Shadows In The Light

The morning light filtered into the mansion with reluctant softness, as if the sun itself was hesitant to pierce the thick air of distrust that had settled like fog over the estate.

Diva woke early, though she hadn’t really slept. Her dreams had been jagged and restless—fragments of whispers in the dark, the witch’s voice echoing, blood on her hands, and Derek walking away from her without looking back.

She sat up, pressing a palm to her forehead. Her wolf stirred, agitated beneath the surface, as if warning her that time was running out.

Downstairs, the staff moved more quietly than usual. The kitchen was unusually silent for that hour. She passed a servant girl on the stairwell—one of the new hires Derek had barely approved—and caught a flicker of something odd in her expression. Not fear. Not respect.

Recognition.

Diva paused, but the girl quickly looked down and scurried away.

Her breath caught.

She made her way to the training room where Derek often went when he needed clarity. And sure enough, she found him there—shirt damp with sweat, blade in hand, striking at an invisible enemy.

“You’re up early,” she said from the doorway.

He didn’t stop. “Didn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

A final swing. He let out a slow breath and lowered the blade. “Something’s shifting.”

Diva nodded. “I think someone recognized me.”

He turned toward her sharply. “Who?”

“A maid. Young. Dark hair, mole above her brow. I’ve never seen her before, but she looked at me like… she knew me.”

Derek wiped his brow and moved to the window, looking out toward the courtyard. “We need to find out how many new faces slipped in over the past two weeks.”

“And how many of them aren’t what they seem,” Diva added.

That afternoon, Derek summoned the estate steward—a meticulous older man named Halden. Together, they reviewed the latest hiring records.

“There’s been no formal recruitment since last season,” Halden said, frowning. “But the head maid mentioned replacements for two kitchen staff who left suddenly. No background checks, as they were recommended by a supplier we've worked with for years.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Get me the name of that supplier.”

“Yes, my lord.”

As Halden departed, Diva leaned close. “If Ronan has his people inside this house…”

“He’s already listening,” Derek finished grimly. “We have to assume everything we say is heard by someone.”

“Then it’s time we speak in code.”

That night, they began using the old hunter’s tongue—an ancient dialect their kind had once spoken in the mountains. Few remembered it now. Fewer understood it.

Diva practiced phrases under her breath as she moved through the halls. If anyone watched her too long, she returned the stare with cold, quiet calculation.

They weren’t playing games anymore.

On the third night, as storms brewed on the horizon, Diva was drawn by an eerie sound—music.

Faint, delicate, like a lullaby whispered through broken glass.

It was coming from the west wing. The part of the mansion long closed off since the fire years ago.

She should have turned back.

Instead, she followed it.

The hallway stretched long, cloaked in dust and old memories. Her fingers grazed the walls as she moved. The music grew clearer, and with it, a voice—soft, humming.

She reached the old music room. The door creaked open with a groan.

Inside, the piano was untouched. But someone had left a candle burning beside it. Still warm.

No one was there.

Diva’s eyes narrowed. Her wolf growled low in her chest. This was a message.

She backed out carefully, closed the door behind her, and bolted down the hall—straight to Derek.

They met in the cellar, where the stones muffled sound and secrets.

“They were in the west wing,” Diva said breathlessly. “Someone was humming… and the piano room—it had a lit candle. But no one was there when I entered.”

Derek’s expression darkened. “They’re taunting us.”

“They want us to know they’re close.”

“Then they’ve made a mistake,” he said. “Because now we know exactly where to strike.”

He placed a small box on the table between them. She opened it to find a thin sheet of gold leaf—etched with that same crescent moon and serpent symbol.

Diva’s eyes went wide. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it hidden beneath one of the guard’s bunks.”

“Which one?”

“Kieran”

The name sank between them like a stone.

Kieran was loyal. He had fought beside Derek for years. Had watched Diva grow into the fighter she now was.

Or so they believed.

Later that night, as the rain began to fall, Derek and Diva stood side by side in the war room.

A new map lay before them—one marked not with borders or battlegrounds, but with the names of their own people.

Each name now bore a symbol: green for trusted, red for uncertain, and black for the newly suspect.

Too many were red.

“By the time this ends,” Derek said, voice low, “there might not be anyone left to trust.”

Diva met his eyes. “Then we trust each other.”

He nodded slowly. “Until the end.”

Lightning flashed, casting their shadows long against the walls.

In the silence that followed, thunder rumbled like a promise.

War was coming.

And they would be ready.