Chapter Seven –Morning After the Red Moon

The first thing Lyra felt was warmth.

Not the biting chill of Blackthorne’s stone walls, but steady warmth against her skin — a blanket heavier and softer than her own, and the faint crackle of fire somewhere close.

When her eyes opened, it wasn’t the familiar ceiling of her dorm above her but one painted in shadow and gold. The room smelled faintly of ink and smoke — and something else, something that made her pulse trip.

Leather. Cedar. Vale.

She sat up too fast, the world tilting before her. A dark coat hung over a chair near the hearth, his insignia glinting faintly in the firelight. On the table beside her lay a glass of water, a folded cloth, and — her mark.

Her breath caught.

The faint, glowing lines had returned. They traced up from her palms, pale light pulsing under the skin, softer now but still alive. The memory of last night hit like a storm — the red moon, the wolves bowing, Vale’s voice, her mother’s warning.

“He’s not who you think he is, Lyra.”

Her gaze darted around the room, searching.

He stood near the far wall, half in shadow, sleeves rolled to his forearms, staring down at a book spread open on the desk. The firelight caught the edge of his jaw, the silver in his dark hair, the tension in his shoulders.

Vale looked like a man who hadn’t slept.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher than she’d ever heard it.

“You shouldn’t be awake yet.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning to sleep in your room,” she said, her throat dry.

He glanced up, eyes sharp but unreadable. “You collapsed after the blast. The Council would have torn the courtyard apart if they’d found you there. I brought you here to keep you out of sight.”

“Out of sight?” she repeated. “From who?”

His gaze held hers for a moment, then dropped back to the page. “From everyone.”

Lyra swung her legs off the bed, the cold floor biting her feet. “You said something last night — about my mother. That she was here. That she made an oath.”

“You remember that?”

“Every word,” she said. “And the voice, and the light, and—” She broke off, hands trembling. “Was any of it real?”

Vale’s silence told her enough.

She stepped closer, her voice a whisper. “Then tell me what’s happening to me.”

He closed the book, the sound sharp in the quiet. “You’re waking up what she buried.”

Lyra’s chest tightened. “My mother?”

Vale nodded once, slowly. “She sealed something inside you when you were a child — the bloodline of the First. It was supposed to stay dormant until you were safely beyond their reach.”

“Their?”

He hesitated, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “The Council. They don’t tolerate what they can’t control.”

Lyra laughed — soft, breathless, disbelieving.

“Control? You mean whatever that thing was — the monster, the light — that was me?”

“You commanded it.” His voice dropped low. “You commanded all of them.

Her stomach twisted. “That’s impossible.”

Vale’s gaze lifted, catching hers in the firelight. “You said the same about the wolves, didn’t you?”

The room suddenly felt too small. The flames in the hearth threw their light across the floor, painting both of them in flickering amber.

Lyra swallowed hard. “So what now? What do I do with something I don’t even understand?”

“You hide it.”

She frowned. “That’s it?”

Vale stepped closer, his height casting her in shadow. “You think you can parade that kind of power through Blackthorne and not draw blood?

The moment the Council senses what you are, they’ll come for you. And this time, not even I can stop them.”

Something inside her rebelled at that. “You said you’d protect me.”

“I said I’d keep you alive,” he corrected.

Her heartbeat stumbled. “Is there a difference?”

Vale’s expression flickered — just for a heartbeat, softening before the walls came back up. “You shouldn’t test mine.”

Lyra looked down at her hands. The faint glow pulsed again, responding to something in his tone.

“It reacts to you,” she whispered.

His breath caught, barely audible. “What?”

“My mark. It burns when you’re near.”

He froze, and in the silence that followed, even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

“That’s not possible,” he said finally, but the words didn’t sound like he believed them.

Lyra lifted her gaze to his. “Then why won’t it stop?”

For a long moment, neither moved. The space between them felt electric, the air thick enough to taste.

Vale’s control cracked first. He stepped back sharply, running a hand through his hair, the motion quick and almost human. “You shouldn’t be here.

You need to return to your dorm before the others wake.”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m protecting you.”

“From what? From you?”

That made him look at her again, eyes dark, unreadable. “From everything that follows me.”

Before she could respond, a loud knock shattered the tension. Vale crossed the room in a blur, opening the door just enough to reveal a tall figure cloaked in gray — a woman whose presence filled the doorway like a blade of winter air.

“Professor Vale,” she said smoothly. “The Council has summoned all faculty to the courtyard. They’re investigating the disturbance from last night.”

Vale’s jaw tightened. “I’ll be there shortly.”

The woman’s eyes flicked past him, landing briefly on Lyra. “And the girl?”

Lyra stiffened, her pulse jumping.

Vale shifted just enough to block the view. “She’s my responsibility.”

The woman’s lips curved — not quite a smile. “Then keep her out of sight.”

When the door shut, Lyra exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Who was that?”

“Council liaison,” Vale said. “Which means we’re out of time.”

He moved toward the shelves, pulling something from the shadows — a thin, worn book bound in black leather. The symbol on its cover shimmered faintly, like the same mark glowing beneath Lyra’s skin.

“What is that?”

“Your mother’s journal.”

Lyra’s breath caught. “You kept it.”

Vale didn’t answer. He placed it on the table, his hand hovering above it like he couldn’t decide whether to let it go. “She gave it to me before she—” He stopped, the words cutting off.

“Before she died,” Lyra finished quietly.

He met her gaze. “You shouldn’t read it yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because some truths don’t wait to be told. They hunt you down.”

Something in his voice — raw, low — made her chest ache.

Lyra stepped closer. “You sound like you’ve read it.”

“I have.”

“And?”

Vale’s eyes darkened. “It ruined me.”

The fire popped behind them, the sound startling in the quiet. Outside, faint morning light began to creep through the window, chasing away the red.

Lyra stared at the journal, her hands trembling with the urge to open it, to see her mother’s handwriting, to understand.

Vale noticed. “Don’t,” he said softly.

“Would you have listened?” she murmured.

“No.”

Their eyes met — storm and steel — and something in the air shifted, delicate but dangerous.

Lyra’s voice dropped. “Then don’t ask me to.”

For a moment, neither breathed. Then Vale exhaled slowly, stepping back. “You’ll need to leave soon.

The Council will search the East Wing.”

“Will you be all right?” she asked, surprising herself with how much it mattered.

Vale’s lips curved, faint and tired. “I’ve survived worse.”

She hesitated, then took a step toward him. “Thank you. For last night.”

He didn’t answer, but his eyes softened — the closest thing to warmth she’d ever seen from him.

Lyra turned to the door. Her hand brushed the frame when his voice stopped her.

“Lyra.”

She looked back.

Vale stood where the light from the fire touched his face, half-shadow, half-flame. “Whatever you saw in the fountain… whatever she said—” He paused, his throat tight. “Don’t trust it. Not yet.”

Her heart stuttered. “The warning?”

He nodded once. “Sometimes ghosts lie.”

Lyra’s pulse fluttered. “And sometimes they don’t.”

Their gazes held for a heartbeat too long before she slipped out the door.

***

Outside, dawn had finally broken. The courtyard below was quiet, the shattered fountain covered by a dark tarp, guards pacing the edges. The wolves were gone, but their presence lingered — the air heavy with the memory of submission.

Lyra pulled her cloak tighter and started down the hall. Her palms still glowed faintly beneath the fabric, a soft reminder that whatever last night had awakened, it wasn’t done with her.

As she passed a window, something caught her reflection — not the faint outline of her face, but eyes that flashed silver in the morning light.

And in the silence, somewhere deep inside, the voice whispered again.

Wake up.