CHAPTER 10: UNVEILED

As we walk through the corridor and into what can only be described as an underground atrium, I'm struck speechless. The space opens dramatically—a central area at least three stories high with balconies and walkways crisscrossing above us. What was once perhaps a factory floor has been transformed into something between a community center and a refugee camp.

But it's not the physical space that has me mesmerized—it's the people. Or rather, the auras surrounding them.

A rainbow of colors flows and mingles throughout the room. Reds like Sera's, oranges, yellows, greens like Thea's, blues in varying shades, purples, browns like Marcus's, and colors I don't even have names for. Some shimmer, some pulse, some twist and curl like living things. Each unique, each telling a story I'm only beginning to understand.

The look of awe on my face must show how my words are true—that I really am new to all this, that I'm seeing these colors for the first time. Several people stop what they're doing to watch me as I look around like a child in a toy shop, eyes darting everywhere, finding everything intriguing.

"How many are there?" I whisper to Marcus.

"Forty-three residents currently," he replies. "Plus another dozen or so who come and go."

"I meant... types. Kinds."

He shakes his head, smiling slightly. "Far more than Winters' simplified seven categories. The natural world doesn't organize itself into neat boxes, and neither do we."

As we move deeper into the space, I notice people of all ages—children playing in one corner, elderly individuals sitting together in quiet conversation, young adults training in what looks like a makeshift gym area. All of them with their distinctive auras.

I come across a woman with the most beautiful shade of grey aura I've ever seen—though admittedly, my experience is limited. It's not the flat grey of a cloudy day, but something living and dynamic, like storm clouds charged with lightning. It shifts and changes as she moves, sometimes almost transparent, sometimes dense as fog.

I couldn't help but speak. "Your aura is breathtaking," I say, the awe clear on my face.

She turns toward me, surprise evident in her expression. She's older, perhaps in her fifties, with silver-streaked black hair and eyes so dark they appear almost black. Her blush tells me it's not something she's accustomed to hearing.

I suddenly realize how forward I've been. "Oh my, I am so sorry. That was so inappropriate. I am deeply sorry."

Her blush only deepens, and I hear Sera behind me, her voice dumbfounded. "You have no idea why that's making her blush, do you?"

"Um, no. Why? Is it significant?"

"She is a Veil-walker," Sera explains, reverence in her tone. "Even Seers struggle to see their auras. It's said only other Veil-walkers can see them."

I look back at the woman, who is now studying me with intense interest.

"Child," she says, her voice low and musical, "what makes it breathtaking?"

The question seems to reach into me, drawing out an answer I didn't know I had. The words flow from me like I needed to answer her. "It reminds me of a storm. Only nature is truly capable of creating something so... omnipotent."

Her gaze intensifies, and she asks, "Who are you?"

And like a rubber band stretching too far, something snaps inside my mind. I shake my head and blink my eyes, suddenly feeling as though I'm waking from a trance.

I stare at her, comprehension dawning. "You're a Siren?"

This visibly shocks her. She takes a half-step back. "How did you do that? You were completely under—"

I'm not sure why, but in that moment, I see red. I'm mad. Not just a little irritated, but furious. I had literally just told Sera and Marcus I would make them walk into traffic if they tried to manipulate me, and now this woman has somehow compelled me to answer her?

"What did you do to me?" I demand, my voice rising. I feel a familiar surge of power building in my chest, similar to what happened when I commanded Sera to stop, but different—hotter, more volatile.

"Lena, calm down," Marcus says, stepping forward, hands raised in a placating gesture.

"No, I will not calm down," I snap. "I just got here and already someone's messing with my head? Is that what this 'Refuge' is? Another place where people try to use me?"

The woman raises her hands, mirroring Marcus's calming gesture. "I apologize. Truly. It was instinctive—a way to determine if you were a threat."

"By compelling me to answer a question? How is that determining if I'm a threat?"

"Because only someone with either remarkable mental discipline or natural immunity can break a Siren's compulsion," she explains. "You did both. You answered truthfully, showing you weren't resistant to the initial query, but then you broke free entirely when I asked about your identity."

I notice people around us have stopped what they were doing, watching our exchange with wary expressions. Some have moved closer to what I assume are exits. Others have positioned themselves protectively near children.

They're afraid of me, I realize. Of what I might do.

The anger doesn't leave me entirely, but it cools enough for reason to reassert itself. I take a deep breath.

"Don't do that again," I say to the Siren, my voice steady. "Whatever it was, don't."

She inclines her head in acknowledgment. "I am Nadia. And you have my word."

"Lena," I offer, not bothering to specify which version of my name. "And I'm still figuring out what I am."

"Not entirely," Marcus interjects carefully. "What just happened... your eyes changed."

"Changed how?"

"They shifted," Sera says. "Not just the silver flecks coming through your contacts, but the entire color. For a second, they glowed silver-crested red—like embers ringed with moonlight."

"The mark of the Silvercrest royals," Nadia finishes, her voice dropping to something close to reverence. "I haven't seen eyes like that in decades."

Another piece clicks into place. The wer-wolves, or whatever term Winters had used for my father's kind. Shifters.

"Great," I mutter. "So my eyes turn silver-crested red when I'm angry. What next? A tail when I'm happy?"

To my surprise, Nadia laughs—a warm, genuine sound that somehow defuses the tension in the room. "No, I don't think that's how it works for shifters." Her expression turns thoughtful as she studies me more carefully. "But I don't think that's really what you are."

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused. "My father was a Silvercrest, a royal shifter..."

"Yes," she acknowledges, "but the convergence of bloodlines creates something new. The silver-red eyes, the command voice, the ability to see auras, breaking free of a Siren's compulsion... these aren't typical traits of either lineage alone."

"Then what am I?"

"Something the prophecy foretold," she says quietly. "A bridge between worlds. Neither fully one thing nor another, but something that transcends both."

She tilts her head, studying me with newfound curiosity. "I do not know exactly what you are. But I know in just this brief meeting you've exhibited traits of nearly every main class of sub. The command voice of the royal Shifters—who manifest amber-gold auras like your grandfather's. The aura sight of the Seers. Breaking a Siren's compulsion suggests Psychic resistance. Your effect on this room's energy hints at Elemental sensitivity." She shakes her head in wonder. "I don't think the current state of classification applies to you at all."

"So I'm what—a supernatural mutt?" I ask, only half-joking.

"I'd say more like a nexus," Nadia replies thoughtfully. "A convergence point where different abilities meet and transform into something new."

Marcus clears his throat. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more private? The commons isn't the best place for such discussions."

He's right. Nearly everyone in the atrium is watching us now, and I'm uncomfortably aware of how exposed I feel. How vulnerable, despite my abilities.

"Good idea," I agree.

Marcus leads us toward a side corridor, but before we enter it, a commotion at the main entrance draws everyone's attention. Several people rush in, supporting someone between them—a young man, bleeding from multiple wounds, his clothing torn and singed.

"Sentinels," he gasps as they lay him on a nearby table. "They found the safe house. Everyone else... they're gone."

The room erupts in controlled chaos—people moving with purpose toward predetermined tasks. Some rush to help the injured man, others begin securing doors and checking surveillance equipment I hadn't noticed before.

Nadia turns to Marcus, her expression grim. "It's starting again."

"What's starting?" I ask, though I'm afraid I already know the answer.

"The purge," she says simply. "The Sentinels are escalating their operations. This is the third safe house hit this month."

"Why now?" Sera demands. "What's changed?"

Nadia's dark eyes shift to me, and though her gaze isn't accusatory, the implication is clear.

"The prophecy," she says quietly. "Word is spreading that the Convergence Child has awakened. Both sides are scrambling to find you before the other."

"Both sides?"

"The humans who want to exterminate us, and the Purists who want to rule them," Marcus explains. "With you as either a weapon or a martyr, depending on who gets to you first."

"And the Conclave?" I ask. "Where do they fit?"

"Somewhere in the middle," Nadia says, her tone suggesting she doesn't consider that a good thing. "They want integration, but on their terms. Control without conquest."

I think of Winters, of his lack of supernatural signature despite claiming to be a Psychic. Of his insistence that I meet him alone.

"And what do you want?" I ask them. "What does the Refuge want with me?"

"Nothing," Marcus answers simply. "That's the point of this place. We want to be left alone to live our lives. We don't want to rule humans or serve them or integrate with them on anyone's terms but our own, individually chosen."

"Then why help me at all? I'm clearly a magnet for trouble."

Sera, who has been watching the activity around the injured man, turns back to us. "Because if the prophecy is true—if you really can end this conflict—then maybe we can stop running."

I look at the three of them—Marcus with his earthy patience, Sera with her fiery intensity, Nadia with her storm-cloud mystery. They represent yet another faction in this increasingly complicated situation.

"And if the prophecy isn't true?" I ask. "If I'm just a girl with some unusual abilities and two famous parents?"

"Then we've helped someone who needed it," Nadia says simply. "Which is reason enough."

It's a good answer—perhaps the first one that hasn't felt like it came with hidden strings attached. But before I can respond, a loud alarm cuts through the atrium, red lights flashing from concealed fixtures.

Marcus's expression darkens. "Perimeter breach. Someone's found us."

"The Sentinels?" Sera asks, already summoning flames to her fingertips.

"Or the Conclave," Nadia suggests. "They have ways of tracking power surges."

"Or Maddox," I add quietly. "He said he could find me anywhere."

As if summoned by his name, a familiar shadow-wreathed figure materializes from a darkened corner of the room—seemingly stepping out of nowhere, though I'm certain he wasn't there a moment ago.

"Actually," Maddox says, his voice carrying despite the alarm's wail, "I've been here all along. Waiting to see what our young Silvermoon would do."

Chaos erupts as people react to his sudden appearance—Sera's flames grow larger, Marcus steps in front of me protectively, and Nadia's grey aura expands dramatically.

But it's too late for any of that to matter because at that exact moment, the main entrance doors blow inward with explosive force, sending debris flying across the atrium.

Through the smoke and dust, figures in tactical gear pour in, weapons raised. Behind them walks a single individual whose presence hits me like a physical force—a man with a luminous gold-amber aura that pulses with raw, predatory power. It's similar to the silver flecks in my own eyes, but magnified a hundredfold—ancient, primal, and unmistakably dangerous.

He locks eyes with me across the chaotic space, and though I've never seen him before, I know instantly who he is.

My grandfather. Voren Silvercrest.

And judging by the way his lips curl into a satisfied smile, he knows exactly who I am too.