A summer night could not have held me tighter than my mother's arms in bed. She was wailing, clutching at me with fingers both sharp and nearly bloodless, shoving her tear-stricken face into my throat while the birds outside shared a harmony of warbling sadness; it was irritating and admitedly, an ill-met distraction to hear their paradaisical song in the wind. 

My mother's tragedy stretched into me like a railroad, miles of pain going on forever and ever. Nothing in me could have reciprocated right now, but even if I could, there was a stirring in the air that swathed everything in syrupy apprehension, pushing me towards the precipice of white-knuckled rage.

As the final hymns of the birds detached themselves from the hoarse sobbing pouring out of my mother's mouth, I pried her arms from around my neck and stared out the window of my bedroom. Struck anew with grief because of my indifference, my mother paced in front of the bed, her movements around the room a tedious exercise, making me indulge my own hysteria instead. Sure enough, what I longed to do was rip the threads of sorrow from our chests, but as morning rays broke over me like a procession of smoke, warm daylight gentled my face with loving hands, and the outside world imbued me with a mindfulness that was astoundingly humbling. 

I later on realized that I didn't much care about anything, for I was now blissfully numb, my bones finding remedy in stillness, because all that I needed to do in order to occupy myself was ignore the most recent loss of my family. A piece of cake.

Hunger began to claw at me in pernicious strikes, but my dedication as a griever was single-handedly keeping me upright and intact, the words of righteousness that I'd longed to spill tucked away for another day. As of right now, a woollen blanket was bunched in my fist as I watched the cherry blossoms outside drop their thousands of pink blooms onto my mother's garden beds. 

In another life, I would have cared about raking it all up or tidying the weeds outside. But none of it was on my mind at the moment, not even a little bit. The tightness in my throat was a minor issue tonight, only because I'd first learnt of something heartbreaking and then I'd roared in outrage.

Not one to collapse the severity of our hushed bubble, I maintained my red-eyed vigil next to the window as a watchful soldier would on standby, while the view on the horizon shifted from a promising blue gradient to an evening grey palette. The monotonous minutes of the day had escaped me in bulk, yet I was the one being held captive in my room, a prisoner to my new state of mind.

Through it all, a sniffling presence wandered at arm's length. My mother. She was the frigid constant in my life, an untethered boat in my ocean of vindication, carrying all the emotional baggage that I longed to be absent. Her wet howls of sufferance were as deep as the ones I buried in my soul, yet because of the seamless gushing that escaped her mouth time and time again, I callously rejected anything resembling an embrace. No soft-spoken words or smiles would come from me, that had been my unspoken vow in the all-encompassing gloom before her expression tightened with a grudge, and she busied herself lighting candles around the room.

Whatever roamed inside her mind used to resemble roadspikes and confessional booths, able to catch prey with nary a word while unopened secrets dwelled like paper balls in a wastebasket at the back of her head - but it was obvious that the blade of her wit had dimmed in those brown eyes over the years, proving that she was just as vacant as the rest of our house.

The crooked cloak of night crawled in, eclipsing me with slithery darkness and I allowed it, silently wishing for more as the moon poured silvery beams across the floorboards. My mother's muttering scratched every nerve I had, but not once was I derailed from my quest for penance. Shrouded by the embrace of the dark was how I longed to dissolve. A rapturous thought, to be dragged into oblivion by something so consuming. 

It was at that moment that we heard an ear-splitting clap of thunder. I'd already determined it was merely the first of many omens detailing my initiation into the family business. While many would accuse it of being an innocent burst of percussion, I knew better than to think of it as such on a night like this, and already it seemed to scrape a new measure of unease into our state of complacency, my brows nearly tying themselves together in defeated languish as I shook my head.

"He's here." My mother shot for the door, scrambling in haste, already forgetting about me.

I didn't move. What for? My mind had been made up. Everything was pointless.

Purple lightning cut a path across the star-lit sky and I narrowed my eyes, following the forked flashes of colour outside my window until raised voices cannoned into my atmosphere, drilling reckless energy into my legs for an instant. I swung them over the edge of my bed and paused, listening intently for the culmination of the argument.

My mother was talking to... Galahad Runebane. It was only a matter of time until he'd come looking for me, but I had secretly hoped it would at least be a couple of days. They wouldn't even give us a week to bury my uncle.

I didn't move a muscle when my bedroom door swung open. 

It probably surprised no one that I was in the very same worn-down clothes that Mr Runebane last saw me wearing, but there I was - slumped in bedsheets so thin they were like limp tissues wadded around my waist. I made no move to dispel the horrific taint of odour from the air and to his rampant chagrin, I wasn't the graceful girl who usually confronted his retinas, nor was I diligent company to converse with.

"You know why I'm here, Nilsenna." He voiced firmly, a whiff of propriety rolling from his countenance like cologne.

My bleached hair was piled around my chin, the stiff, unyielding scrunches of neon orange sweeping against my collarbones. I was a natural raven-haired child, born with muddy eyes and skin the colour of a roasted walnut, and right now the gritty strands of my candy-floss lob cut stuck up as though curlers had been left in, forcing them to stay in odd, unusual shapes, accentuating a very distasteful image. 

Blinking through my tiresome curtain of bangs, I spied the withered face of the elderly Runebane man, who trampled across tattered pages of torn booklets and shattered vases in order to reach me. He swept a resolute hand through his widow's peak of sprawling locks, taking stock of my inoperable body language.

Seconds later, the shrewdness of my mother claimed the room, all compuncture void in the face of our guest. Her eyes teemed with a rawness that couldn't be extinguished so easily, and it was perhaps because of these hellish few days that I allowed her outburst, acting as demure as the clock face on the wall. 

"You cannot have her, Galahad!" My mother shrieked, already senseless with the loss of one beloved relative.

It wasn't a denial. It was straight-up refusal and the cost was thicker than blood, heavier than the silence that pressed into the room at her delayed entry. Having her dramatic spiels in the equation wasn't always cost-effective in the negotiations, I'd found.

My mind turned over like a sputtering engine. Galahad needlessly glared at her before levelling me with his stone-cold eyes, those pinpricks of sterling grey hitting the glazed antipathy of my brown ones.

"Have you an answer, little one? Your uncle didn't leave any room for doubt that you'd fill in his shoes. Runebanes have always had Rooks on hand. Regardless of the circumstances, you are required."

A Rook was a position, one that had to be passed down in my family like an heirloom. I was merely a battering ram to be placed around by others, and a glorified guardian to the most prominent family of the supernatural world, as of now and until forever. My lineage as a halfling vampire demanded that I protect the bloodline of Runebane elves no matter the cost... This lifelong contract was a generational tether that claimed priveledge to every firstborn in my family, and it was because of this wretched premise that the greatest Rook of all time - my uncle Tanjiro Underhill - couldn't even have a proper burial.

My opinion on the matter was irrelevant. Tears had already been shed in the aftermath of my uncle's demise, so quick had I been to lock up any trembling rebuke since this was a responsibility deemed critical, one Tanjiro would have grasped onto with feverish intent had he been here. 

Dusting lint off my shoulder in drowsy motions, I nodded once and arose from the mass of swampy linen, my feet dragging toward the door in slovenly concurrence of Mr Runebane's directive.

Terror highlighted my mother's bone structure as she jumped in front of me and captured my shoulders in her hands. "Don't go with him. You can't leave me! We have to bury my brother! Tanjiro hasn't even gone cold and they're claiming you already!" Every word was meant to incite me and truthfully, they did.

However, I couldn't be swayed by the dead any longer. My uncle was certaintly built different from others... Rooks had a prerogative to fulfill, and unlike the other champions in our society, he cherished his duty with a reverence that defied logic and terrified me when I used to beg him to stay here. He never once tried to shirk the call of the Runebanes, so I couldn't either.

"Let go of me, Miradrixa." I snapped.

We were nearly the same height despite being twenty years apart. Our bodies had elected to fill out in different proportions, genetics blessing her with a willowy shape whereas I ticked the box of short and stubby, a fierceness dragging over my features almost like a net despite the ticking clock on the wall that signalled our last moments together. It couldn't be helped - the blood of a Rook was flowing in my veins, an entrapment that had lain in wait since birth.

As I leaned back, grim-faced and full of reproach at her wobbling lips, Mr Runebane moved to intercept the evolution of my mother's impending meltdown, hauling her back from the doorway. Not one to be impeded, she launched a slim hand at my face, her palm kissing the broad side of my left cheek.

"I have to bury him, Nilsenna!" Miradrixa screamed, "I can't do it alone. You promised me!"

Mr Runebane must have said something else to her, but I no longer cared to stay. I left the room. My cheek stung and I was beyond thirsty, yet my eyes zeroed in on the sneakers sitting by the front door. My mud-caked tennis shoes. My reliable lace-ups would have to do because my other pairs were way too ragged and hole-ridden. I slipped them on and picked up the hoodie that had been tossed over an armchair, turning around just as Miradrixa and our uninvited guest poured out of my bedroom.

She was still crying. Still shaking her head. But instead of saying anything, she dashed out the front door in a flurry of motion. Without a word or a proper goodbye.

"You won't be needing your things, girl." Galahad told me, his eyes roving over my face for any sign of emotion.

Once again, I nodded. Compliant. Tanjiro was the most perfect chess piece for the Runebanes, so I would be too. Whatever they asked for, I would do my best to provide, because that was the contract written in my blood.

Just as I turned for the door, Mr Runebane stopped me with a hand to my shoulder. My muddy eyes cut toward his, a question simmering in their depths that I dared not ask.

He wanted me to, though. I could tell. "It's not my place to ask, sir." I said.

His stirling eyes, they rounded. Big and open, two transparent pools that blinked guilelessly at me. He hummed and replied thoughtfully, "As unprepared as you are, Rook business is now your domain, Nilsenna. If you're curious about your uncle's death, just ask about it from now on."

"Why would anyone listen to a Rook?"

"Because you're the Rook heir. When you're acting in the capacity of a Rook, you'll find you can accomplish a lot of things. Oh, you may call me Galahad, by the way."

The elderly Runebane finally took his leave from my house, umbrella in hand, dashing out into the night. It was my instinct to follow him and not look back, so I did. With my heart in my throat and both hands balled at my sides, I ignored the fact that my mother was somewhere in the downpour, muting her grief in more layers of birdsong.