Milan, Italy — 10:48 PM
The rain fell in a soft drizzle, like a blessing that never quite reached the earth. La Reyna leaned her head against the car window, watching the glow of the streetlamps blur and scatter across the glass. Enzo, her driver, said nothing. Only the hum of the engine and the rhythmic swish of the wipers filled the space between them.
"Miss Reyna," Enzo finally said, his voice gravelly yet respectful. "Are you alright?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes remained fixed on the window. But after a moment, she nodded. Not because she was alright — but because she was too exhausted to explain why she wasn't.
When they arrived at the apartment, Inez was already waiting by the door. She said nothing, simply handed Reyna a dry towel and gave her a look that spoke louder than words: I'm here.
La Reyna walked in and headed straight to her room. Her body felt heavier than it should — not from fatigue alone, but from the letter still tucked inside her handbag. She entered the bathroom and slowly peeled away her clothes, as if every layer carried remnants of memories too painful to revisit.
Warm water streamed down her skin. Through the fogged mirror, she saw her own reflection — a scar on her left rib, an old burn on her right shoulder. Proof of the battles she had survived. Proof that she was still here.
When she stepped out, a bowl of hot soup and a slice of bread awaited her.
"Eat something, Reyna," Inez said gently. "You'll need strength to find the truth."
She sat quietly and took a spoonful. The heat didn't sting her tongue, but it stirred something deeper — the aching realization that she was still loved.
The next morning, before sunrise —
Enzo was already waiting downstairs, the polished black Mercedes S-Class idling softly. La Reyna descended in a velvet Loro Piana coat, Jimmy Choo leather heels, and a smoky-grey Valextra handbag. Her sunglasses shielded tired eyes, even though the sky remained dark.
Enzo opened the door. "Malpensa Airport, ma'am?"
"Yes. And please… don't talk unless it's necessary," she said, her tone not harsh — just weary.
They drove in silence for a while until Enzo couldn't help himself.
"I used to drive your father, you know. He was like you — quiet. But I always believed that silence… is full of sound. Some people stay quiet not because they have nothing to say, but because they've felt too much."
She said nothing. But her grip on her handbag loosened slightly.
At Milan Malpensa Airport's private terminal, Enzo exited first to open her door.
"Take care, Miss Reyna. Even the strongest deserve rest."
She paused, then nodded. "Thank you, Enzo."
The flight to Istanbul passed in a blur — not because it was short, but because her body finally gave in. She boarded Turkish Airlines, Business Class, seat 3A by the window. The seat next to her was empty, and she was grateful.
The in-flight monitor glowed with the flight path to Istanbul. But she didn't care. Ten minutes after takeoff, she fell asleep — curled slightly, wrapped in a soft blanket bearing the airline's insignia. For once, the clouds were quieter than her mind.
When she woke, the cabin lights were bright. The captain's voice echoed overhead, announcing their descent. She freshened up with a moist towel handed to her by the attendant, adjusted her coat, and prepared to land.
Her phone vibrated.
Lucien:"Madrid is cold tonight. But my chest feels colder… because you're not here. Sometimes I wonder if I'm losing you to a war I can't even see. Come back whole. Please."
She didn't reply. Not because she didn't feel — but because words wouldn't do it justice.
Istanbul, Turkey — Afternoon
At the arrivals hall, a young man with shoulder-length curly hair in a dark brown linen coat held a card: REYNA.
His name was Emir, assistant to one of Raezmir's old contacts. He bowed slightly when she approached.
"Welcome to Istanbul, Miss Reyna. Your accommodations are ready as requested."
He reached for her bag politely but didn't insist when she held it tighter.
A vintage Mercedes W123 waited outside, driven by a stout Turkish man named Faruk. They headed toward Beyoğlu, where a discreet Ottoman-style boutique hotel awaited — Dar Rüzgar, known only to a few. Heavy wooden doors, hand-carved windows, no electronic keycards — just old iron keys.
Inside her room, a fresh bouquet sat atop the writing desk. Beside it, a folded note:
"For the child who seeks the legacy. The first place is not the destination, but the beginning."
— K
Later that day, in the antique markets of Balat — a haven of forgotten manuscripts, copper trinkets, and relics that smelled of empire and dust — La Reyna moved with purpose. Her heels clicked softly along cobbled alleys.
She stopped at a faded blue wooden door, its brass bell slightly tarnished. Inside, the air was thick with aged paper and oiled wood.
An old man behind the counter looked up. His beard was snow-white, his eyes clouded but sharp.
"Raezmir's daughter?" he asked, as though he had been waiting.
She nodded.
"I am Sadık Bey. Your father once saved my life. Today, I return the favor."
He opened a narrow chest and unrolled a velvet cloth, revealing an iron key — dark, worn, marked with the El'Raez sigil and ancient blood glyphs.
"The vault lies beneath an abandoned madrasah in Eminönü. It was sealed after the Fall of Constantinople. But it won't open unless blood is offered. Blood willing to sacrifice."
La Reyna reached for the key. Her fingers trembled.
"Was this truly my father's last gift… or his final curse?"
Above, on the rooftop, two eyes watched her through binoculars. One of the Blood Council's agents pressed a communicator.
"She has the First Key. Confirmed."
In Lyon, Maeryss listened to the report. Her smile was unreadable.
"Let her find it. That vault won't save her. It'll open the door to something worse."
And so, La Reyna continued — not just for vengeance, but for the truth.
To discover what her blood was hiding.
And why it still burns.