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The Pull of the Tide
Huling Na-update:
2025-11-04 11:29:26Chapter Five — The Pull of the Tide
Dawn crept gray and quiet over Mystic. Rowan woke with the heaviness of forgotten words on her tongue and the taste of smoke in her throat. For a moment she lay still, eyes open to the faint glow seeping through the curtains. Windy was sitting upright beside the bed, not sleeping—watching. The air smelled wrong. She pushed back the covers and crossed the room. The chill boards bit at her bare feet, and when she reached the window, she froze. A thin veil of ash dusted the sill, faint and gray as moonlight. She rubbed it between her fingers; it was real, cold, clean, scentless. Outside, fog rolled across the cliffs, thick as breath. The sea beyond it was almost soundless, as though the world itself were holding still. Windy pressed against her leg, tail flicking once. Rowan knelt and buried her hands in the dog’s fur. “It felt so real,” she whispered. “The fire. You were there.” Windy gave a quiet chuff, leaning harder into her. The spot of blue in her marbled eye glinted—just once—and was gone. Rowan stood, heart unsettled. “Maybe it’s just the fireplace,” she said, though the hearth downstairs had been cold since yesterday. She made tea anyway, more for the sound than the taste. The kettle’s hiss steadied her. She drank by the open door, wrapped in a wool blanket, watching the fog shift over the water. Something shimmered beneath the surface—like the sea itself was breathing. High above the harbor, Lucien watched from the cliffs. He hadn’t slept after the vision. The tide below mirrored his pulse—fast, uneven, calling her name in its rhythm. He could still feel the warmth of her dream, the way the flames had bent toward her rather than away. Selunara’s magic was awakening in her blood. Too soon. He lifted his hand; faint silver light pulsed beneath his skin, the mark on his wrist answering her heartbeat miles away. She’s starting to feel it, he thought. She’ll see through the veil before the month is out. The wind shifted. From this height he could see the faint curl of smoke rising from the cottage chimney, though he knew she hadn’t lit a fire. The residue of the dream lingered in the air itself. Lucien’s throat tightened. He wanted to go to her—to warn her what it meant—but the curse that bound his bloodline held him back. To reveal himself too soon would risk shattering the fragile line between destiny and damnation. He closed his eyes and let the sea spray sting his face. “Soon,” he whispered. “When the Moon allows.” Below, in the cottage on Willow Lane, Rowan lifted her gaze toward the cliffs. For no reason she could name, her heart gave a single hard beat—like a wave striking stone. She thought she saw someone there, just for a moment, dark against the lightening sky. But when she blinked, the figure was gone. Windy’s tail brushed the floor once. And somewhere deep in the water, something answered the tide.
Pinakabagong kabanata
Salt and Starlight Yule Tides Rise
Christmas morning broke clear and bright over Mystic.The cliffs glittered beneath a new layer of snow, the sunlight making every drift shine like powdered diamonds. The sea below looked almost still—like glass catching and holding the early light. Smoke curled from cottage chimneys in thin silver ribbons. Somewhere in the harbor, a bell chimed, soft and steady.Inside the cottage, the air smelled of pine, orange, and woodsmoke. A deep, comforting warmth that made Rowan’s heart ache. It was the first Christmas she had celebrated since her grandmother’s death. For years she had skipped the day entirely—closing the curtains, working through the hours, letting grief turn the season hollow.But this morning felt different—alive, waiting.Windy nudged her awake, tail sweeping the quilt like a small broom. Rowan laughed softly, rubbing her eyes. “All right, all right. I’m up.”Lucien stood by the window, already dressed. Frost grayed the glass, but the pale sun lit a soft glow around him. H
Salt and Starlight Ashes and Starlight
Morning broke pale and slow.The storm had passed, but the snow still clung to the trees in heavy drifts, bending branches low under winter’s weight. The sea below was calm, dark as slate, its surface barely moving except for a slow pulse of tide against the rocks. Inside the cottage, the fire had burned to embers—thin red threads winding through black ash like veins of fading light.Rowan woke to silence. Not stillness. Silence—intentional and listening.For a moment she thought she was still dreaming. The glow of the night before shimmered faintly in her mind—the mistletoe crystallizing, the silver snow rising like stars, the warmth of Lucien’s lips against hers. It felt unreal, sacred. Fragile.Then she saw him.Lucien sat by the hearth, shoulders bowed, his hands pressed to his temples as if holding himself together. His breath came slow and uneven.“Lucien?”He looked up.The mark on his wrist blazed faintly blue—too bright, too cold. It pulsed like the moon itself was beating in
Salt and Starlight The solstice Snow
The longest night of the year arrived wrapped in silver and silence.Mystic lay hushed beneath a quilt of snow, every rooftop softened, every porch light glowing amber through the frost. Icicles clung to gutters like crystal fangs catching the last traces of dusk. The air smelled faintly of pine and sea salt — winter’s breath carried over the cliffs.Inside the cottage, Rowan lit the last of the candles. Wax melted into slow amber pools, fragrance curling like warmth made visible. A small evergreen stood by the window, decorated with dried oranges, bits of ribbon, and tiny shells she’d gathered from the shoreline below. A memory of summers, stitched gently into winter.Windy slept near the fire, tail flicking whenever sparks leapt too high, her fur glowing copper and shadow in the candlelight.Lucien stood at the door, looking out into the snow-quiet night. His shoulders sat slightly tense, as though listening for something the world hadn’t yet decided to reveal.“It’s strange,” he mu
Salt and Starlight Echoes of Water
Winter came softly to Mystic.By early December, the harbor was lined with garlands and lanterns. The smell of pine and woodsmoke drifted through every street. Snow gathered on the eaves of the old shops, and the world glowed gold in the evenings as strings of warm lights reflected on the dark, glassy water.Rowan walked through town with Windy at her side, her breath forming small clouds in the cold air. She’d tucked her scarf under her chin, cheeks pink from the chill. People waved to her now—smiles that reached their eyes, greetings that felt genuine.Mrs. Alden from Moon’s End Books pressed a small bundle of cinnamon sticks into Rowan’s hand and said, “For luck, dear.” Rowan thanked her, warmed in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.The warmth of it all felt fragile, like glass in her hands.She paused outside Selunara’s Grace Bakery, watching Mirabel Hallow decorate the window with silver stars. The friendly woman’s laughter carried through the glass as she chatted wit
Salt and Starlight The Autumn Feast
The morning of Thanksgiving dawned clear and cold.A rare calm had settled over Mystic. The sea lay smooth and glassy, the fog holding to the horizon instead of the cliffs. The town below had already begun to stir—music and laughter carried faintly up from the harbor, mingling with the distant clang of dishes and the muted ring of bells.Rowan could almost pretend, for a moment, that her life was ordinary.She stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to her elbows, chopping apples and sage for a pie. The knife thudded softly against the worn wooden board in a steady rhythm. Butter softened in a crock on the counter. A bowl of cranberries waited by the sink, catching the weak November light like scattered jewels.Windy snored gently by the stove, sprawled on her side in the warmest patch of floor. Every so often the cottage hummed—a soft, contented sound that felt like approval, as if the house itself remembered other mornings like this. Other Thanksgivings. Other hands.Rowan paused for a
Salt and Starlight Through the Mirror of Tides
The snow still covered the cliffs when Rowan began to dream again.At first it was soft—white light and the hush of wind through glass. Then the air thickened, and she realized she was standing ankle-deep in water. The surface shone like a mirror, reflecting the moon and nothing else. Her breath misted across the silver stillness, but her reflection did not breathe with her.“Lucien?” she whispered. Her voice echoed far away, as if the world itself were listening.No answer.Windy stood beside her, perfectly calm. Her reflection, though, was wrong—the dog’s eyes glowed silver, and her shadow rippled as if it were made of wings. Feathers twitched along the silhouette, dark and gleaming.Rowan took a step forward. The water didn’t ripple; it moved with her, parting and revealing patterns carved into the glassy surface—spirals, moons, and names she didn’t recognize. Her skin prickled. These symbols were older than language. Older than fear.Then she saw her own reflection blink when she
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