Mother of Midnight

Chapter 218 – What Was Left Behind

Storm’s tail flicked irritably as she followed Tarric through the halls, every step grating on her nerves.

Antsy. That was the word. Restless, pent-up, restrained.

She had come here for allies—warriors who could stand at her side in battle, who could fight with her against the enemy and help her slaughter them. That was the goal. That was why she was here.

Instead, she had this tiny man—this so-called brother—constantly pestering her.

She was… perhaps inclined to believe him, if only because he felt familiar in a way she couldn’t quite grasp. But still. He was small.

And worse than that, he was wasting her time.

She wanted to fight. She needed to move, to feel her blood pumping, the sting of a wound, the warmth of fresh blood on her claws. The enemy had to die.

But instead, Tarric was dragging her to see another one of these supposed brothers of hers.

She barely held back a growl. This felt pointless. Why was she bothering with this? Other allies could be out there—stronger ones, better suited for her needs.

And yet… she still followed him.

When they stopped in front of a door, Storm reeled, head jerking back as an awful scent flooded her nose.

Chemicals. Synthetic things. Artificial and acrid, cloying in a way that made her lip curl back. The scent burned at her senses even before the door was opened, and she instinctively flexed her claws, resisting the urge to scratch the offending stench out of the air.

Tarric, unaffected, rapped his knuckles against the wood.

“Torin! I have a visitor! Guess who?”

Storm’s ears flicked at the sound of movement behind the door—a sharp, panicked scrambling, the rustling of fabric, something clattering to the floor. Then, hurried footsteps.

They stopped just on the other side of the door. Silence followed, tense and expectant.

Then, a hesitant voice.

“Uhh, Rava?”

Tarric barked a laugh. “Wrong! It’s Rava! And me!”

“Oh. Of course. Sorry,” came the quiet reply, followed by the click of the latch as the door finally swung open.

The man standing before them was taller than Tarric, but still smaller than her. Broad shoulders, a solid frame—Storm could acknowledge the strength there—but his posture ruined it. He stood like he wanted to disappear, like he was trying to shrink despite his size. Meek, hesitant, weak.

She hated it.

Storm narrowed her eyes, glaring at him, and to her utter disgust, he shrunk even further, his shoulders hunching inward, his ears twitching as he averted his gaze.

Pathetic.

She wrinkled her nose, her tail flicking behind her in sharp irritation.

“You smell.”

Torin stared at the ground.

Tarric sighed, rubbing his temples. "Storm, sweetheart, we talked about manners."

Storm barely spared him a glance. "No, you talked. I listened." Her nose wrinkled again as she took a step into the room. "It stinks in here."

Torin hesitated, then stepped aside, motioning them in. "Uh… you can come in, if you want."

Tarric strolled in easily, hands in his pockets, but Storm lingered at the threshold, nostrils flaring. The chemical stink was everywhere—clinging to the air, the walls, the very floor beneath her feet. It was sharp, artificial, and deeply unpleasant.

Torin fidgeted under her scrutiny. "I know it smells," he mumbled. "I work with a lot of chemicals for my paints. I try to keep the air clear, but…" He trailed off, rubbing his arm.

Storm’s ears flicked as she stepped inside, gaze sweeping the room. Paint-stained tables, shelves stacked with pigments, brushes, and strange bottles. Stacks of canvases leaned against the walls, some half-finished, others complete but set aside in disorderly piles. The space was cluttered, chaotic—yet there was purpose in the mess.

Her eyes landed on a painting near the center of the room. It was a battlefield—dark figures clashing in a swirl of colors, strokes erratic yet deliberate, a storm of motion and violence.

She scowled. "This is what you waste time with?"

Torin flinched but didn't look away. Tarric, on the other hand, just folded his arms. "He’s an artist, Storm. And he’s good."

Storm’s lip curled. "Painting won’t help kill the enemy."

Tarric didn’t react right away. He just watched her, arms still folded, his expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, he sighed. "What comes after the enemy is gone, Rara? What do we do with our time then?"

Storm’s ears flicked back. "Not important," she said flatly. "Only killing the enemy matters. I am wasting my time here."

Torin flinched but stayed silent, his fingers twitching slightly. Tarric, however, just smirked. "That so?"

She narrowed her eyes.

"I seem to remember a bet," he continued, voice light but needling. "From when we sparred. Do you remember what it was?"

Storm stiffened. She did remember. If he won, she had to humor this. This family nonsense. After the first few rounds, she’d agreed to it because she had been certain of victory. Even though the first few times he’d trounced her.

And she had lost.

Her tail flicked sharply behind her. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like being here, surrounded by strange, cloying scents, forced into conversation with a man who hunched like a cowering beast.

But a loss was a loss.

Her claws flexed at her sides before she let out a low growl. "Fine," she muttered. "I remember."

Tarric grinned. "Good. Then you can at least try to be civil."

Storm scowled but didn’t argue. She had agreed, after all.

Torin sat down on his stool beside an unfinished painting, his fingers curling around the edge of the canvas like he needed something solid to hold onto. Tarric, ever at ease, made himself comfortable on the couch—one of the few pieces of furniture not completely buried under scattered brushes, half-used tubes of paint, and stacks of parchment.

Storm remained standing. She had no interest in sitting. The air in here was thick with chemical smells, and the room felt wrong—cramped, filled with delicate things that had no place in a proper den.

Torin stared at her, his expression caught somewhere between awe and discomfort. "Is that really Rava?" he asked, voice quiet, uncertain.

"I am Storm," she growled.

The name felt hollow in her mouth. She had no real attachment to it, no deep-rooted connection. It was just something she had taken, a thing that fit her purpose. Rava—that name lingered somewhere deeper. It felt heavier, more real, but distant. It pulled at something in her chest, something she wasn’t ready to face.

Torin flinched slightly at her tone, his hands tightening around the stool, but he didn’t look away. Instead, his gaze lingered, studying her—like he was searching for something familiar beneath the changes.

Storm’s ears twitched in irritation. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. Like he wanted to see something that wasn’t there.

Torin’s eyes flickered uncertainly between her and Tarric before he cleared his throat. “Do you… want to see what I’ve been working on?”

Her gaze flicked to the half-finished painting in front of him. The canvas was a mess of layered colors—deep, bold strokes clashing against each other in a way that mimicked movement. Shadows and light warred across the surface, chaotic yet controlled, like a battle frozen mid-motion.

Tarric leaned back on the couch, resting an arm along the top. “He’s gotten a lot better, don’t you think?” His tone was casual, but there was something knowing in his grin. “You’d probably like his finished pieces. He’s all about movement, fights, tension. You know, things you care about.”

Storm didn’t respond, but her eyes flicked toward another canvas propped against the wall. This one was more refined—two figures locked in combat, their weapons inches apart, caught in a moment of violent anticipation.

Torin shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I used to paint you a lot,” he admitted. His voice was quiet, hesitant. “Before.”

Storm’s gaze snapped to him.

Torin hesitated, then gestured to a covered canvas off to the side. “I still have some of them.”

Her claws flexed at her sides. “Why?”

Torin stared down at his hands for a moment before answering. “Because you were strong.” His voice wasn’t uncertain now. “And you moved like you knew you were strong. It was… inspiring.”

Storm exhaled sharply through her nose, crossing her arms. “I am strong.”

Torin’s lips curled in a small, knowing smile. “I know.”

Tarric stretched out on the couch, watching the two of them with an easy smile. “You know, if you wanted, Torin could probably paint you again. Capture the new you.”

Torin stiffened, his fingers tightening slightly around his stool. “Only if you’d want that, of course.”

Storm scoffed. “Why would I want that?”

Torin glanced toward the unfinished painting in front of him. “Because even if you don’t believe it, you’ve changed. And sometimes seeing something from the outside can make things clearer.”

Storm frowned. That didn’t make any sense. She knew who she was. She knew what mattered—fighting, killing, winning. That was all.

And yet…

Her gaze drifted toward the covered canvas, the one Torin had set aside. The one he’d painted before.

She didn’t want to ask. She didn’t care. But her mouth moved anyway.

“…Show me.”

Torin blinked. He hesitated for only a second before he rose from his stool and walked over to the covered painting. He lifted the cloth with careful hands, revealing an image beneath.

It was her.

Not as she was now, not as Storm, but as Rava.

The woman in the painting was powerful, mid-motion, muscles taut with barely restrained force. Her claws were extended, her stance wide, her expression sharp and confident. But there was something else—something in the way her eyes gleamed, the way her ears angled forward, the way her mouth was curled in something almost like… a smirk.

A predator at ease. A warrior who fought because she enjoyed it, not because she had to.

Storm stared at the painting, her claws twitching at her sides.

Tarric watched her carefully. “Looks familiar, doesn’t it?”

Storm clenched her jaw.

It did.

Storm stood there, unmoving, her gaze fixed on the painting. The image of the other Rava—the real Rava—looked back at her, as if asking a question she didn't know how to answer. The brushstrokes, the confidence in the figure's posture, it all felt... right.

But why?

A faint growl rumbled in her throat. It was just a painting. Just a picture. Not real.

But as she stared at it longer, something unsettled deep inside her. The woman in the painting was her, yes, but she didn’t feel like her anymore. The rawness in her chest flared, that gnawing hunger for battle, for blood, that desperate need to win—it seemed to have swallowed everything else. And yet here, in this image, stood a woman who looked like she was... more.

Tarric leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm. “You were more than just the fight, Rava. This wasn’t just about the kill. There was joy in it, too. Remember that.”

She blinked, trying to push the swell of emotion that threatened to rise. He was right. In a way. But it felt so distant. So out of reach.

“Is that really me?” she muttered, her voice low, almost to herself.

Torin, who had been quietly observing, nodded gently. “Yes. It’s you... or it was you, before. I think, deep down, you’re still the same person, Rava. You just don’t remember yet.”

Storm growled low under her breath, stepping back from the painting, the frustration and confusion warring inside her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Tarric stood, walking over to her. “I know you don’t. But you will, one step at a time.”

Storm’s fists tightened at her sides, the muscles in her jaw twitching with the force of her anger. One step at a time. The words crawled under her skin, but they didn’t bring comfort. They only made the fire in her gut burn hotter. She didn’t want to wait. She didn’t want to remember.

Her gaze flickered to the painting again, the image of a calm, confident woman she didn’t recognize. It didn’t feel like her. It couldn’t be. That woman in the picture had something she didn’t—control, peace, certainty. She wasn’t me. She couldn’t be.

“I’m not her,” Storm growled, stepping back from the painting. The words were raw, full of frustration. “I’m not her anymore.”

Tarric stepped forward, his voice gentle. “You are, Rava. You just have to—”

“No!” she snapped, cutting him off. “I’m not! I don’t remember her.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t care. “I don’t feel like her.”

Tarric hesitated. “I know it’s hard, but—”

“No!” Her voice rose, claws flexing in frustration. “Stop! I don’t want to be her! I don’t want to remember! I don’t care!” The words felt like a slap in her own face, but they spilled out before she could stop them. The pain of it all—the memories she couldn’t touch, the part of herself that was slipping further away—made her chest ache.

Tarric took another cautious step forward, his eyes filled with something soft, almost pitying, but she couldn’t stand it.

“I’m not her!” she growled again, voice thick with anger. “I don’t want to be.”

The room felt too small, the walls closing in as the weight of everything she couldn’t remember pressed on her. “I can’t be that. I don’t even know who I am now.”

Tarric stayed silent, his expression softening. But she couldn’t stand to see it. His concern, his desire to fix things, felt like a reminder of everything she had lost.

“I don’t need your pity,” she snarled.

Storm stood there, her chest rising and falling with each uneven breath. The anger still burned in her, but now it was something more jagged, more confused. Her claws remained clenched, the tension in her body like a coiled spring, ready to snap. She didn’t know what was happening to her, or why everything felt so heavy. Tarric’s words echoed in her mind, but she couldn’t seem to push them away.

“I don’t need your pity,” she growled, but the words didn’t feel as sharp as they had before. There was no satisfaction in them, no power. It was just an instinct, a defense.

Tarric didn’t flinch. He just stood there, quiet and steady, his presence like a stone in the middle of a storm. She hated that. She hated how calm he was, how calm he made everything feel, when inside she was shaking, lost, and tearing at the edges of herself.

But he was still there. He hadn’t left. He hadn’t backed away.

“I’m not pitying you,” he said, his voice almost too soft, like it would break if he spoke any louder. “I’m not trying to fix you. I’m here because I want to help you find yourself. That’s it. Nothing more.”

Her claws dug deeper into the ground. The words felt foreign, like they didn’t belong to him. She didn’t want them. She didn’t want him to be here, didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to feel this weak, this... vulnerable.

“I don’t need anyone,” she muttered, her voice low and rough. “I don’t need this... this game. I don’t want to play pretend with you or anyone else.”

“I know you don’t.” Tarric’s voice remained steady, patient, and it grated against her like nails on stone. “But you don’t have to do it alone, Rava. You don’t have to pretend with me. Not anymore. You don’t have to be who you were before if you don’t want to be. You just need to figure out who you are now.”

Her heart twisted in her chest. The words struck too close to something she couldn’t understand, couldn’t face. Who was she now? She didn’t know. She was just a shadow of the person she used to be, a hollow echo that didn’t make sense anymore. And it hurt. It hurt more than anything.

“I don’t know who I am,” she whispered, the words feeling heavy and foreign in her mouth. She didn’t want to admit it. She didn’t want to feel like this.

“I know,” Tarric said, his voice gentle now, like he understood something she couldn’t even grasp. “But that’s okay. You will. It just takes time.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating, like the air had thickened around them. She wanted to lash out, to shout at him, to demand he leave her alone. But the frustration, the confusion, the rawness of it all started to drain away, leaving nothing but a hollow ache she couldn’t ignore.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight. But there was nothing left to fight against. And all of a sudden, she felt... small. Fragile. She hated it.

She stepped back. She didn’t want to hear any more of this. Didn’t want to face the truth. She was angry, but that anger was quickly turning into something else—something that she couldn’t control.

Her gaze fell on the unfinished portrait of herself, the one Tarric had coaxed Torin to paint. It was a crude mockery of the person she had been. The face staring back at her from the canvas wasn’t her—it was a version of her that felt distant, alien, a version she couldn’t even remember.

And in that moment, the raw anger she’d been fighting so hard to hold back exploded. With a snarl, she surged forward, her claws raking across the canvas. The paint tore and splattered as she swiped again and again, the noise of the canvas tearing echoing in the small room. The image of herself—a face she no longer recognized—was shredded before her eyes, the brushstrokes left mangled and ruined.

“Stop...” Tarric’s voice came from behind her, but she couldn’t stop.

She wanted to destroy it. She wanted to tear apart everything that reminded her of what she used to be. The past was nothing but a cage.

Her breathing came in short, frantic gasps, and with one final swipe, she ripped the canvas from the frame. It hung there for a moment, suspended in the air, before it crashed to the ground, the canvas splitting and falling apart.

“That’s not me,” she growled under her breath. “That’s not who I am.”

She stood over the wreckage of the portrait, her chest heaving with each ragged breath, her fists clenched so tightly her claws bit into her palms. The frustration, the anger, the confusion—it all boiled over, flooding her veins.

Without saying another word, she turned and stormed toward the door, her claws scraping against the stone floor as she moved. She couldn’t stand being here anymore, couldn’t stand the reminders, couldn’t stand how everyone seemed to want her to be something she wasn’t.

She flung the door open, the weight of it slamming into the wall with a resounding crack. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything right now except getting away.

As she stormed out of the room, the sound of Tarric’s voice calling her name echoed behind her, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She needed to run. She needed to be somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t here.

She barreled down the hallway, her thoughts a chaotic mess, her mind filled with the sound of her own pulse. The world outside felt like it was pressing in, closing around her, but she didn’t care. She just needed to get away.

With a final burst of energy, she pushed open the exit door, stepping into the fresh air, and with one last glance over her shoulder, she disappeared into the night.