CHAPTER 20: WHISPERS OF BETRAYAL

The Verdant Hollow’s training grove is bathed in twilight, the canopy above filtering the last rays of a sinking sun into a mosaic of amber and green. My muscles ache from hours of sparring with Cassia, her flames pushing me to hone my lunar shield—a shimmering dome of silver light that now holds steady against her controlled blazes. My crescent mark thrums, a quiet reassurance after last night’s ritual, where I sealed the eastern rift against Voren’s shadow. But the victory feels hollow; his presence, that predatory intent I sensed through the Veil, lingers like a bruise on my mind.

Sylvara watches from the grove’s edge, her jade-green form nearly blending with the trees, her vine-hair swaying as she assesses my progress. Renn sits cross-legged nearby, his blue aura flickering as he sorts through a fresh batch of scout reports, muttering about “Syndicate bastards” under his breath. The air is thick with the Hollow’s energy, golden-green threads pulsing faintly, but there’s a new tension—a subtle dissonance in the sanctuary’s rhythm that sets my teeth on edge.

“Again,” Cassia calls, igniting a ring of flames around me, their crimson threads weaving into the grove’s energy. “Tighten your shield, Lena. If Voren’s mercenaries hit, they won’t be as gentle as me.”

I grit my teeth, touching my crescent mark. Silver light surges, my shield snapping into place, its edges sharp and unyielding. Cassia’s flames press against it, heat licking at my skin, but the shield holds. “Gentle?” I retort, sweat beading on my forehead. “You nearly singed my hair off ten minutes ago.”

She grins, her amber eyes glinting. “Keeps you sharp. You’re glowing brighter, kid. That form of yours—wolf, wings, all that jazz—is itching to come out again.”

I falter at the mention of my shifted form, the memory of claws and moonlight wings stirring unease. My shield flickers, and Cassia’s flames surge, forcing me to refocus. “Not now,” I mutter, stabilizing the dome. “I’m not ready to shift again. Not after the warehouse.”

Sylvara steps forward, her voice cutting through the grove’s hum. “You cannot fear what you are, Lena. Your form is your strength, a bridge between worlds. Voren’s forces draw closer—scouts report Syndicate activity within fifty miles. You must master all aspects of your power.”

I lower my shield, the silver light fading as Cassia extinguishes her flames. “I get it, but every time I shift, it’s like I’m not me. It’s too much—too wild.” I think of the blood in the warehouse, the tactical team I killed. “What if I lose control again?”

Cassia claps my shoulder, her touch warm. “You won’t. You’re tougher than you think. Besides, I’ll burn your ass back to reality if you go feral.”

Renn snorts, looking up from his reports. “Yeah, ‘cause that’s comforting. No offense, Lena, but your dragon-wolf glow-up is terrifying. I’d rather not be in the splash zone.”

I roll my eyes, but his words sting. Dragon-wolf. The nickname’s stuck, a reminder I’m something even subnaturals can’t categorize. Before I can snap back, a shadow moves at the grove’s edge—Maddox, his dark aura curling like smoke, tendrils brushing the Hollow’s wards. He’s been scarce since I entered the sanctuary, but his presence now sends a spark through me, like when our fingers touched on the hike.

“Trouble?” Cassia asks, her flames flickering as she eyes Maddox warily.

He steps into the grove, the wards parting for him—a rare allowance, Sylvara’s doing. His eyes, black with flecks of starlight, lock onto mine. “More than trouble,” he says, his voice low, resonant. “I intercepted a Syndicate transmission. Voren’s not just probing the rift—he’s got a mole inside the Hollow. Someone’s feeding him your location, Lena.”

The grove seems to still, the energy threads dimming. My crescent mark burns, a warning. “A mole?” I echo, my gaze flicking to Sylvara, then Cassia, then Renn, who’s gone pale, his satchel clutched tight.

Sylvara’s emerald eyes narrow, her vine-hair coiling. “Impossible. The Hollow’s wards would detect betrayal. Only those bound to the sanctuary can enter.”

Maddox’s lips twitch, a shadow of his usual smirk. “Wards can be tricked. Relics, blood oaths, Veil-touched glamours—Voren’s Syndicate has resources you can’t imagine. Whoever it is, they’re close. The transmission mentioned ‘the Convergence’ and ‘sanctuary coordinates.’”

Cassia’s flames flare, singeing the moss. “You’re saying one of us is a traitor? Watch it, Shadowwalker. I don’t trust your kind any more than you trust us.”

Maddox shrugs, unfazed. “Distrust keeps me alive. But I’m not the one leaking secrets. Lena’s the target, and Voren’s closing in. You want to argue, or you want to find the rat?”

I step between them, my pulse racing. “Enough. Maddox, what else did the transmission say? Anything about who it is?”

He hesitates, his shadow tendrils curling tighter. “Only that the mole’s been in place for weeks, since before you arrived. They’re Veil-touched, strong enough to mask their intent from the wards. And they’re waiting for Voren’s signal to act.”

Veil-touched. My mind races—Nadia’s storm-grey aura, a Veil-walker’s mark; Sylvara’s cosmic ties to the First Ones; even Renn’s Tideborn connection to the Hollow’s outer wards could hide something. And Cassia—her elemental fire is primal, but could she be masking more? I hate the suspicion, but Kieran’s warning in the journal—Trust no one—echoes louder than ever.

Sylvara raises a hand, her voice calm but commanding. “We’ll convene the Hollow’s council at dawn. Every guardian will be questioned, their auras scryed. Lena, you’ll assist—your lunar sight can pierce glamours.”

I nod, though the idea of probing my allies feels wrong. “And tonight? If Voren’s mole acts before dawn?”

Maddox’s eyes darken. “I’ll patrol the wards. If anything moves, I’ll know. But Lena, you need to be ready to shift. Your form’s the only thing that might scare off a Syndicate strike team.”

Renn shifts, his voice small. “Uh, what if it’s me? I mean, I’m not the mole, I swear, but… how do we know? I’ve been carrying reports, touching relics…”

Cassia rolls her eyes. “Relax, kid. You’re too nervous to be a master spy. But you’re right—we need to check everyone. Starting with you, Shadowwalker.” She jabs a finger at Maddox.

He laughs, a low, musical sound. “Scry me all you want, Emberheart. My aura’s an open book—assuming you can read the language of the void.”

“Enough,” I snap, my voice sharper than intended. A faint pulse ripples through the grove, my lunar power flaring unbidden. Everyone stills, even Maddox, his tendrils retracting slightly. “We’re not turning on each other. Sylvara, set up the scrying for dawn. Cassia, Renn, help her secure the Hollow’s core. Maddox, patrol—but you report to me if you find anything. Understood?”

Maddox’s smirk returns, softer. “Yes, ma’am. Didn’t know you had that command voice in you.”

I ignore the spark his words ignite, focusing on the task. “Go. I’ll stay in the Lunar Well chamber tonight, work on my shield. If Voren’s coming, I want to be ready.”

Sylvara nods, approval in her gaze. “Wise. The Well will amplify your strength. I’ll join you after preparing the council.”

As the others disperse—Cassia and Renn to the core, Maddox melting into the shadows—I head to the Lunar Well chamber alone. The pool’s silver light greets me, reflecting my amber-silver aura, now brighter, more defined. I kneel by the water, touching my crescent mark, and let lunar threads flow, weaving a shield around me. The Well hums, its power steadying my nerves.

But as I focus, a whisper brushes my mind—not the rift’s ancient voices, but something closer, sharper. Lena Silvermoon, the bridge will break. My shield wavers, the whisper cutting through like a blade. I scan the chamber, my new sight catching a flicker in the energy threads—a dark streak, like the ones in the library, but deliberate, watching.

“Who’s there?” I call, my voice echoing. No answer, but the air grows heavy, the whisper repeating: The bridge will break. My claws extend, unbidden, silver fur prickling along my arms. I’m half-shifted, instinct taking over.

A figure steps from the shadows—not Maddox, not Sylvara, but someone new. Their aura is veiled, a shimmering void that resists my sight, but their silhouette is familiar, like a memory I can’t place. “You’re awake,” they say, voice soft, gendered ambiguous, laced with power. “Good. Voren’s closer than you think.”

I snarl, my wings flickering into existence, moonlight rippling. “Who are you? Are you the mole?”

They raise a hand, and the whisper stops, the air lightening. “Not the mole. An ally, for now. But you’re not safe here, Lena. The Hollow’s wards are compromised—not by one traitor, but by a relic Voren planted weeks ago. It’s draining the sanctuary, guiding his forces.”

My heart pounds. “Where’s the relic? How do I stop it?”

They step closer, their veiled aura parting slightly, revealing eyes like twin moons—lunar, like mine. “Find the core’s keystone, beneath the Hollow’s heart. Destroy it before the full moon peaks tomorrow night, or Voren will walk through the wards like they’re nothing.”

“Why should I trust you?” I demand, my claws twitching.

“You shouldn’t,” they say, echoing Maddox’s pragmatism. “But you’ll know I’m right when you see the keystone. Look for the shadow that doesn’t belong.” They turn, their form dissolving into the chamber’s shadows. “And Lena—don’t tell Sylvara. Not yet.”

I’m alone again, the Well’s light steady but cold. My half-shifted form recedes, leaving me trembling. A relic in the core. A mole still unidentified. And now a stranger with lunar eyes, claiming to be an ally but warning against Sylvara. The Hollow, my sanctuary, feels like a trap closing around me.

I reinforce my shield, lunar threads tight, and head for the core. I won’t wait for dawn—not with Voren’s shadow looming. Cassia, Renn, Maddox—they’ll have to trust me, because I’m done being the hunted. If there’s a keystone, I’ll find it. And if there’s a traitor, I’ll face them as the Convergence—wolf, light, wings, and all.

As I leave the chamber, the whisper returns, fainter but insistent: The bridge will break. I clench my fists, my crescent mark burning. Let it break. I’ll forge a new one.