Read Amore — Unleash The Madness :: Into The Madness - 4

But would she be able to grasp it? Would the echoes of her madness follow her, haunting her every step? She didn't know, but for now, all that mattered was the chance to set things right. The nightmare was far from over, but Hestia was ready to fight. With these thoughts of doubt and affirmation, she opened her eyes again—Slap!

Hestia shrivelled at the sudden, sharp pain searing her cheek. The intensity of the slap had been jarring, enough to inform her that it would leave a mark on her once-prized face. Blood trickled from the scratches, each drop igniting irked sensations within her being, a cruel reminder of her vulnerability.

She touched her cheek lightly, hissing at the sting, and turned her gaze to the figure responsible for this assault. Her glare, fueled by authority and indignation, quickly morphed into a bewildered stare, as though she were gazing upon a long-lost kin.

Before her stood a woman in her thirties, sharing the same sharp facial structure as Hestia, yet her features bore a more polished, terrifying beauty. Curly red hair cascaded down her hips like a fiery waterfall, framing a face that radiated both elegance and danger. The sharp, crimson-painted nails on her hands only served to complete the image of a raw, insane beauty—an imposing aura that was impossible to ignore.

It was her mother, the woman who had once been the paragon of grace and strength in Hestia’s life—the most respected figure in her noble heart.

“Mother…!?” Hestia's voice came out an octave higher than she remembered, shock slicing through her disbelief.

She instinctively pressed her hands to her throat, as if that might help her absorb the reality of the moment. Her eyes drifted downward, and she noticed the green, velvety nightdress clinging to her frame—so different from the childish gowns meant for teenagers. The fabric felt foreign against her skin, and her body had changed in subtle but undeniable ways, hinting at the passage of time she had somehow traversed.

Confusion swirled within her as she tried to reconcile the sight before her with the memories of her past. “How… How is this possible?”

Her mother’s gaze bore into her, a mixture of fury and something deeper—perhaps concern or disappointment. Hestia felt the weight of expectations pressing down on her, alongside a surge of memories: laughter shared in the quiet corners of their home, moments of warmth now tainted by the chasm of time and loss.

“Who do you think you are?” her mother’s voice was sharp, laced with both authority and harshness. The words sliced through the air, leaving Hestia reeling.

The familiarity of the moment was jarring. It was as if the world around them had shifted, morphing into a distorted reflection of her past. She longed to reach out, to bridge the gap that had grown between them, but the realisation of her actions and the destruction she had wrought loomed over her like a dark cloud. She did not want to create any butterfly effect yet.

“Mother,” she pleaded, her voice trembling with emotion, she needed to figure out what her past self has done, “I—”

But her mother held up a hand, silencing her. “Did I ever ask you for this flower crown? Do you even realise who you are offending?!”

Hestia's heart sank, the weight of her past sins crashing down upon her. The familiar ache of guilt settled deep within her chest, intertwining with the pain from her cheek. This reunion, meant to be a moment of joy, was tainted by the shadows of her future choices. She had no control over her time-travelling yet. And she must have definitely teleported herself to one of those moments when her dearest mother used to have “insane episodes” where she couldn't remember her own daughter and husband.

Even for a calm-headed woman like Hestia, who had always anticipated the consequences of her actions, the sudden shift in her surroundings left her utterly stunned. The stark contrast between the bloodied, barren grassland and the ghostly figures of the dead who were practically living right now, shuffled through her mind like a haunting nightmare.

She recalled the chilling moment she had killed her mother, a decision driven by the overwhelming madness that had taken hold of her mother, just like it should have of any descendant, bearing the blood of Cecile Von.

In her mind, she remembered: it had felt like a prerequisite—a necessary sacrifice to ensure her family’s peace and survival. If she hadn’t done it, her elders would have seen it as a rejection of their legacy, a refusal to allow her mother to escape the burdens of their twisted fate. The family of Von were practically immortal. With passing age, they would show signs of insanity and bloodlust; they wouldn't care for any rules or relationships. The only way for them to depart from their madness was by having them killed by their own kin.

The weight of that memory pressed down on her, twisting her gut with a mix of regret and sorrow. Hestia's heart raced as she grappled with the enormity of her past actions, the tension of the situation tightening around her like a vice. She felt a plethora of feelings she couldn’t describe. She needed to calm himself and recover from these memories which were constantly flooding her mind.

Suddenly, Hestia felt as if she were locked in place, paralyzed by a wave of anxiety. Her eyes darted, wide with terror, as she watched her mother’s nails descend towards her, poised to scratch and draw blood. Kiara's gaze burned with an indescribable, primal hunger for flesh—a darkness Hestia recognized all too well, having felt it surge within her own soul.

But to witness this madness now, in this moment, meant that her own demise was imminent.

No, no! This can't happen!

Defeated, Hestia braced herself for the incoming blow, accepting the brutal fate that seemed inevitable. But just as she steeled herself for the pain, a strong hand shot out and grasped her mother’s wrist, halting the strike in mid-air.

“Kiara! You shouldn’t lay a hand on her!” A familiar baritone voice rang out from behind, cutting through the tension in the room. Moments later, a procession of servants entered, their expressions reserved, yet Hestia could sense the underlying current of fear coursing through them. A man in his thirties stepped forward, his soft features contrasting with the determined glint in his golden eyes, which scanned the room discreetly. “Braze!” her mother, Kiara Cecile Von, called out to her husband, a figure who rarely took centre stage in Hestia's life but had always showered her with unconditional love. Even though he was often seen as a fool, sickly and weak, he possessed the heart of a lion, brave enough to confront the terrifying madness that radiated from Kiara. Hestia was finally free from the chain-shackling aura that pressed her down like a prey at that time. Braze approached Hestia, his presence calm yet commanding. He reached out, patting Hestia’s shoulder gently, his touch conveying a wealth of emotions that only a concerned father could express. “Hestia, you need to go back to your room and recuperate for a while,” he urged, his voice steady but filled with concern. His protective instinct wrapped around her like a comforting cloak, offering solace amidst the chaos. Hestia felt a rush of gratitude and warmth at his touch, a reminder that, even in the midst of madness, there was still love and support to be found in her father’s unwavering presence.

She obeyed his command, heart pounding as she fled down the endless white hallways, their pristine walls adorned with antique relics that seemed to mock her misery. The heavy air of dread clung to her as she skidded to a halt in front of her room, her pulse deafening in her ears. She couldn't afford to linger...not when staying any longer would only feed the madness gnawing away at her mother’s mind. Kiara wasn’t just sick; she was lost, her soul twisted beyond recognition. And the fight—oh, the fight that loomed between her parents? She didn’t need to witness it to know how it would end. It was always the same. Her mother, drugged into oblivion, reduced to nothing but a lifeless shell. And her father...he would emerge from the aftermath, haunted, his skin etched with fresh scars: physical reminders of their crumbling lives.

Hestia burst through the door with a clatter, her breath ragged from the rush, as if the very air in the room was a balm she desperately needed. She made a beeline for the mirror, her feet barely touching the ground, and froze as she stared at her reflection—her teenage self staring back at her, unchanged, unflinching. Her once long red hair was now cropped short, framing her face with an edge she had never known before. Her blue eyes, glimmering like flawless pristine blue sapphires, held a clarity that had long eluded her. They were bright, pure, untouched by the fog of confusion that had once clouded her mind.

But then, her gaze dropped to the thin, faint scar still etched along the edge of her skin—a reminder of the pain she had endured. She traced it with a trembling finger, and with every touch, the memory of that sharp, exhilarating pain flooded her senses. It was a mark of triumph, a symbol of her victory over the chaos that once ruled her. Her heart swelled, not with despair, but with a strange, twisted joy. A wave of satisfaction washed over her, and she pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the warmth of her own body, the solid thrum of her heart beating normally, steadily. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there were no whispers, no haunting voices echoing in her mind.

“I’ve returned…” she whispered, the words barely audible, yet their weight crashed down on her like a torrent of bullets. She was back, truly back, and the realisation sent shivers racing down her spine, tingling with excitement and anticipation. Her lips curled slowly into a smile, a sinister grin that hinted at the depths of her thoughts—the plan that was already taking shape in her mind. Her first success was already in the past, and now the second was within reach. Oh, how she longed to correct the mistakes of her former self, to finish what she had started and put an end to the misery that had haunted her for so long.

Her chuckle was soft at first, vibrating from deep within her chest, until it filled the empty room with its quiet, eerie resonance. Just then, a knock at the door pulled her from her reverie. The maid entered, her presence as unobtrusive as the ticking of a clock, and Hestia barely acknowledged her as she stepped forward to attend to her. The maid worked in silence, fixing the torn dress that had frayed at the hem, but Hestia’s mind was elsewhere. The fabric of reality was hers to tear and mend now, just like the dress. She couldn’t wait to reshape it—to end this misery, and to do it on her own terms.

A future where every ounce of manpower would be needed to hunt down their enemy. A future where failure would bring devastating consequences. A future where she would not repeat the mistakes of her predecessors. She embraced such a future with open arms.

Today was the day she was summoned to the palace, where the candidates vying for the throne awaited her presence. It was nothing more than a calculated move by the Imperial family. A scheme to keep House Von in check while ensuring that their precious, rare magic remained within their bloodline. The only way to achieve that was through her marriage to one of the throne’s most suitable heirs.

But she had already foreseen the emperor’s true intentions. He would never allow the cursed magic of House Von to taint the Imperial bloodline, no matter how vital it was to the empire’s future.

She knew that grand promises and empty assurances would do little to change her fate. She had been thrown back to a time when she held neither power nor influence. The only thing keeping her afloat in the empire's treacherous waters was the title of "Acting Head of Cardiff"—a position that granted her temporary authority but not the security she needed.