THE SYMBOL (THE AWAKENING)

The first thing Alina felt was the cold. Not the kind that seeped into her bones, but the sharp, sterile chill of a place too still to be natural.

She blinked. The ceiling above her wasn’t her dorm’s—it was lined with rustic beams and faintly glowing runes carved into the wood. A fire flickered somewhere nearby, crackling softly. Her body ached. Her shoulder burned, and her skin hummed beneath her fingertips as if something lived under it.

“Easy,” came a low, gravel-edged voice from the shadows.

She turned her head. Rhett was sitting in a wooden chair near the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes half-lidded. The light from the fire painted his face in amber and scarlet. His hoodie was torn at the shoulder, his knuckles split open, dried blood crusted on his skin.

“Where—where am I?” she whispered.

“My place,” he said quietly. “Safer than your dorm right now.”

Her mind spun. “That thing—what was it?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached forward and handed her a glass of water. “Drink first.”

She hesitated, then took it. The glass trembled slightly in her hand. Rhett’s gaze flicked to her shoulder—the place where the creature had grabbed her.

When she followed his stare, her breath caught. A faint golden mark glowed beneath her skin, like a thread of fire tracing her veins.

“What the hell is that?”

Rhett’s jaw tightened. “It’s a mark. A claim. It means that thing didn’t just attack you—it recognized something in you.”

“In me?” she demanded. “I’m not one of you, Rhett!”

“Maybe you weren’t supposed to be,” he murmured. “But now…” His voice trailed off. “Now you’re connected. To me. To them. To all of this.”

Alina shoved the blanket away. “You can’t just say that and expect me to sit here and—”

Her vision swam. A searing flash of red flared behind her eyes, and suddenly she was there again—in the woods, surrounded by shadows. Livia’s voice echoed, whispering her name like a lullaby:

“Alina… he’ll break you before he saves you.”

Alina gasped and gripped the sheets. Rhett was instantly beside her, steadying her shoulders.

“Breathe,” he said. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”

“I saw her,” Alina whispered. “That woman—the one who called your name. She was in my head.”

Rhett’s expression darkened. “Livia,” he said under his breath.

“Who is she?”

He hesitated. “My sister.”

Alina stared at him, her heart thudding. “Your sister? The one people said was dead?”

“She is dead.” He looked up then, eyes shadowed. “Or she was. Until she wasn’t.”

The fire crackled louder. Outside, wind battered the window panes. The air between them thickened with unspoken questions.

Alina wanted to believe this was just a nightmare, some hallucination from shock. But then Rhett’s hand brushed hers—warm, grounding—and she felt it again. That pulse. That unnatural, electric connection.

“Why are you helping me?” she whispered. “You could’ve left me there.”

His eyes lifted, sharp and unreadable. “Because I couldn’t.”

Her breath caught. There was something raw in his tone—something almost… guilty.

Before she could respond, his phone buzzed. He turned it on speaker. A rough male voice said, “Alpha, we’ve got movement near the northern ridge. Rogues again.”

Rhett’s demeanor shifted instantly. His eyes gleamed silver, his posture straightened. The air in the cabin seemed to tighten around him, charged with authority.

“I’ll handle it,” he said curtly, then turned to her. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone. Not even me unless I say your name first. Understand?”

Alina’s throat went dry. “What are you going to do?”

“End this,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket.

She watched him disappear through the doorway, every instinct screaming to stop him—but she didn’t.

Minutes dragged like hours. The fire dimmed. Outside, howls shattered the silence—some close, some impossibly far.

And then—quiet.

Too quiet.

Alina’s pulse quickened. She slid off the bed, ignoring the protest in her muscles, and stepped toward the window. The woods outside were pitch-black. Nothing moved.

She turned back—only to freeze.

Something had been carved into the wooden floorboards near the fireplace. A fresh symbol, still glowing faintly gold, identical to the mark on her shoulder.

Her stomach turned.

She crouched to touch it. The instant her finger brushed the edge, a whisper echoed through the cabin, soft as silk:

“You shouldn’t have trusted him.”

The flames in the hearth flared violently—then went out.

The cabin plunged into darkness.