Mother of Midnight Chapter 250 – Botched

Rava was on a mission today.

She hadn’t said much to Vivienne before leaving—just a quiet kiss, a promise to return soon, and a quick sharpening of her obsidian claws. Her mind was focused, honed like a blade on one point: she needed to speak with her younger brother, Torin.

Her mories were returning, but only in scattered fragnts, like shards of glass glimpsed beneath murky water. The past few months were mostly intact now. She rembered her first attempt on High Priest Kaelen’s life—the desperate lunge, the cold snap of divine backlash, the way her limbs had seized and her breath had been stolen from her throat. She rembered the curse that followed. The breaking. The long, slow disintegration of body and mind.

And she rembered her rescue. Vivienne—her monster, her savior—dragging her from the brink, sotis with claws, sotis with kisses. Most of what had happened between that mont and their arrival in Drakthar was clear. But beyond that, there were great, yawning chasms in her mind. Years—decades, perhaps—lost to oblivion.

She hoped to find so of them again.

The strangeness of seeing her past self from the outside was a feeling she hadn’t gotten used to. Comparing the woman she had been to what she was now made her feel like a stranger in her own skin. Once, she had been athletic—powerful, but lean and grounded, a brawler with scars earned and stories behind each one.

Now? She was sothing else. Bulked up in ways that defied realism. A towering form carved from midnight muscle, packed with strength she hadn’t yet pushed to its limits. More beast than woman, if she were honest. The closest comparison she could think of was Kavren, after that one ti he had trained himself to exhaustion for two full days—without food, without water—because soone told him Lekine warriors never needed rest.

That had been five sumrs ago. A mory with surprising clarity. She had carried him ho over her shoulders when he collapsed, cursing him the entire way, even as she nuzzled his bloodied cheek.

And there was another mory, further back still.

A flicker. A whisper of her earliest days.

She hadn’t even co up to her mother’s hip. She’d been clutching a small training staff, little more than a polished stick in her tiny hands, carved with her family’s sigils. Across from her, the High Fang lood—proud and terrible, her long black cloak casting shadows like teeth across the stone floor.

Her mother had held a staff too. No practice weapon. No dulled edges. And she had not held back.

Rava rembered crying—not from pain, but from the crushing weight of expectation. From the raw certainty that she would never be enough.

The High Fang had shown no rcy. Not to her. Not to any of them.

At least, not from the perspective of a frightened child.

But now, Rava was not a child. Not anymore.

And she was going to see Torin—not just to rember the past, but to decide what kind of sister, what kind of person, she was going to be from now on.

She was let into the clan hall without so much as a glance.

No one stopped her anymore. She ca and went often, especially during this odd period of recovery she was still adjusting to. Her duties had been light—clearing out the occasional aetherbeast that got too close to Serkoth’s borders, a task made laughably easy now that her strength dwarfed what it had once been.

Most of the beasts turned and fled when they caught her scent. So, perhaps, fled in fear of her mate instead. Vivienne’s hunts had made an impression across the region.

She stalked through the winding corridors of the hall, her clawed feet tapping quietly against the stone, until she reached a door near the back. It was plain and unmarked, set apart from the more ornate chambers the warriors preferred. She’d walked past it many tis, but this was the first ti she stopped and knocked.

She heard a muffled clatter. Then fumbling steps. The door creaked open slowly.

“A-ah. Big s-sister,” said Torin, blinking up at her. “How can I help?”

He was already trembling. Not from the cold.

Rava nodded, though her voice ca out more clipped than she intended. “May I co in?”

“O-of course. Yes.” Torin stepped aside quickly, and she ducked under the fra to enter.

It was strange—seeing the second-largest man in the family flinch like a kicked dog. Strange, and yet… familiar.

He was always like this, wasn’t he?

Torin’s room slled faintly of charcoal and herbs. Sketches and carvings lined the walls—so of them hers, she realized. Old ones. Others were of the family, of Vivienne, of abstract shapes and snarling beasts rendered in exquisite detail. Every surface was covered in ink stains or splinters. A table in the middle of the room bore a half-finished sculpture of soone’s face. She couldn’t tell whose.

“Do you want to take a seat?” Torin asked, gesturing to a worn cushion by the wall.

“I won’t be long,” she replied, crossing her arms. “I just wanted to talk to you. And to say… I’m sorry.”

His ears perked up, just a bit. “Sorry? For what?”

“For dismissing your craft. For saying it was useless. rely because it wasn’t a weapon. That was wrong of .”

Torin looked away. “It’s… true, though. I am a coward. I never went to the front lines. I never took up arms.”

Rava frowned—though that wasn’t much of a change. These days, she always seed to be frowning. Not because she was angry, but because… because sothing about her had shifted. Her emotions settled heavier now, slower. Deeper.

Or maybe she was just still rembering how to feel.

“We all have our strengths,” she said, softer now. “Your art? It preserves the present. So that we may learn from it in the future. You capture people as they are… or as they were. I can’t do that. Most of us can’t.”

Torin bit his lip. “I just didn’t want to be forgotten.”

“You won’t be,” Rava said, with absolute certainty. “What you make… it lingers. Longer than any battle. Longer than any scar.”

Torin blinked quickly and turned away, brushing a sleeve over his face. He tried to speak, then stopped. Tried again.

“You… really think that?”

“I do.”

A long silence settled between them. Not an awkward one. Just long.

Rava stepped forward, and with surprising gentleness for soone of her size and bearing, reached down and rested a clawed hand on his shoulder.

“I might not rember everything yet. But I rember enough. You’re my brother, Torin. And I’m proud of you.”

That broke sothing in him. He didn’t cry—not exactly—but his breath hitched and his shoulders shook. She gave him a mont, standing beside him in the soft silence of ink and sawdust.

He laughed, just a little, as he wiped his face again. “You’ve gotten so big. Like… stupidly big.”

Rava snorted. “Yeah. I know.”

She wandered deeper into the chaos of his room, careful not to step on any scattered bits of charcoal or wood shavings. The sll of ink was stronger here, and the air buzzed faintly with the hum of his creative energy. She paused in front of a large canvas standing upright near the back wall, shrouded in a heavy cloth that looked recently draped.

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s this one?”

Torin, who had just begun to relax, froze as though he’d been slapped. “I—uh, oh. That? Nothing. Failed project.”

Rava slowly turned to look at him, one brow arching. Her voice was low, but amused. “There’s no need to lie, little brother. If you don’t want to see it, then just say that. I’m not going to tear your head off.”

Torin opened his mouth, closed it again, then nodded sheepishly. “Right. Sorry. It’s… complicated.”

She gave him a brief nod, then stepped back from the canvas. “Alright. I’ll leave it alone. I should get back to Vivienne and… my child.”

Torin staggered a step backward, eyes going wide. “Y-your what?”

Rava’s expression softened in a way that looked almost alien on her face, so much calr and more open than the rest of her towering, muscled form. She smiled—not the smug smirk of a warrior fresh from a brawl, but sothing warr. Gentler.

“We’re having a child together,” she said, her tone proud. “I was going to inform the rest of the family today. Only Narek knows so far.”

Torin’s mouth opened and closed twice. He looked between her and the canvas as though trying to work out an impossible equation.

“Y-you and Vivienne are…?”

“Yes,” Rava replied simply. “I love her. And she’s carrying our child. That’s real. Not a trick, not so fogged-up mory I think I made up. It’s one of the few things I’m absolutely certain of.”

Torin’s eyes lingered on the canvas again, this ti with sothing more like guilt swimming behind them. He stepped slightly in front of it, almost like he was shielding it.

“Torin,” Rava said, her voice quieter now. “What’s on that canvas?”

He hesitated. Swallowed. “A dream I had,” he admitted at last. “Not long after you… after you ca back. It didn’t make any sense at the ti, but I painted it anyway. It wouldn’t leave my head.”

“Can I see it?”

He stared at her a mont longer. Then, with a long exhale, he reached up and gently pulled the cloth away.

Beneath it lay a canvas as tall as he was, painted in three distinct sections like an unfolding myth.

The first image made Rava tilt her head. A bleak land, colorless and harsh, stretched endlessly under a bruised sky. Suspended above it, a pale moon—or what looked like one—hung cracked and hollow, like an egg torn apart from within. Sothing had hatched. Sothing had taken flight.

And that sothing lood in the sky: a winged shape coiled in the heavens, massive and half-ford, like smoke given weight. It was lizard-like, but wrong—its limbs too long, its wings jagged like broken glass, its body stitched from night itself. It seed too old for the world, yet too new for words.

Rava stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “What is… that? That thing in the sky?”

Torin shook his head. “I don’t know. I—I dread it. A long ti ago. It felt ancient. And wrong. Like the beginning of sothing we shouldn’t rember.”

She reached out slowly, fingertips hovering just shy of the painted egg-shell moon. “It ca from here,” she murmured. “Not the moon. An egg. Sothing that… wasn’t ant to be born.”

Torin nodded. “That’s what I felt too.”

The second panel bled red. A battlefield sared in rust and ash. Lines had once been drawn, but now they were gone, drowned in the gore. Shapes fought—beast and man and machine alike—so blurred in motion and violence it was hard to tell where one side ended and the other began.

“War,” Rava muttered. “But not one with victors.”

“And not one that ended,” Torin added quietly.

The third image brought silence.

A single figure stood alone in a void. No land. No sky. Just emptiness. Around them, radiant wings of crystal flared outward, impossibly bright against the nothing. They stood poised, their mouth open in song. There was no audience—but sohow, the silence listened.

Rava’s throat tightened. She didn’t need to ask who it was. She could feel it in her bones.

“That’s her,” Rava said softly. “That’s Vivienne.”

Torin nodded once, not taking his eyes off the canvas.

Rava turned to look at him, her brow furrowed. “Why did you paint this?”

Torin hesitated, his throat working. He held his breath for a long mont before exhaling shakily. “You really don’t rember?”

“Dreams,” she murmured, eyes narrowing. “Fragnts. Feelings. Pieces of things I don’t understand.”

He looked at her then, eyes haunted and tired beyond his years. “So you do rember.”

“Barely,” Rava admitted. “Like smoke. Like soone else’s mories bleeding into mine.”

Torin nodded, slowly stepping toward the painting. “I… I get dreams. Visions. Usually they’re small. Mundane. A broken dish, a missed step, a wrong word at the wrong ti. Things no one cares about.”

He paused before the first panel—the egg split open under a fractured sky. “But sotis,” he whispered, “I see things like this.”

Rava could hear the tremble in his voice. He wasn’t acting. He was afraid.

“Only twice before have I dread sothing this vast,” he continued, gazing into the canvas like it might devour him. “This scale. This weight. They left sick for days. I could feel the world cracking under the weight of what I saw.”

He raised a shaking hand toward the triptych. “Three cataclysms. Three tragedies. Three Ends.”

Rava stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Are they paths? Like—possible futures? Is only one of them going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “Celestial aether doesn’t work like ti. It’s… impressions. Symbols. It doesn’t say what will happen, only that it could. This might be three different futures. Or it could be one future told in three acts. A beginning, a middle, and an end.”

He looked over at her. “Or maybe they’re all inevitable. Maybe they all happen, one after the other.”

“Can they be stopped?” Rava asked, her voice low, steady, but carrying a weight that made the air feel heavier.

Torin looked like she’d asked him to set himself on fire. His hands twitched at his sides, and he took a step back, as though the very question frightened him. “Maybe,” he said finally, swallowing hard.

“How?” Her eyes locked on his, golden and glowing faintly with restrained heat.

Torin hesitated. His eyes darted between her and the painting again. “I don’t know about the second… it’s chaos, it’s unclear, but the first and the third…” He rubbed his wrist nervously, unable to et her gaze. “I—I think they can be prevented by… by killing Vivienne.”

There was silence.

Then claws.

Rava’s hand shot out like a viper. One mont Torin was standing, speaking, trembling—then he was off his feet, his back hitting the wall with a heavy thud. Her claws wrapped around his throat, not drawing blood, but pressing hard enough to make her point very clear. Her voice dropped to a feral growl, a guttural sound only a beast or a deeply wounded lover could make.

“No.”

Torin squeaked, his eyes wide. “I-I-I… it was just a suggestion! I didn’t an anything by it!”

“Then don’t say it again,” she snarled, face inches from his. “You do not get to see her only in nightmares and call her a curse. You weren’t there when she held my broken body in her arms. You didn’t see what she gave up for .”

“I know! I know!” he choked out, both hands raised in surrender. “I was only saying what I saw!”

Rava’s breath was hot on his cheek. “Then watch better.”

She released him—not gently, but not hard enough to injure either. Torin crumpled to the floor, coughing, rubbing his throat.

Rava stepped back, pacing once, twice, before calming herself enough to speak again. “She’s the only person who’s ever treated like I mattered. Not as a weapon. Not as a disappointnt. Not as soone to be fixed. If the world wants to end because of her, then maybe the world’s the one that’s wrong.”

Torin didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, cradling his ribs, stunned. Then, softly: “…I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.” Rava’s voice cracked just slightly. “You just looked at the visions and saw her as a monster. But she’s mine. And I’ll protect her. Even if the sky falls.”

Silence stretched between them.

Eventually, Torin looked up at her with a grim, apologetic nod. “I’ll… keep watching. Maybe there’s another path.”

“There better be,” Rava muttered. “Because I already died once. I’m not losing her now.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly through her teeth. A low growl built in her throat as she closed her eyes. “I ca here to apologise…” she muttered, voice tightening as frustration leaked through every syllable. Her claws flexed at her sides.

Then she snarled—short, sharp, involuntary. A crack of raw emotion that made her younger brother flinch violently, his back pressing harder into the wall as if trying to disappear into it.

Rava opened her eyes and saw the fear there, the sa fear she’d seen a thousand tis before in the faces of strangers, soldiers, enemies… and sotis, family.

“Damn it,” she whispered, the anger draining from her face. “I ca to make things right. And all I’ve done is frighten you. Again.”

Torin stayed quiet, rubbing at his throat where her claws had pressed. His eyes were wide—not with hatred or bla, but sadness. Regret.

“I never wanted you to fear ,” she said, voice much lower now. “Not you. You were… you’re my little brother. I should’ve protected you. Not made you feel like this.”

He didn’t answer right away. But slowly, he nodded.

“I still rember when I was small,” he murmured. “You carried ho from the river after I fell in. You were so strong, even then. I thought you were invincible.”

Rava’s jaw tightened. She looked away.

“You’re still strong,” he said, quieter. “Maybe too strong sotis. But I don’t hate you. I never could.”

She turned back to him, her expression solemn. “I’m trying, Torin. I really am. But I’m still learning how to be this version of .”

He gave her a shaky, but honest smile. “Then I guess we’re both figuring things out.”

“Right.” Rava let out a long breath, then nodded. “I’m going to go ho. Well, to Vivienne’s ho.”

She turned to go, then paused in the doorway. “Would you like to et her?”

Torin blinked. “Could I say no?”

“You could.” Rava glanced over her shoulder, sothing gentler in her usually cold gaze. “I’ve declared Vivienne my bondmate. She’s already raising a daughter—Liora. A sweet girl. Strong, despite everything. Once the bonding rite is complete, she’ll be your niece.”

Torin’s eyes widened. “You’re saying I have a niece… now?”

“She’s not blood,” Rava said, “but that doesn’t matter. She’s family. And she’d love to et her big uncle.”

Torin hesitated, but then gave a crooked little smile. “If she’s anything like you, I’m terrified.”

“She’s not. She’s better.” A rare pride crept into Rava’s voice. “Kinder than I’ll ever be. Smarter, too. She just needs space to grow.”

Torin shifted on his feet, uncertain. “You really sound like you’ve… settled.”

“I haven’t,” Rava replied dryly. “But I’ve found sothing worth fighting for that isn’t just blood or vengeance.”

“Vivienne?”

“Vivienne. And Liora. And the weird little family that’s sohow grown around us.”

Torin looked down at his hands, then back up. “Alright. I’ll co by. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“She’ll like that.” Rava turned fully, pausing just long enough to clap a hand on his shoulder. “And so will I.”

Torin smiled, awkward and warm. “You’re not so scary when you’re not growling.”

Rava snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”