Chapter 229: The Weight of Blood IV
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Seraphiel continued as if she were discussing flower storage rather than two captured half-gods. "But remember, someone stronger than me can break the seal very easily. So you must keep them in a hidden place."
That pulled the faint humor out of the walk.
Sekhmet’s expression sharpened. "Very easily?"
Seraphiel nodded. "To me, this seal is neat work. To something properly old, properly unpleasant, and properly motivated, it is an inconvenience. A locked door, not a mountain."
Sekhmet let that settle.
The city around them continued breathing, unaware of the sentence it had just heard.
"So if their allies find us," he said, "the seal may not hold."
"If the wrong ally finds you," Seraphiel said, "it will not matter whether it holds. Your problem will already be standing in front of you."
"That is comforting," Sekhmet said.
"It is accurate," Seraphiel replied.
That was harder to argue with.
They kept walking.
The road toward Dawn House wound through the quieter parts of the district first, where the lamps were tall and the buildings had old carved balconies and watchful windows. Stone walls caught moonlight in pale strips. Somewhere above them, laundry swayed on a line like ghosts that had given up on haunting and settled for eavesdropping.
Sekhmet’s body still felt strange under his clothes. Stronger. Tighter. More complete in some dangerous new way. Every now and then he could feel the Blood God fraction inside him like a drop of red metal moving through his system. Not separate from him. Part of him now. That thought should have frightened him more than it did.
He looked at Sofia and Natasha again.
"Why did you come after me?" he asked. "I don’t know you."
Neither answered immediately.
Natasha kept her face forward. "You killed Alex..."
Sofia’s smile returned, but only the surface of it. "Dead people rarely explain themselves."
Sekhmet’s voice stayed calm. "You are not dead yet."
Sofia’s eyes slid to him again. "A charming negotiation style."
Elena said nothing, but her silence had weight. It reminded both captives that this conversation was happening because they were allowed to keep breathing.
After a few moments, Sofia spoke. "Because you were becoming interesting."
Sekhmet did not look away.
"That is a terrible reason to die," he said.
Sofia’s smile thinned. "Old predators often die from curiosity. Sometimes from pride. Sometimes from believing the future will behave like the past."
"We had all three," Natasha said coldly.
That was the first useful thing either of them had volunteered.
Seraphiel’s gaze flicked toward Natasha. "How helpful of you."
"I am not helping you," Natasha said.
"No," Seraphiel replied. "You are helping your own survival instincts. It is nice to see they exist under all that attitude."
If glares could kill, the street would have needed rebuilding.
They turned into a broader road leading toward Dawn House territory. The familiar architecture began to appear. Stone facades with the old Dawn style. Clean lines. Quiet dignity. Guard points built into corners so naturally that most outsiders never noticed them. Home was close enough now that Sekhmet could feel it in his chest, though tonight the word felt changed.
He had left home as himself.
He was returning with two captured half-gods, a hidden aunt, a heavier body, stronger chaos energy, and the knowledge that his father had deep secrets but was trapped in some distant place dealing with something bad enough to keep him away.
Normal nights were becoming rare.
"Where do you intend to keep them?" Elena asked.
Sekhmet thought for a moment. "Not in any obvious prison."
"Good," Seraphiel said.
"Not in the main house," he added.
"Better."
"I will put them somewhere no servant wanders into by accident."
"That already excludes half of noble houses," Seraphiel murmured.
Sekhmet glanced at her. "You sound experienced."
"I have met nobles," Seraphiel said dryly. "Some of them would misplace a sealed half-god the way ordinary people misplace gloves."
Elena’s mouth twitched again.
Natasha looked deeply offended by the conversation.
Sofia looked like she was mentally planning murder in alphabetical order.
Sekhmet exhaled quietly through his nose. Strange as it was, the humor helped. It gave the night shape. Without it, everything threatened to become too sharp.
They walked the last stretch under the shadow of Dawn House walls.
The gates stood ahead, dark and solid and it looked very familiar and friendly. Lanterns burned at their sides, their warm light spilling onto stone. Two guards straightened the moment they recognized the approaching figures. Then the guards saw the state of the group more clearly.
Sekhmet saw the exact instant confusion became an alarm.
Elena lifted a hand before anyone could speak out of turn. "Open the gate."
The gates moved at once. No one was stupid enough to ask questions there.
As they stepped through, Sekhmet felt the boundary of home close around him like a different kind of armor. Not safe exactly. Not tonight. But structure. Territory. The place where answers might begin and where enemies could at least be hidden behind his own walls instead of someone else’s.
He looked once toward the inner estate, toward the deeper grounds beyond the main house, already thinking ahead. Hidden place. Secure. No eyes. No loose tongues.
Sofia followed his gaze and understood enough to look displeased.
Natasha noticed too and said nothing, which was somehow more ominous.
Lady Seraphiel slowed slightly as they crossed fully into Dawn House land. Her eyes moved over the estate with something unreadable in them. Memory, perhaps. Or comparison. Or grief too old to wear its full name in public.
Elena noticed, but did not comment.
Sekhmet did not ask.
Not yet.
The gates shut behind them with a deep, final sound.
The moment Sekhmet stepped deeper into Dawn House grounds, he knew they had been waiting.
Not because someone announced it.
Because the front courtyard did not feel asleep.
The lanterns were too bright. Too many of them. Shadows stood in the wrong places, stretched long over stone and trimmed hedges. There was movement near the front steps, the kind of movement people made when they had been trying to look calm for too long and had finally given up pretending.