The observatory was a tomb of silent, wheeling light. After Arthur had gone, Isolde remained motionless, a statue at the heart of her own cosmic engine. The weight of his final words did not settle upon her; they pierced her, shattering a dam of denial that had stood for nearly two decades. Go be a mother to your daughter. It was a simple command, yet it struck her as more impossible than halting the stars in their courses. For years, she had worn her coldness as armor, her cruelty as a shield—not just against the world, but against the terrified, broken woman she had become after her first true vision.

She looked up at the perfect, cold representation of the heavens. It offered no comfort, no answers. It was a machine, just like her Gift. It showed what was, what would be, and cared for none of it. But Arthur… Arthur was different. He was a blind spot in creation, a man untethered from the grand, terrible narrative of Akasha. His existence was a defiant miracle, and he had used that defiance not to demand a prophecy, but to demand that she face the wreckage of her own life.

A shudder wracked her body. It started in her soul and worked its way out, a violent tremor of self-loathing and a terror so profound it threatened to swallow her whole. The thought of walking out of this sanctum, of finding Rachel, of trying to form the words of apology… it was a precipice. It would be so much easier to stay here, to let the silence reclaim her, to let the years pass as they always had. It would be safer.

You can't demand her love or her forgiveness. But you can start acting like someone who might, one day, be worthy of it.

The memory of his voice was a steadying hand on her back, pushing her toward the edge. He was right. The past was immutable. Her sins were carved into the memory of this house, into the very heart of her child. But the future… for the first time, she considered that her own future, the one between her and her family, might also be a blank page.

Her first step was stiff, the movement of a joint long unused. She walked out of the observatory, leaving the silent cosmos behind. The transition from the old wing to the main residential area was a journey through time and temperature. The air, once sterile and chilled to preserve the delicate instruments of her craft, gradually warmed, carrying the faint, pleasant scents of polished wood and Alastor's prized night-blooming jasmine. The oppressive, warded silence designed to keep the universe out gave way to the soft, ambient hum of a living home. Every step took her further from the Seer and closer to the woman she had failed to be.

She found Rachel not in her room, but in the family's private library on the third floor. It was a warm, inviting space, filled with thousands of books, both physical and digital. A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting a gentle, flickering light on the comfortable sofas and reading chairs. Rachel was curled in one of them, a thick blanket over her legs, a steaming mug of tea on the table beside her. She wasn't reading. She was staring into the flames, her expression thoughtful and distant, likely replaying the easy, happy moments she had shared with Arthur.

Isolde paused at the threshold, her courage faltering. Rachel looked so peaceful. To approach her now felt like an act of violence, a deliberate shattering of that fragile calm. The old, familiar justifications began to whisper in her mind: Leave her be. You will only cause more pain. She is better off without you.

She forced them down, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She took a breath and stepped into the room.

The subtle shift in the air was enough. Rachel's head snapped up, and the moment she saw her mother, the peace in her expression vanished, replaced by a familiar, weary defensiveness. Her posture stiffened.

"Mother," she said, her voice polite, but with an edge of steel. "I thought you'd be in the observatory for the rest of the night."

Isolde's throat was dry. Her carefully rehearsed words abandoned her. She stood there, a few yards from the sofa, feeling like a stranger. "I… needed to speak with you, Rachel."

Rachel's eyes narrowed slightly. "If this is about Arthur, he already told me your talk went well. You don't need to give me a secondary briefing."

"It is not about Arthur," Isolde said, her voice barely a whisper. She took another hesitant step forward. "It is about us."

The defensive shield around Rachel solidified. "There is no 'us,' Mother. There is you, and there is me. We exist in the same house. That's the extent of it."

The words were a physical blow, but Isolde knew she deserved them. She deserved a thousand more just like them. "Please," she said, the word cracking with a vulnerability she hadn't shown in years. "Just… listen. That is all I ask."

Something in her tone—the raw, unvarnished desperation—must have broken through. Rachel didn't relax, but she didn't tell her to leave. She watched her, her gaze wary and intensely curious, and gave a single, curt nod.

Isolde took a deep, shuddering breath. This was it. The precipice.

"You have spent your entire life wondering why," Isolde began, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. "Why I was cold. Why I was cruel. Why the mother you had as a small child seemed to vanish, replaced by… what I became. You deserve to know the reason. Not as an excuse, but as the truth."

She met her daughter's gaze. "I can see the future, Rachel."

The book slipped from Rachel's numb fingers, hitting the plush carpet with a soft, final thud. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. The carefully constructed walls of her world, built on a foundation of a mother's inexplicable coldness, had just been leveled by a single, impossible truth.

"What?" Rachel breathed, the word thin and disbelieving.

"My Gift is more. I am more than a normal a Seer. I see the threads of fate. I can read the Akashic Records." Isolde's voice grew heavy with the weight of memory. "When you were five years old, my Gift fully awakened. And the first thing I saw… the first coherent vision I truly experienced… was the end of our world."

She didn't just say the words; she let the memory bleed into her expression, her face paling, her eyes losing focus as she looked back into that abyss. "I saw it all. I saw the sky turn to fire and the oceans boil. I saw cities of glass and steel like this one reduced to smoking craters and fields of ash. I saw demons, legions of them, swarming over the land, devouring everything. And I saw the people we love… I saw your father, impaled on a black spear, trying to shield your sister. I saw Kathyln, fighting back to back with Alastor until they were overwhelmed. I saw you…"

Her voice broke. A single, hot tear traced a path down her cheek. "I saw you die, Rachel. I saw it a thousand times. I saw you burn. I saw you torn apart. I saw you fall, fighting and screaming, alone. Over and over, for weeks, that was my reality. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my family being slaughtered."

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