3rd Person Pov
Over the past weeks, the Spellman family had noticed subtle shifts in Amiriah's behavior. Small concessions that, while insignificant to most, represented monumental progress for someone who had endured what she had. She occasionally joined them for meals now, albeit sitting at the far end of the table. She would respond to direct questions rather than ignoring them entirely. Once, she even sat in the family room while others were present, though she perched on the windowsill far from anyone else, her darkness swirling protectively around her fingertips.
Yet certain boundaries remained unbreachable. Physical touch of any kind was strictly forbidden—even Amara's maternal attempts to brush her daughter's hair from her face were met with immediate recoil. She maintained a careful distance from everyone, measuring the space between herself and others as if calculating escape routes.
Most concerning to the family were the days when Amiriah would lock herself in her room for hours, sometimes entire days, refusing to emerge for meals or family gatherings. During these periods, soft sounds occasionally drifted from behind her door—whispered conversations that sounded one-sided, light laughter that would abruptly cut off if anyone approached, the patter of what sounded like small feet.
"Do you think she's talking to herself?" Kario had asked Lenna after one such incident. "Like, as a coping mechanism?"
Lenna had merely shrugged, her expression guarded. "Whatever helps her heal."
On this particular morning, Amiriah had not emerged from her room by late afternoon, prompting concern from both Amara and Lenna. They stood outside her door, Amara's hand raised to knock, hesitation evident in her posture.
"Amiriah?" Amara called softly, finally tapping on the wood. "Sweetheart, are you alright in there? You haven't eaten anything today."
For several long moments, there was no response. Then, the sound of movement—hurried, as if someone were quickly arranging things—before the door opened just enough for Amiriah to slip through, closing it firmly behind her.
Her appearance was disheveled in a way that suggested interrupted activity rather than sleep—hair hastily pulled back, cheeks flushed, eyes alert and wary. Most striking was the expression that flashed across her face when she first opened the door—fierce protectiveness that morphed instantly to careful neutrality upon seeing her mother and twin.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice deliberately casual. "Just tired. I need some time alone."
Amara's eyes narrowed slightly in maternal concern. "You haven't eaten since yesterday. I brought you some fruit and sandwiches." She offered a small tray she'd been holding.
Amiriah accepted it with a nod of thanks, careful to avoid any contact with her mother's fingers during the exchange. "Thank you. I'll eat it inside."
"Are you sure you're okay?" Lenna pressed, studying her twin with an intensity that made Amiriah shift uncomfortably. "You've been in there for almost two days."
"I'm fine," Amiriah repeated more firmly. "I just need space."
As she turned to re-enter her room, both women caught a glimpse of something unusual—a shadow moving across the wall inside, there and gone so quickly they might have imagined it.
Amiriah closed the door before either could comment, the soft click of the lock punctuating her desire for privacy.
Amara and Lenna exchanged significant glances as they walked away.
"Did you see—" Amara began.
"Yes," Lenna interrupted, her voice low. "But she'll tell us when she's ready."
In their shared suite, Zari and Zuri conducted one of their regular energy scans of the mansion—a precaution they had implemented following Amiriah's return. As daughters of one of S City's most powerful families, they had been trained from childhood to detect magical anomalies that might signal danger.
"There it is again," Zuri murmured, her fingers tracing a pattern of light in the air between them. "Coming from Amiriah's room."
Zari nodded, her expression thoughtful as she studied the energy signature. "It's not darkness, not like Amiriah's power. It's something else—something venomous."
"Poison energy," Zuri agreed. "But contained, controlled. It flares strongest at night, then recedes by morning."
"Should we tell the others?" Zari asked, though both already knew the answer.
Zuri shook her head. "Not yet. It's not threatening anyone. And if we expose whatever—or whoever—Amiriah is hiding, we'll lose what little trust she's built with us."
The twins continued their monitoring in silence, cataloging the strange energy signature but keeping their discovery to themselves. Some secrets, they understood, needed time to reveal themselves.
Late one night, several weeks after Amiriah's return, the mansion erupted into controlled chaos when Tara went into labor. The family had been expecting it—she was full-term, the nursery prepared, doctors on call—but the reality of the moment still created a flurry of activity that permeated every corner of the house.
Xavier coordinated with security to admit the medical team. Hayden oscillated between calm competence and nervous husband energy, alternately supporting his wife and asking repetitive questions of the doctors. Amara prepared the master suite where Tara had chosen to deliver, arranging comfort items and medical supplies with practiced efficiency. Kario ran errands for everyone, fetching hot water, extra towels, whatever was needed. Zuri and Zari maintained a magical barrier around the room to ensure Tara's comfort and privacy.
Amiriah watched this coordinated family response from the shadows of the upstairs hallway, her expression unreadable as servants and family members rushed past without noticing her. The care being shown to Tara—the immediate support, the gentle touches, the words of encouragement—stirred something dark and painful in her chest.
When Tara's cries of pain echoed through the mansion, Amiriah's hand instinctively went to her own abdomen, memories she typically suppressed rising unbidden. The terrifying, searing agony of giving birth alone in her darkness dimension. The confusion and fear of not knowing what was happening to her body. The moment of panic when she first held Lani, unsure if she was doing it correctly, with no one to assure her everything was normal.
She had delivered her own child—cut the cord, cleaned the blood, soothed the first cries—without doctors, without family, without even basic knowledge of childbirth beyond what she had gleaned from books.
The stark contrast between her experience and Tara's was a knife twisting in a wound she hadn't realized was still so raw.
Hours passed as the family gathered in the hallway outside the master suite, waiting anxiously for news. Lenna noticed Amiriah lingering at the far end of the corridor and motioned for her to join them, but Amiriah shook her head slightly, maintaining her distance while still observing.
When the doctor finally emerged, smiling broadly, everyone held their breath.
"Mother and baby are doing wonderfully," he announced. "A healthy boy, eight pounds even. You can go in now."
The family poured into the room to find Tara propped up against pillows, tired but radiant, cradling a small bundle in her arms. Hayden sat beside her on the bed, one arm around his wife, the other gently stroking his son's cheek with a single finger.
"Everyone," Tara said softly, "meet Harrison Xavier Spellman."
A chorus of delighted exclamations followed. Amara moved to Tara's side, tears streaming down her face as she gazed at her grandson.
"Our first grandchild," Xavier said, his typically stern demeanor softened by genuine emotion. "Welcome to the family, Harrison."
Kario bounced on his heels with excitement, while Zuri and Zari cooed over the baby's tiny fingers. Lenna hung back slightly, but her smile was genuine as she watched her family expand by one small, precious life.
"He's perfect," Amara whispered, carefully accepting the newborn when Tara offered him to her. "Absolutely perfect."
The pure joy in the room, the seamless way the family welcomed this new life, the natural support they provided to Tara and Hayden—it was all too much for Amiriah. She stood in the doorway for just a moment, watching a scene that should have been beautiful but instead highlighted everything she had been denied. With a silent step backward, she slipped away, unnoticed by the celebrating family.
Back in her room, she found Lani still sleeping peacefully, curled around her favorite stuffed rabbit. Amiriah carefully lifted her daughter, needing the comfort of her small weight against her chest. Lani stirred but didn't wake, instinctively nuzzling closer to her mother's warmth.
"Nobody was there for me when I had to go through that scary night alone," Amiriah whispered, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. "Not like Tara, who had all the care and love from the family around her."
The memory of her labor with Lani was still vivid—the terrifying realization that she was giving birth, the overwhelming pain, the fear that something would go wrong and no one would be there to help her or her baby. She had delivered her child in her darkness dimension, her own body so traumatized by past abuse that she couldn't bear the thought of seeking medical help, couldn't tolerate the idea of strangers touching her most vulnerable parts, even to save her life.
"I was so scared," she whispered into Lani's hair. "I didn't know what to do, how to breathe, if what was happening was normal. I had to cut your cord myself, had to trust that my darkness would heal me."
Bitterness and hatred began to curl around her heart. Where had her family been then? Where was this outpouring of support and love when she had needed it most? They had sent her away, forgotten her, moved on with their lives while she suffered unimaginable horrors in that hospital.
And now they celebrated new life as if they deserved it, as if they were worthy of such joy.
In the master suite, the celebration continued for some time before Lenna suddenly looked around with a frown. "Has anyone seen Amiriah? Did she come in at all?"
The family members exchanged glances, each realizing they had been so caught up in the excitement that they hadn't noticed her absence.
"I thought I saw her in the doorway earlier," Zuri offered, but sounded uncertain.
"Maybe she went back to her room?" Kario suggested. "You know how she gets uncomfortable with crowds."
Tara looked down at her son, then up at the family surrounding her. A realization seemed to dawn on her, bringing a look of sadness to her otherwise joyful expression.
"Harrison," she said softly to the baby in her arms, "you'll meet your Auntie Amiriah soon. She looks just like Auntie Lenna."
The baby seemed to smile in response, bringing a chorus of delighted sounds from the family.
"She's probably just tired," Amara suggested, though her eyes held worry. "Or maybe seeing birth for the first time was overwhelming."
Xavier nodded in agreement. "When the her cousin was born, Amiriah was terrified by the whole process. She declared she would never have children because it looked 'too painful and weird,' and that she would just live with her mother forever."
The memory brought sad smiles to the older family members' faces, a bittersweet reminder of the innocent girl Amiriah had once been.
"Give her time," Hayden advised, ever the practical one. "Today has been emotional for everyone."
The next morning, Amiriah appeared at breakfast, her face a careful mask of indifference that did not quite conceal the shadows under her eyes. She took her usual seat at the far end of the table, nodding brief acknowledgment to the family but not initiating conversation.
The tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hands as she buttered her toast—all signaled a retreat from the small progress she had made in recent weeks. She was more distant than before, walls rebuilt and reinforced overnight.
"Amiriah," Tara called from her place at the table, Harrison cradled in one arm while she attempted to eat with the other. "Would you like to meet your nephew properly? You didn't get a chance last night."
The room fell silent, all eyes turning to Amiriah, whose expression flickered between several emotions too quickly to identify.
"Alright," she said after a pause, her voice carefully neutral.
She approached Tara's chair with visible reluctance, maintaining the maximum possible distance while still being able to see the baby's face. Harrison slept peacefully, unaware of the complex emotional currents swirling around him.
"He's beautiful," Amiriah said mechanically, the words correct but emotionless.
"Would you like to hold him?" Tara offered with a warm smile. "It's easier than it looks."
Before Amiriah could refuse, Tara was already standing, moving toward her with the baby. The family watched with bated breath as Tara gently placed Harrison in Amiriah's arms, guiding her on how to support his head.
The moment the baby's skin touched hers, Amiriah's reaction was immediate and visceral. Her face paled dramatically, she began to gag, her entire body rigid with distress. Darkness erupted around her like a protective shield, though it carefully avoided touching the infant.
Hayden immediately stepped forward, retrieving his son from Amiriah's arms before she could drop him in her panic. The baby, disturbed by the sudden movement, began to cry—a sound that seemed to further destabilize Amiriah.
Without a word, she turned and fled the room, darkness trailing in her wake like smoke.
The family stood in stunned silence, processing what they had just witnessed.
"I thought..." Tara began uncertainly, cradling Harrison close to calm him. "I thought maybe a baby wouldn't trigger her touch aversion. He's so small, so harmless."
Lenna shook her head, her expression troubled. "It's not about logic or reason. It's about trauma."
But what troubled Lenna most wasn't Amiriah's reaction to the baby—it was the expression she had glimpsed in her twin's eyes just before she fled. Not fear, not panic, but something darker, more complex. A flash of raw hatred and jealousy so intense it had momentarily transformed her face into something unrecognizable.
It was an expression that told Lenna their progress with Amiriah had been more superficial than they had believed—that beneath the small concessions and cautious interactions, a deep well of resentment continued to fester. And until they addressed the root of that resentment, the fractures in their family would never truly heal.
As the others comforted Tara and soothed the baby, Lenna slipped away, heading upstairs toward Amiriah's room. The time for respecting boundaries and waiting patiently had passed. Some wounds required direct intervention before they could begin to heal.