Chapter Two-Hundred-And-Nineteen
**3rd Person POV**
“Aunt Irene?” Harlin's heart was beating rapidly in anticipation of what she was about to say. He had been told stories of his mother who fearlessly rode on the waves of the deadly sea but he had never been told if she was alive or dead. Whenever he had asked his aunt, they had conveniently changed the topic. Now that it seemed like Aunt Irene was about to divulge tangible information about his mother, he was desperate to hear it.
“Your mother… the fire,” Aunt Irene said, Harlin still had his ear to her mouth. He was about to give up thinking that Aunt Irene had said as much as her strength could allow her when he heard her mutter, “Vampire.”
Aunt Irene appeared to slip back into a state of unconsciousness afterwards. Howbeit, she held onto Harlin's hand even in her uncomfortable sleep. Harlin therefore could not bring himself to leave her alone. He soon drifted into a fitful sleep by her bedside.
****
The flames danced hungrily, devouring the walls of the narrow cell. Thick smoke curled toward the ceiling, turning the air into a choking haze. Harlin’s eyes stung, but he barely noticed. His focus was on the heavy iron padlock securing the cell door. Behind it, someone was trapped.
His hands fumbled desperately against the lock, fingers slick with sweat as he tugged and twisted, trying to pry it open. The heat was unbearable, the fire licking at his clothes, creeping closer with every passing second. Sparks flew, and still, he fought with the lock, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.
"Run!" A voice called from within the flames. It was distant yet urgent, pleading. "Harlin, run!"
He shook his head, gritting his teeth as he doubled his efforts. He couldn't leave. He wouldn’t. There was still time—there had to be.
But he didn't realise the danger until it was too late.
A searing pain shot through his arm. The flames had reached him, wrapping around his flesh like a cruel, fiery serpent. He gasped, looking down in horror at the charred skin. His vision blurred from the agony, and as the fire consumed him, he opened his mouth to scream—
Harlin jolted awake, his chest heaving. Cold sweat drenched his back, his breath coming in panicked bursts. His eyes darted wildly around the dimly lit room, the scent of burning still thick in his mind. But there were no flames. No smoke. Only the quiet rustling of fabric and the faint wheezing of his aunt’s breath.
His heart pounded as he sat up, realising that he was still in the small chamber, still seated beside Irene’s sickbed. He had fallen asleep with her frail hand in his. Relief flooded through him. It had been a dream—a terrible, vivid dream.
But as he slowly pulled his hand away, a sharp, searing pain made him wince. He looked down, his breath catching in his throat.
A section of his palm was red and blistered, as though it had been burned.
Harlin swallowed hard, rubbing his fingers over the raw skin. The pain was real. The heat lingered, as though the fire from his dream had crossed into the waking world.
A chill ran down his spine.
This had not been an ordinary nightmare.
Aunt Irene's words from earlier rang through him.
_Your mother… fire… vampire…_
Did this extraordinary dream have something to do with her words? He wished he could wake his aunt up and demand to know clearly what she had been trying to tell him but he could not. He understood that Aunt Irene was living in her own type of hell and every second she was conscious meant that she was going through excruciating pain.
Regardless of the burn on his hand, he stood up from the chair, kissed his aunt on her forehead and left the room. He was almost certain that Aunt Alison would be searching frantically for him and he did not want her to know that he had seen Irene.
The first person he bumped into on his way to his room was Charlotte.
“Where have you been? I had to lie to…” but she stopped talking when she was Harlin's hand which was now slightly swollen from the wind.
“What the hell happened to you?” she exclaimed out of concern. The look on Harlin's face told her that he wanted to keep it a secret so she led him to her room and shut the door.
“Start from the very beginning,” demanded Charlotte.
“I cannot Charlie,” came his response. Charlotte stared at Harlin for a long time. For him to say that he couldn't meant that it was indeed personal.
She said nothing after that. She knew that no matter how personal, Harlin would tell her when he was ready to open up to her. She just hoped that whatever was weighing so heavily on his mind to the point he had burned himself would stop eating him up. She also hoped with all her mind that it had nothing to do with Lady Francesca who she knew was bad for Harlin.
Charlotte moved swiftly across the room, her skirts brushing against the stone floor as she fetched a small jar of ointment and a clean cloth. When she returned to Harlin’s side, he was staring at his burned palm, his jaw tight, his fingers curled slightly as though he could will the pain away. She knelt beside him, dipping the cloth into cool water before gently dabbing at the raw, blistered skin.
He hissed through clenched teeth, his muscles tensing.
“Hold still,” she murmured, her voice soft but firm.
Harlin exhaled sharply but did not protest. He only watched as she unscrewed the lid of the ointment and scooped a small amount onto her fingers. The salve was thick and carried the scent of lavender and chamomile, but despite its soothing properties, the moment it touched his skin, a sharp sting shot up his arm.
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