ArloThe night is too quiet.It’s brittle, sharp-edged, like glass waiting to shatter.I sit on the edge of our bed, still half-dressed in hunting leathers, sharpening a blade I don't need. The ritual is soothing, familiar. The whisper of steel against whetstone, the gradual perfection of an edge.My hands are steady, but everything else is tight with worry that coils in my chest like a living thing.They're out there. Our children.Not just by blood, but the ones we raised, protected, taught to fight and survive and never back down.The wind outside our window carries whispers I can't quite catch.Every instinct I possess screams at me to go after them, to track them down and drag them back to safety.But I know better. They're not children anymore, despite what my heart insists.Behind me, the door opens with a soft creak.Hilda steps in, hair braided back in the severe style she favors when she's preparing for war.Her shoulders are bare, the thin shift she wears doing nothing to h
ScarlettThe clearing smells like ash and sorrow.I don't remember coming here.One moment we were breaking camp, the morning mist still clinging to our boots, and the next... this.A perfect circle of scorched earth, ringed by trees that look half-burned, their bark curled like ancient parchment, blackened veins running up their trunks like frozen lightning.My hand burns.The glyph beneath my skin, the one Erik called a key, glows faintly through my palm.Gold, laced with ember red, as if the fire inside me is clawing toward the surface, desperate to break free.The marking throbs in rhythm with my heartbeat, and I can feel it pulling me forward, deeper into the circle."Scarlett?" Erik's voice cuts through the strange hum in the air, close and quiet.I lift my hand, and the clearing answers.A vibration begins.It rises from the earth beneath my feet and settles in my chest like a second heartbeat.The glyph flares brighter and my breath catches in my throat.Without conscious thou
ErikI don't remember stepping away from the others.One moment, Scarlett is beside me, the next, the forest folds in around me like a living thing, reshaping itself with deliberate intent, and I'm alone.Except I'm not.The sensation creeps up my spine first, a prickling awareness that something ancient stirs in the shadows between the trees.They part like curtains as I approach, their branches weaving together overhead to form a canopy that blocks out the stars.The earth beneath my boots begins to glow, faint at first, then brighter.Lines of moss and root curl into intricate patterns that seem to shift when I'm not looking directly at them.The symbols pulse with a rhythm that matches my heartbeat, as if the forest itself is learning the cadence of my life."You came," a voice whispers, not aloud but threading through my thoughts like smoke.It's ancient beyond measure, echoing with the weight of countless judgments passed beneath these boughs."I didn't know I was meant to," I s
IlsaThe shrine looks different in the dark.It breathes. Pulses. The stones are warm when I touch them, like the earth has a heartbeat and it's thudding just below the surface, calling something to rise.Caelan says nothing.The moment our eyes meet, we know. The vision wasn't just memory. It was an invitation.His hand finds mine and together we step into the circle.The moss underfoot is springy and damp, and the air between us hums with something thick and electric.Our connection is more than hunger now. It's ritual. It's promise. It's history curling back around to reclaim us."You bound me to this place once," he says, voice rough. "With your hands on my chest and blood in your mouth."My breath catches.He steps closer, and I tilt my head back as his knuckles brush my jaw. "Do it again," he whispers. "But this time, do it with fire. With skin. With need."My reply is a moan, soft and broken as I rise onto my toes and kiss him. IIt doesn't start soft. It never does.His mouth
ElliottI should be sleeping.But the air feels wrong. Thick with magic, bitter like iron and honey mixed together.The kind of air that makes your teeth hurt.Everyone else is curled up near the campfire, far enough apart to have space, close enough to not feel alone.Chris is breathing slow and deep, like he's totally out, but I know his rhythm well enough to tell when he's faking it.And I know he's listening.Just in case I scream again.I don't plan to. Not tonight.Tonight, I'm not even looking for answers.I'm just walking. Circling the clearing. Letting my thoughts spin and burn.The moon hangs low, swollen and covered.It's been weird for days. Showing up where it shouldn't, too big, too red, then too pale, then suddenly gone.Like it's watching us but forgetting how to stay solid.Then I trip. Not over a branch. Not a rock. Something soft, crumbling at the edges. I drop down fast, heart hammering.There, half-buried in the dirt, wrapped in waxed cloth and what looks like fur
ChrisIt starts with a smell that keeps changing.Not quite rotting. Not quite magic. Something in between. Like burned hair and rain hitting hot pavement.Every step I take, it shifts. Gets older. Sharper. Hungrier.Elliott and I are scouting ahead, the others just behind a hill.I wave for him to hang back while I circle around. My claws are itching under my skin, my wolf pulling toward something I can't see.Then everything changes.The trees grow taller. The fog gets thicker, sticking to my boots, my throat, behind my eyes.And the smell gets stronger. Not carried on the wind anymore. Coming from me.I spin around.Too late.Something made of mist and teeth slams into me, knocking me flat.All the air rushes out of my lungs. I fight back hard, but my claws slice through vapor and fur that shouldn't exist together.Fangs sink into my shoulder and pain shoots down my arm like lightning.I howl. Not scared, pissed. Pure instinct. Survival mode.The thing hisses in some language I don