CHAPTER THREE

You’d think finding out you might be the heir to a cursed wolf clan would come with, I don’t know, cake. Or a welcome packet. Maybe a magical amulet that whispers bedtime stories from my ancestors.

But no.

All I get is a cryptic blonde and emotional trauma for dessert.

I spend the night tossing and turning, dreaming of wolves with hollow eyes and girls made of moonlight. When I wake up, there’s a sharp ache pulsing in my chest right where my sternum is, like something inside me is trying to claw its way out.

Fantastic.

Maybe it’s indigestion.

Maybe it’s destiny.

Either way, I need answers.

“Marked One?” I mutter, walking into the library with the energy of a caffeine-deprived gremlin.

The place is practically empty, save for the librarian who gives me the same polite but low-key terrified look I’ve started collecting since I got to Red Hollow. It's starting to feel like I should charge for appearances. “Come see the cursed girl, now with extra fangs!”

I head to the Restricted Folklore Section.

Yes, restricted.

Yes, I pick the lock.

Don’t judge me. Morality is for people not being stalked by giant talking wolves and moon cults.

I pull out every book with “Thornbane,” “Moonbound,” or “Marked” in the title. One particularly grimy one literally hisses at me when I touch it.

Weirdly comforting.

But as I flip through the pages, the same phrases keep popping up like a broken record:

“The Thornbane bloodline was thought to be extinct…”
“The last heir was betrayed…”
“If the Marked One awakens, balance will tip…”

Cool.

So I’m the living embodiment of a walking apocalypse. That’s fun.

But before I can spiral too deep into an identity crisis, a shadow falls over the table.

“Find anything about your tragic ancestry yet?”

I look up and....

“Oh great. The brooding menace returns.”

Kael raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been reading for five hours.”

“Yeah? I’m discovering I’m the finale season of a supernatural soap opera. Sue me.”

He pulls out the chair across from me like we’re about to have coffee and trauma share time. Honestly? I’m too tired to tell him no.

“I talked to Astrid,” I say, watching him carefully.

His jaw ticks slightly.

“Of course you did.”

“She said I’m a threat. You think so too?”

Kael leans forward, voice dropping to that velvet growl he does when he wants to unsettle people. It works. “You’re not just a threat, Lyra. You’re a legend we were told died out centuries ago. And now you’re here… wearing sarcastic T-shirts and breaking library rules.”

“I’m a modern tragedy,” I say with a shrug.

He doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he drops something on the table between us. A pendant. Silver. Shaped like a thorned rose with a crescent moon behind it.

It pulses faintly in my hand when I touch it.

I jerk back. “What is that?”

“Family crest. Thornbane.” Kael watches my reaction. “It recognized your blood.”

“Okay, but why is my blood doing magic? Is it on drugs? Did it take a side hustle in witchcraft when I wasn’t looking?”

“You’re changing,” he says, for the third time since I met him. “Faster than expected. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “So glad puberty 2.0 comes with bonus nightmares and property damage.”

Kael glances around, then lowers his voice.

“People in town are scared of you. The Council wants you under surveillance.”

“Surveillance?”

“They think you’ll lose control. Hurt someone. Maybe… worse.”

I blink. “Is that what you think?”

He pauses for just a moment too long.

“No.”

But something in his tone tells me he doesn’t fully believe it.

Ouch.

After Kael leaves, I head to the one place no one would expect a possible she-wolf murderess to hang out—a diner.

Because even death omens need waffles.

Red Hollow Diner is a small, cozy place with red vinyl booths and a server named Marla who wears leopard print like it’s a personality. I order the “Full Moon Breakfast,” because I have a dark sense of humor and zero coping mechanisms.

While I’m waiting, I spot Astrid at the corner booth, sipping a matcha latte like she’s not half witch, half femme fatale.

“You again,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her.

She doesn’t flinch. “Nice to see you haven’t combusted yet.”

“Still time.”

Astrid sets her cup down. “You talked to Kael. I can tell by the storm cloud hanging over your head.”

“Do all the broody boys in this town get superpowers, or is it just him?”

She snorts. “Kael’s not like the others. He was raised by the Council. Groomed to keep people like you in check.”

“Romantic.”

Astrid’s expression shifts, just slightly. “He used to be different. Before he lost his sister.”

I blink. “Wait, what?”

“Her name was Mira. She was his anchor. Then she vanished during a blood moon hunt. Some say she was taken by the Hollow Pack. Others… think she was devoured by a rogue.”

“Rogue?”

Astrid’s voice drops. “Wolves who reject their clan. Go mad. Feed on anything. Anyone.”

I swallow hard.

“There’s a theory,” she says, eyes narrowing, “that Mira’s disappearance was linked to the Thornbane legacy. That someone wanted to erase the last of the bloodline. But clearly… they missed.”

My pulse stutters.

“You think I was supposed to die.”

Astrid nods. “And someone hid you. Raised you away from all of this. But the magic in your blood… it doesn’t stay dormant forever.”

I look down at my hands. They look normal. Human. Shaky.

“Cool,” I whisper. “So I’m the sequel to a curse. A target for monsters. And possibly the reincarnation of a family that makes Voldemort look like a care bear.”

Astrid finishes her drink. “Basically.”

Then she stands and slides a black business card toward me.

No name. Just an address, written in silver ink. A manor on the far edge of the forest.

“Midnight,” she says. “Come alone. There are answers waiting. But be careful, Lyra. The truth might not be kind.”

When I get home, the air feels… wrong.

Thicker. Charged.

There’s a note on my door.

“You’re being watched. Stay inside tonight. – K”

I crumple it in my fist.

Of course he’s watching me. Of course everyone is.

But I’m tired of being kept in the dark.

So I wait until midnight. Then I grab a hoodie, a flashlight, and that cursed little Thornbane pendant, because if I’m going to get murdered by ancient wolf cults, I might as well accessorize.

I head into the woods.

The address leads to a crumbling stone manor half-swallowed by ivy. The kind of place serial killers film documentaries in. Classic.

The door creaks open before I knock.

No one’s there.

“Okay, not ominous at all,” I mutter, stepping inside.

The air smells like dust, old magic, and… pine.

Then I hear it.

A whisper. Female. Faint.

“Lyra…”

I turn.

Nothing.

Another whisper.

“The blood remembers…”

I bolt deeper into the manor, flashlight trembling in my grip.

Then I see it.

A painting.

Dusty, cracked, but unmistakable.

It’s a portrait.

Of a girl.

With my face.

And the name beneath it?

Mira Thornbane.