Harem Apocalypse: Every Moan Levels Us Up!

Venna Belmonte walked toward me like she was afraid I might vanish if she broke eye contact. She threaded through the last clusters of people still drifting around the graveyard, murmuring quiet excuses—"Excuse me," "Just a moment"—without ever looking away, her steps deliberate across the uneven grass, closing the distance with clear purpose. The hem of her dark dress brushed against her calves with each stride, sunlight flickering across the fabric.

I stood still and let her come, the question burning in the back of my mind: How the hell did she know me? We had never met. I’d only seen her face in photographs on Riya’s walls.

She reached me, stopping just inside arm’s reach. The faint scent of her perfume—something clean and floral—cut through the heavier smells of turned dirt and wilting flowers.

[Venna Belmonte. Primordial woman. A Source.]

[She doesn’t know what she carries. A strong bond will need to be built as she discovers herself.]

"Hey," she said, eyes locked on mine, steady but searching.

"Hey."

"Thank you for coming." Her voice was steady, genuine—the specific warmth of someone who had been receiving empty condolences all morning and meant this one.

"Riya was a friend," I said, keeping my tone even.

"Really?" Surprise softened her face, loosening something tight in her expression. "My mother didn’t have friends I knew of outside the family." A small, lighter note slipped into her voice. "I’m curious what kind of bond brings a handsome young man to her burial."

"Can’t tell," I said, letting my hands move with the words.

She smiled—small and real, probably the first one that wasn’t shaped for anyone else’s benefit. It reached her eyes, crinkling the skin at the corners.

"I’m Venna," she said, extending nothing but holding the space between us open.

"Abram." I held her gaze. "Nice to meet you."

"Not the best place for a first meeting," she said, glancing briefly at the fresh grave a few yards away. "But same."

I looked at her properly for the first time. The photographs on Riya’s wall hadn’t done her justice. Striking blue hair caught the cemetery sunlight, shifting in the light breeze that tugged gently at the strands, some catching against her cheek before she brushed them back. And her eyes—ancient and clear in such a young face, carrying depths the rest of her features tried to hide. The same eyes I’d seen in Riya’s memories.

"You have your mother’s eyes," I said, before I could stop myself. The words slipped out raw.

She glanced away for just a second, something private flickering across her face. "People say that. I’ve never been able to see it myself."

Around us the gathering was thinning. Voices dropped to the low murmur of after-burials. People drifted toward their cars as the graveyard slowly slipped back into its usual heavy quiet. Then I caught movement behind her.

Edgar Belmonte, the last person still lingering at the graveside, was making his way toward us with the unhurried ease of someone who had never needed to rush in his entire long life. His steps were measured, shoes sinking slightly into the earth.

"I’m sorry for your loss," I said to Venna.

"Thank you." She gave a small smile that had clearly been used many times today. "It’s okay."

Edgar reached us and settled a protective arm around Venna’s shoulder, the fabric of her dress shifting under his hand. His other hand came forward to meet mine.

"Sir," I said, taking it.

His grip was something else—firm, absolute, the controlled strength of a man who had been shaking hands for centuries and had long stopped adjusting it for people like me. He held it a beat longer than necessary, squeezed once, and offered a smile that didn’t explain itself. His eyes flicked to Venna before he let go.

"Abram, this is my uncle, Edgar," Venna said, then turned to him. "Uncle Eddie, this is Abram. My friend."

Edgar smiled—small, measured, and carefully polite.

"Sweetie, didn’t know you had friends." He rubbed Venna’s shoulder with the easy affection of someone who had been looking after her for a very long time. "Should we go?"

"No," Venna said firmly. "I’m still with Abram."

Edgar looked at me. The smile never wavered.

[He doesn’t like you.]

I know.

"We’ll meet at home then," Edgar said, already turning. He stopped right beside me, stepping close enough that the move felt deliberate. "If anything happens to her," he said, voice warm like he was telling a joke, "I’ve already memorized your face."

He walked past us without another word.

Venna gave a small, embarrassed laugh as she watched him go. "He’s a good man," she said, like she’d said it a thousand times before and still meant every word. "Do you want to go to the grave?"

I nodded.

We walked together deeper into the graveyard, leaving the road and the last clusters of people behind. Something quiet moved between us—something the system wasn’t labeling, nothing like the raw pull I’d felt with Carrise or the electric recognition with the others. Just... something steadier. More human.

We stopped at Riya’s grave. The rest of the gathering had drifted back toward the road, leaving just the two of us. Monica, Sophia, Edgar, and Mute stood in their own tight circle in the distance.

The tombstone was simple. No dates. No long epitaph. Just her name carved clean into the stone:

Riya Belmonte.

These will all awake, Eleanor’s voice echoed in the back of my mind. And that will be the very end of the world.

I looked away from the stone. Venna’s eyes stayed fixed on it, her face carrying whatever weight she needed to carry in silence. I let her have the moment. Then I glanced toward the road.

Enhanced hearing.

[It won’t be relevant here.]

Turn it on.

The world sharpened instantly.

"Don’t you see it?" Edgar’s voice carried clearly across the distance. "The resemblance. A boy who looks exactly as Ethan looked at that age, showing up near our families. You don’t think that’s a coincidence?"

Monica glanced briefly in our direction, then back to the group. "I see a young man who wants to be Venna’s boyfriend, and an uncle too protective to let it happen." She turned away again. "That’s all I see."

"You’re not looking properly," Edgar replied.

"Did she pass it to Venna before she died?" Sophia’s voice cut through, sharp.

I stayed completely still.

"No," Monica answered. "She died with it."

I filed that away. Riya had told me in her letter that she’d transferred what she carried to Venna. But Monica believed it had died with her. Which meant the families still had no idea Venna was now a Source.

What surprised me more was Mute standing right there in that circle, listening like he belonged, a level-three teleporter from Hogsby treated as one of their own.

"Abram."

Venna’s voice pulled me back. The enhanced hearing cut off.

She was looking at me steadily, the afternoon light catching the blue in her hair and the quiet intensity in her eyes.

"I know this might sound strange," she said. "But there’s something I need to tell you."

"Okay," I said, and waited.