CHAPTER 16: TIDES OF ORIGIN

The Verdant Hollow’s morning light weaves through the canopy, painting the training grove in shifting patterns of gold and green. My bare feet sink into moss that pulses faintly, alive with the Hollow’s energy. My crescent mark hums, steadier since yesterday’s training with Cassia’s fire, but I’m still jittery. The Lunar Well’s visions—my mother’s glow, my father’s wolf, me with moonlight wings—linger like a half-remembered dream. I want to understand them, to understand me, before Voren’s shadow creeps any closer.

Sylvara stands at the grove’s heart, her jade-green skin shimmering as she traces a rune on a stone pillar. The air thickens, golden-green energy threads tightening like the Hollow is holding its breath. Cassia leans against a tree, her fiery aura a low simmer, her smirk daring me to keep up.

“Ready to unearth some cosmic roots?” Cassia teases, flicking a spark between her fingers. “Or you still reeling from yesterday’s light show?”

I scoff, though my near-miss with scorching the grove stings. “I’m here, aren’t I? Let’s do this.”

Sylvara’s vine-hair sways as she turns, her emerald eyes cutting through me. “Today, you’ll learn of the First Ones—their origins, their purpose, and your place in their legacy. You’ll also face your shifted form, Lena. To wield your power, you must know what you are.”

My chest tightens. My shifted form—claws, silver light, raw strength in the warehouse—feels like a stranger wearing my skin. I’ve dodged it, but Sylvara’s right: I can’t outrun myself. Not with Voren’s Syndicate sniffing around the eastern rift. “Okay,” I say, forcing my shoulders back. “Where do we start?”

Sylvara gestures to a circular pool at the grove’s center, its surface rippling with silver light, reflecting the sky. Smaller than the Lunar Well, it pulses with primal energy, tied to the Hollow’s core. “The First Ones shaped this world,” she begins, her voice like wind through ancient trees. “Not gods, as humans later named them, but beings of raw potential, born in the chaos before the Veil divided realities. They anchored here, weaving their essence into earth, sky, and sea, stabilizing this world.”

I sit by the pool, my new sight catching energy threads—golden-green, spiraling from the water, forming fleeting shapes: towering figures, some humanoid, others like living stars. “So they created subnaturals?” I ask, piecing it together.

“They birthed them,” Sylvara corrects. “Their essence fragmented, seeding the primal lines—shifters, tied to the earth’s wild pulse; elementals, born of its raw forces; Veil-touched, like Shadowwalkers, linked to other realms. Your father’s Silvercrest shifters carry the primal wolf-heart. Your mother’s lunar bloodline, marked by the Moon Goddess, descends from a First One bound to cosmic tides.”

Cassia cuts in, tossing another spark. “It’s a family tree with magic roots. You, Lena, are a freaky hybrid branch nobody’s charted.”

“Flattering,” I mutter, but she’s not wrong. The prophecy calls me the Convergence—moon and wild, cosmic and primal. My shifted form, whatever it is, must bridge those worlds. But is it a wolf, like my father’s? Something new?

Sylvara kneels by the pool, her fingers grazing the water. Ripples form images—wolves under a full moon, fur silver-flecked; cloaked figures weaving light into stone; a crescent-marked woman parting an ocean. “The First Ones left records,” Sylvara says, “encoded in the Hollow’s Veil-threads, not in books. They foresaw convergences—beings who could unite their legacies. Your form is such a bridge, shaped by your dual heritage.”

I lean closer, the pool showing a figure like me—claws, silver fur, wings of moonlight. My breath hitches. “That’s… what I shift into?”

“Possibly,” Sylvara says. “Shifters take primal forms—wolves, bears. Elementals channel essence without changing. Veil-touched shift subtly, adapting to other realms. You’re all three—primal, elemental, Veil-touched. Your form is fluid, unique, guided by the Hollow and your will.”

Cassia steps forward, flames flickering. “So, no more history lessons. Time to shift, kid, and see what you’re packing. Don’t burn the place down.”

My pulse spikes, but I nod. I need to know—not just for me, but to face Voren, whose Syndicate threatens the Veil’s balance. If my form is a weapon, I have to master it. “How?” I ask, standing.

Sylvara points to the pool. “This conduit channels primal energy. Touch your crescent mark, speak your true name, let the Hollow guide you. Cassia will anchor you with fire, stabilizing the shift. But beware: your emotions will surface. Fear, anger—they’ll shape what emerges.”

Cassia’s hands spark. “I’ll keep you from torching the grove. Mostly.”

I glare but focus on the pool. My reflection—silver-flecked eyes, nervous—stares back. I touch the crescent on my lower back, its warmth spreading like moonlight. “Lena Silvermoon,” I whisper, steady despite my shaking hands.

The pool erupts in silver light, engulfing me. My bones ache, reshaping. Memories flood—my mother’s smile, my father’s howl, the warehouse’s blood. Pain sears, not just physical—grief, fear, the weight of being hunted. I grit my teeth, Cassia’s fire a warm anchor against the tide.

My vision sharpens, the grove vivid. My hands—claws, silver-tipped—dig into the moss. Fur, grey and silver, shimmers like liquid light, not just wolf-like but ethereal. I’m taller, stronger, senses alive with the Hollow’s pulse—every leaf, every thread. Wings, woven of moonlight, ripple behind me, weightless yet powerful, tied to the Veil. My form feels ancient, primal yet cosmic, like I’m both beast and star.

A shout breaks my focus. “Holy shit, is that a dragon?” The voice—male, young, unfamiliar—comes from the grove’s edge. I whip around, my growl vibrating the air. A guy, maybe my age, stands frozen, his aura a faint blue shimmer, like rippling water. He’s wiry, with messy black hair and wide eyes, clutching a satchel as if it’s a shield.

Cassia barks a laugh, her flames flaring. “Relax, Renn! It’s just Lena, not a damn dragon. Though, gotta admit, she’s intense.”

Sylvara’s eyes narrow, but her tone is calm. “Renn, you were told to wait at the ward’s edge. The grove is sacred.”

Renn stammers, his gaze locked on me. “I—I was delivering the rift reports, and the wards let me through. I didn’t mean—shit, she’s glowing!” He takes a step back, nearly tripping over a root.

I try to speak, but my voice is a resonant snarl. “Not… a dragon.” The words feel clumsy, my form unsteady as embarrassment mixes with power. My wings flare, sending a pulse of light that singes the moss. Cassia’s fire spikes, forming a barrier.

“Chill, Lena!” Cassia snaps. “And Renn, quit gawking. You’re distracting her.”

Sylvara steps forward, her presence calming. “Lena, breathe. Center yourself. Your form is yours to command, but your heart must guide it.”

I close my glowing eyes, picturing the moon’s steady light. The storm inside eases, my wings folding into my aura, fur softening. I will the shift back, claws retracting, fur fading. I’m human again, sweaty and wobbly, the pool’s light dimming. Renn’s jaw is still slack, his satchel half-open, papers spilling.

“Who’s this guy?” I ask, catching my breath, nodding at Renn.

Sylvara sighs. “Renn is a courier, a Tideborn—water-attuned, tied to the Hollow’s outer wards. He brings reports from our scouts.” She glances at him. “And he will learn to respect boundaries.”

Renn raises his hands, sheepish. “Sorry, okay? I’ve just never seen… whatever that was. Dragon, wolf, glowing thing—it’s wild.” His blue aura flickers, curious despite his nerves.

Cassia smirks. “Told you, Lena. You’re gonna freak everyone out.”

Sylvara’s awe returns as she studies me. “Your form is the Convergence embodied—primal wolf, lunar light, Veil-touched wings. No subnatural bears this shape. Renn’s mistake is understandable; your form evokes myths—dragons, celestial beasts—tied to the First Ones’ oldest stories.”

I rub my arms, still tingling. “So, what am I among subnaturals? A freak?”

“Not a freak,” Sylvara says. “A bridge. Shifters are primal, elementals raw force, Veil-touched realm-bound. You’re all three, fluid, defying their divides. The First Ones sought harmony between worlds. Your form challenges the factions’ separations—Sentinels, Purists, even the Conclave.”

Renn, recovering, pipes up. “Uh, speaking of factions, the rift reports…” He hesitates, glancing at Sylvara. “Syndicate’s been spotted near the eastern rift. More Veil-touched mercenaries. Voren’s up to something.”

My stomach knots. Voren’s name, even secondhand, chills me. “What’s he doing?” I ask, sharper than intended.

Sylvara takes the papers from Renn, her expression darkening. “Probing the rift’s weaknesses, likely. The First Ones’ failed ritual left it unstable. Voren seeks to unravel the Veil’s balance, and your presence draws his gaze.”

Cassia claps my shoulder, her touch warm. “Good thing you’re learning to kick ass. That form? Voren’s gonna regret crossing you.”

I force a nod, but doubt gnaws. My form—wolf, light, wings—felt powerful, but unstable, like I could lose myself in it. “Is it enough?” I ask Sylvara. “If Voren’s breaching rifts…”

“Your strength lies in the First Ones’ legacy,” she says. “They united their powers to balance worlds. You must unite subnaturals—shifters, elementals, Veil-touched—against Voren’s division. The Hollow’s records hold rituals to strengthen wards, counter breaches. We’ll study them tomorrow.”

Renn, still eyeing me warily, adds, “Uh, for what it’s worth, you looked… epic. Scary, but epic. Sera’s gonna flip when she hears about this.”

I manage a tired smile, thinking of Sera’s fiery grin. “Keep it quiet for now. I’m not ready for the Refuge to lose it.”

As we leave the grove, the pool’s energy lingers in my veins. My shifted form isn’t just a weapon—it’s a piece of the First Ones’ vision, a blend of worlds that could shift the war’s tide. Voren’s out there, plotting chaos, but I’m starting to believe I can face him—not because I’m ready, but because I’m something even he can’t predict.