the rhythm of nature into something monstrous. Time and again, the women were broken, their lives consumed to feed the lineage's hunger for supremacy.
Mira had watched it all. She had heard their cries, buried their bones, carried their memory. And so when Micah was born, his first breath was not only a gift but a warning. She would not see him bound as the men had been. She would not see the women's torment visited upon another generation. He would not be another offering to the blood pact, nor another life shattered by the madness of his name. If it meant defying the pact itself, she would. If it meant warring against the very shadow that claimed their blood, she would. She was the last bulwark, the final shield, and she would not falter.
"You will not be a slave to a legacy of shadows," Mira vowed, her voice low but vast, as if spoken to Micah though he was far beyond the door. "Not you. Not while I still draw breath. Not destiny, nor fate, nor the will of heaven itself shall bend you to their chains. My will is stronger. My love is greater. And it shall not break."
Her eyes blazed with a fire that seemed older than the walls around her, and for a moment, she was no longer a woman but something greater, something inexorable. "For I broke away from it two hundred and fifty years ago. I defied the chains, and when I was ready to let death take me, to embrace its final silence—you shone. In the dark, you shone. You saved me, rid me of all my sins. You, who are destined for greatness."
Her lips curved in something between a smile and a flame. "Who am I to know this? Simple. I am not as old as time… but hahahaha—" her laugh rang like thunder through a temple, sharp and divine, "—I am almost three centuries and a half old. Three hundred and forty-eight years I have walked this earth. I have seen more than most. No—more than any mortal. For I, a prodigy, have found something far greater than that mere pebble mortals call the Philosopher's Stone."
Her laughter spilled again, echoing against the walls until the very air trembled. "Hahahahaha… I am Mira—no… I am Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov.
And I will not be denied. Not by men. Not by fate. Not by death itself."
Silence pressed heavy on the room, but this time it was different. The family shifted uncertainly, glancing at one another, whispers trembling at the edges of their lips. A few exchanged soft, pitying looks. "She's gone mad," one murmured kindly, the words more worried than cruel. Another whispered, "Poor Nonna, the years have taken her mind." Their voices quavered with sympathy, not ridicule, as if they wished to shield her from the weight of her own delusions.
But Mira turned to them once more, her gaze sweeping like a tide. Though her smile was faint, her poise was unshaken, her presence vast as a cathedral. "What I am about to tell you may sound like madness," she said, her voice calm, resonant, almost gentle. "But it is not madness. It is truth."
With deliberate grace, she reached to the folds of her dark garments and drew forth a long black stick. The wood gleamed faintly, as though light bent to it, drinking from its surface. Her wand.
Francesca, heart tight with fear and love, stepped forward. "Nonna—please," she begged softly, "put it down, you'll hurt yourself."
But before she could draw near, Mira's hand moved. The wand swung—not toward Francesca, but toward herself. The motion was brilliant, majestic, and filled with a grandeur that was not of mortals. Every inch of the gesture radiated elegance and poise, like the flourish of a queen commanding both heaven and earth.
The wand arced with elegance, the motion so fluid it seemed choreographed by the heavens themselves. Then, with a surge of light and a sound like a thousand whispers sighing at once, the spell struck. It did not burn, nor did it wound—it unraveled. The air shimmered around her like silk catching sunlight, and slowly, impossibly, the years began to peel away.
The family gasped as lines faded from her face, silver melted from her hair, and the frailty of age dissolved like mist before dawn. What emerged was not merely a younger woman, but something transcendent. Her skin glowed with an otherworldly radiance, smooth and luminous as moonlight on still water. Her hair cascaded in a torrent of crimson fire, thick and silken, spilling over her shoulders with a brilliance that seemed alive. Her eyes—golden, fathomless—caught every flicker of the lamplight and bent it to her will, as though even light itself longed to serve her.
Her figure stood tall, proud, clothed in poise that was more than mortal. She was no longer the grandmother they knew, but the goddess she had always been: Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov.
The room fell silent, their breaths stolen. Beauty was too small a word for what stood before them. It was not beauty as mortals knew it, not something that could be measured in symmetry or grace. This was beauty that commanded. A majesty that broke the heart and mended it in the same breath. Looking upon her was to feel both unworthy and blessed, as though gazing on the living embodiment of fire, dawn, and eternity all at once.
For the first time, her family understood why the world itself seemed to bend around her presence.
Confusion rippled first, soft as a tremor. Francesca, clutching her chest, whispered, "Nonna…?" The word broke into a gasp, as though her tongue refused to believe what her eyes revealed. One of the younger cousins stepped backward, crossing himself as if warding against a spirit. Antonio, still kneeling on the floor, raised his head in a daze, his eyes wide, his lips trembling without sound.
"She's… younger," someone murmured. "But… how?" Another voice rose, thin with disbelief. "This isn't possible. It can't be real. She's gone mad. She's—she's tricking us." Yet their voices faltered, choked by the evidence shimmering before them.
Even the children stared in stunned silence, their small faces caught between terror and wonder. To their young eyes, she was no longer their grandmother but a queen stepped from a legend, a goddess wrapped in fire and majesty.
"Do not mistake this for madness," Mira said, her voice resonant, filling every corner of the room like a cathedral bell. She stood unshaken beneath their fearful gazes, her form radiant, her presence undeniable. "What you see is truth. What you have known until this moment was a mask—a kindness, a necessity."
Her eyes swept across them, steady and unblinking. "You think me mad? Then listen: madness does not endure centuries. Madness does not carry generations. Madness does not break chains." She raised her wand, and in her hand it gleamed like a scepter of kings, dark wood veined with silver fire.
Francesca, trembling, stepped forward again, her voice gentle but quavering. "Nonna… please, sit. You—you're frightening everyone." She spoke as one who wished to calm, to soothe, as though Mira's brilliance were a sickness to be tended.
Mira turned to her, and her gaze softened, though it remained vast and commanding. "My dear Francesca. Do you think I would harm you?" Her smile touched the air like sunlight through glass—warm, but edged with fire. "No. But what I must reveal may wound your understanding. It may shake your belief. And yet, it is truth."
Antonio staggered to his feet, his face pale, his earlier fury now ashes beneath his awe. His voice cracked, half-broken. "What are you?" he whispered. His tone carried no venom now—only fear and the desperate need for an answer. "You… you can't be Nonna. You can't be her. No human could be what you are."
Her golden eyes turned upon him, and for a heartbeat he flinched, as if scorched by the sheer weight of her gaze. Yet she did not strike. Her voice carried both steel and tenderness, dread and love. "I am both more and less than you imagine. I am the woman who raised you, who kissed your brow when you were fevered, who wove your scarves and mended your wounds. That was no falsehood. I was here, Antonio. Every moment. Every breath."
But her tone sharpened, thunder under velvet. "And yet you are right. I am not merely that. I am Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov. You must know me now as I truly am."