Chapter 122

Dominic sighed. "I was not expecting to give you a history lesson…"

I chuckled at that, the sound coming out a bit watery. " I wasn't expecting to need one."

“All Brightclaws get a mark after their first shift: the sigil of the Goddess’ Benevolence. Time that meant I was meant to be king. But we've since done away with that sort of organization."

"… You know that most still view you as a sort of king-like figure, right?"

"I'm aware." He chuckled. " I'll have to show you the portrait sometime."

"There's a portrait?"

"Not of me, but of an ancestor, who I take after greatly. My mother used to say that we would have been twins… It didn't help that that's who she named me after."

My heart clenched. "You never talk about your family…"

Not just to me, but to anyone.

"It's not an easy conversation to have."

I bit my lip. " If you ever want to talk about them, I'd want to hear."

"Thanks, Renee. I take it that you're a bit calmer now."

"Talking to you is always calming." I wrapped an arm around me. "And Neil's?"

"Neil’s... his is rare.”

“You're not helping me think it's not a curse, Dominic. Or some portent of doom."

“No,” Dominic said firmly. “ Though I can see why they twisted it to make it seem as though it was. Neil's mark is the mark of. Well, for lack of a better term, the mark of Her wrath. And it's never been given lightly. It means he’s been chosen, marked to carry out her wrath.”

"Does that mean he's just an angry person or…?"

That really wasn't better than what I had first imagined. I sank into a seat, gripping the phone tighter. I was shivering. Freezing.

"Are you cold?"

"I'm fine."

"Liar, make yourself some coffee. You're still recovering. If you need to go home early, just say so. It's in your file that you're still recovering from your first shift."

I scoffed. "Arielle works fast."

"Not Arielle, Neil."

I swallowed at that. "… he's not here."

"I didn't think he would be. He… From what I understand, he gave you a lot of his own magic. And his mother said something about it may be messing with his control. I didn't expect him to chance it."

I took a deep breath, nodding, trying to wrap my head around it.

"You were saying?"

“Neil is exactly who you think he is. Exactly who he shown himself to be. He's destined to carry out the Goddess's wrath, but I have no idea what that's going to look like. I don't think he does either, but from what I've been able to glean about him and his training from his mother, he's done everything he possibly can to ensure that it's not going to harm anyone that it's not meant to harm." He hesitated. "Neil might not know who he’s meant to be yet, but he would never hurt you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Then trust me."

Dominic

I hung up the call and stared out over the estate grounds.

I hadn't lied to her, but I had divulged the full truth of it either. The Goddess’ Wrath. I hadn’t seen that mark since I was a child. I'd see it just once, etched into a tapestry in the oldest part of the family temple. I hadn’t thought it was real. Until now.

But Neil had it. In the past, it meant a lot of things, but what form would the Goddess's wrath take in this day where we weren't clawing at each other's throats for territory and no one was entering into terrible pacts.

What injustice had surfaced so much to call her wrath forward?

I headed to the estate’s library. It was tucked into a rarely used wing, still bearing the scent of cedar and parchment. The place was dusted and maintained, but the scent of stale air and old books filled the air. The ceiling loomed high above, carved with runes older than the modern packs.

I went straight to the stone shelf holding the old temple records. The books were massive. Leather-bound. Marked with runes that shimmered faintly under my touch. Each page was hand-written.

It didn’t take long to find the one I needed. I flipped through until I found the old entry by a priest whose name wasn't even recorded anywhere.

The Mark of the Goddess’ Wrath was a rare and sacred burden. Often misunderstood as a punishment, it is in fact the appointment of divine justice through chosen hands. Those marked will act as agents of retribution, balance, and protection when called.

I leaned back, the book resting heavy in my lap. Then, I picked up my phone again and dialed.

His mother answered on the first ring.

“Dominic,” she said, sounding unsurprised. “You must… have questions."

“I need to speak to him,” I said. “Where is he?”

There was a long pause.

“Trying not to take the potion I brewed for him,” she said. “And trying not to break.”

"Does he know what that mark means?"

"Probably more than most," she said. "Though I don't think that's why you're calling… Bearer of Benevolence."

I chuckled at that. " I'm way too old for this."

She cackled. "I don't think She agrees!"

Renee

A few days had passed. Work had settled into something of a rhythm. Neil hadnn't returned before the weekend and the whole team felt it. Dominic had been graciously giving me a crash course in the Goddess. I kept busy, kept focused, and slowly my worries started to fade.

Today, I wanted to do something relaxing. The urge to try something new, to get out of my own head was strong. Maybe it was just because I had been thinking so much lately. But as the car pulled out of the Brightclaw corporate lot that evening, my eyes caught on a paper pinned to a streetlight, fluttering faintly in the wind like it had been waiting just for me.

Art Class: Beginners Welcome – One Night Drop-Ins Allowed.

I sat forward in my seat. “Can we make a quick detour?”

My driver raised a brow at me through the mirror. “Of course, Ms. Mountainhowl. Where to?”

I pointed at the flyer. “That community arts center—three blocks down.”

It was impulsive, maybe a little ridiculous. But I’d always wanted to take an art class. Looking back, I realized that had I been a little more firm, I could have take one ages ago, but there was no time like the present.

When we pulled up, the lights inside the small brick building were warm and inviting. I handed over the fee to the receptionist at the desk—who barely glanced up from their laptop—and slipped into the classroom, clutching the supply tote I was given.

The last easel was tucked between two others near the window. I settled in, dropping my bag and pulling out the brush set. The room was already humming with soft chatter and the shuffling of canvases.

That was when I noticed the woman at the easel to my right.

She was in a simple blouse and jeans. It took me a second, but I recognized her. The waitress from the café.

She looked up, her brown eyes widening slightly as she recognized me in return. Her mouth opened like she might say something, but then she quickly looked down at her canvas instead.

I didn’t want to make it weird.

“First class?” I asked softly, just above the ambient noise.

She glanced sideways, then nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“Same.” I smiled. “I was kind of hoping it would be empty and relaxing, but now I think I might be in over my head.”

That earned a little laugh from her, small but genuine.

“Same,” she said. “But I have the weird chalk pencil and all the paints I paid for, so… we'll see what happens."

“I think it’s charcoal,” I said, trying not to smile too big. “I think it’s for sketching outlines. Maybe.”

She chuckled. “Your confidence is inspiring."

“I've gotten better at bullshitting."

She laughed then. The instructor, a tall, balding man with kind eyes, called the class to order, and we dove in. Well, it was more like splashing. Never mind the charcoal that was all over my hands now. My brush did what it wanted, the proportions were all off, and I was about ninety percent sure I’d made my still-life bowl of fruit look like an angry vegetable orgy.

But I was having fun.

And so was she. We were both terrible, and it was glorious. We whispered sarcastic critiques to each other as we worked, giggled when our paintings went sideways, and groaned in unison when the instructor tried to coax some kind of deeper meaning out of what looked like melted apples.

It wasn’t intense or political or magical or dramatic.

It was so normal, I could cry. After class, we washed our brushes side by side in the little sink, and I felt a warm flutter of familiarity.

“So,” I said, drying my hands on a towel. “Would you want to do this again sometime? Maybe next week?”