Chapter Eight: The Council’s Shadow

The next morning, Blackthorne looked almost peaceful.

Sunlight spilled weakly through the mist, painting the courtyard in pale gold—almost enough to make the night before feel like a fever dream. Almost.

Lyra pulled her cloak tighter as she crossed toward the main hall. The fountain had been cleared—what was left of it, anyway. Cracked stone, faint scorch marks, and a ring of guards where the water once shimmered. The Council’s banner fluttered above them, black and silver threads glinting.

Whispers followed her.

“Is that her?”

“Vale’s girl?”

“She was seen under the Red Moon.”

Lyra kept walking, ignoring the sting of every stare. Her palms itched beneath her gloves, the faint glow under her skin refusing to fade. Even her heartbeat felt strange—slightly off, like the rhythm belonged to someone else.

The Council’s summons had waited on her desk before dawn, carved in silver ink:

Attendance required – Inquiry at first bell.

She hadn’t needed to ask what it meant.

***

Inside the grand hall, the air was sharp with incense and old magic. Five figures sat at the high table, robes glinting with runic thread. The Council looked less like leaders and more like marble statues that had learned to breathe.

Vale stood with the instructors, expression unreadable. Cassian lounged behind him, smirking like he was watching a show.

Ronan stood near the front, posture perfect, eyes cutting briefly to hers before looking away.

Malachai stayed in the shadows near a tall window, silent as always—watching, though his face betrayed nothing.

Lyra’s hands shook as she faced them.

“Lyra Hawthorne,” said the woman at the center. “You were present during the Red Moon disturbance.”

“Yes.”

“And you claim no knowledge of the magic that occurred?”

“I don’t—” Lyra swallowed. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t start it.”

“Yet the wolves obeyed you,” another councilor said, eyes narrowing. “Witnesses report they bowed. Alphas do not bow.”

Lyra’s pulse thundered. “I didn’t ask them to.”

“Perhaps not aloud,” the woman murmured. “But magic of that magnitude doesn’t need words.”

Vale stepped forward. “With respect, Councilor, she’s inexperienced. She doesn’t yet understand what she carries—”

“Precisely the problem,” another interrupted. “An untrained wielder is a danger to herself and everyone within these walls.”

A murmur rippled through the hall.

Cassian leaned forward, voice smooth. “If she’s such a danger, perhaps she needs guidance.”

The Council turned toward him. Cassian’s grin was charming and reckless. “We already have four heirs trained to control aspects of command. Why not let us test her limits?”

“Test?” Lyra echoed, wary.

Cassian winked. “Don’t look so scared, pretty thing. It’s just practice.”

Ronan’s glare could have cracked stone. “This isn’t a game, Cassian.”

“Who said it was?”

Malachai finally spoke, his voice low and sharp. “He’s right. The mark she bears—it resonates.” His eyes flicked to Lyra. “It responds to us.”

Her stomach dropped. Us.

The Council exchanged looks. The central woman raised a hand. “Then it’s decided. Lyra Hawthorne will be placed under observation. Each of you—Vale, Ronan, Malachai, Cassian—will oversee one phase of her evaluation. You will test and report. If she cannot control the mark, she will be… contained.”

The word hit like a blade. “Contained?”

Vale’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Dismissed,” the Councilor ordered.

***

The hall emptied slowly. Lyra stayed still until the crowd thinned.

Cassian reached her first, spinning a silver ring on his finger. “Well, darling, looks like we’ll be spending more time together. Try not to faint next time, hmm?”

She scowled. “You’d love that.”

He grinned. “Immensely.”

Before she could retort, Ronan’s voice cut through. “Enough, Cassian.”

He crossed the space in long, heavy strides. His gaze flicked to her gloved hands. “You should’ve stayed hidden.”

“I didn’t exactly choose to light up like a lantern,” she said.

“Then learn to control it.”

“And if I can’t?”

He didn’t answer.

Malachai’s voice came from behind. Calm. Precise. “Then someone will control it for you.”

Lyra turned. His expression was unreadable, his tone neither cruel nor kind. “Is that a threat?”

“No.” His head tilted slightly. “It’s a prediction.”

Vale appeared beside her then, quiet but commanding. “That’s enough.”

The others fell silent—Cassian smirking as he backed off. Vale’s hand brushed her arm, grounding her. “You’ll report to me first. My lesson starts at dusk. Don’t be late.”

Then he was gone, cloak whispering behind him.

By afternoon, the Academy was back to normal—students training, gossip drifting through the halls, and the sharp clang of steel filling the air.

Yet Lyra couldn’t focus.

The pull under her skin only grew stronger. She could feel each of them now.

Ronan in the courtyard, sharp and distant.

Cassian sat in the dining hall, that teasing grin of his barely masking something sharper underneath.

Malachai lingered in the library’s shadows, quiet and unreadable as always.

And Vale—always Vale—his name a pulse beneath her ribs, tangled with her mother’s ghost and that warning she couldn’t forget.

By dusk, she stood in the East Wing courtyard—the one where the fountain had shattered. The sky was violet, the air cool and still.

Vale was already there, standing on the broken stone.

“You came,” he said without turning.

“You told me not to be late.”

He glanced over, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “You listen better than most.”

“This is training?”

“It is.” He gestured to the cracked stone. “Your mark reacted here first. We need to understand why.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then we pray the moon stays white.”

He faced her fully. “Close your eyes.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Because you’re afraid to.”

Her breath hitched, but she obeyed.

“Now listen,” his voice softened. “The mark isn’t separate from you—it is you. It listens to intent, not fear. Think of something that anchors you.”

Her mind flickered—her mother’s face, that old ink drawing, Vale’s voice whispering her name under the Red Moon.

Warmth bloomed under her skin. The glow returned, faint but steady, crawling up her arms.

Vale stepped closer. His breath brushed her cheek. “Good. Don’t fight it.”

Her eyes opened. Their gazes locked. The world stilled.

Then the light surged, molten gold.

Vale caught her wrists, voice rough. “Stop.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. Look at me.”

She did.

The glow dimmed, pulsing once before fading back into her skin.

Silence stretched. Vale’s expression was unreadable. “You’re learning faster than you should.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s dangerous.”

Footsteps broke the stillness. Cassian’s voice drifted through the archway, lazy and amused.

“Interrupting something?”

Vale’s expression shuttered. He dropped her hands.

“She’s done for tonight,” he said.

“Shame,” Cassian drawled. “I was hoping to watch.”

Lyra rolled her eyes, moving toward the gate. But as she passed, she saw Malachai beyond the corridor—still, silent, watching.

Four shadows. Four Alphas.

And her mark pulsing in rhythm with them all.

Something deep inside whispered a truth she didn’t want to face.

This was only the beginning.