Chapter 6: Whispers in the Dark

The fire in her room had burned down to embers, but sleep still refused to visit. Thalia lay awake on the unfamiliar bed, staring up at carved beams that seemed to shift and writhe in the moonlight. The furs tangled around her legs felt like a wolf’s embrace—a little too tight, a little too warm.

Of course I end up in a house full of insomniacs, she thought, rolling onto her side. Even the ghosts in this place are restless.

A clock somewhere chimed midnight. From the hall, distant laughter and the muted thump of boots told her that not everyone in Silverpine was safely tucked away. Anxiety gnawed at her bones. Her skin prickled, her magic a live wire humming somewhere just out of reach.

I could try to meditate. Or I could go exploring like a complete idiot.

Decision made, Thalia slid out of bed and shrugged into her cloak. The wooden floor was icy under her toes. She crept to the door, paused to listen, then eased it open.

The corridor outside was thick with shadows, the faint glow of lanterns doing little to chase them away. At the end nearest the stairs, a tall figure leaned against the wall—arms folded, expression bored. The guard Rowan had posted. He looked up as she approached, one eyebrow rising in amusement.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he drawled, voice pitched low to avoid carrying. He had a roguish sort of smirk, dark hair falling over his eyes, and the kind of build that suggested he could snap a neck without losing his place in line for breakfast.

Thalia hesitated, weighing her options. Run? Lie? Act innocent?

She went for honest. “Let’s just say your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired.”

He grinned, revealing a chipped canine tooth. “Sorry the furs weren’t soft enough for our honored guest.”

She shot him a sideways look. “Do all Silverpine guards double as doormen, or just the charming ones?”

“Only the lucky ones. And only when the Alpha expects trouble.” His eyes glinted. “Planning any?”

Thalia shrugged, hugging her arms close. “Just wandering. If you’re going to eat me, at least let me die with some good gossip.”

He gave a short, appreciative laugh. “If you get caught, don’t blame me. I’ll say you hypnotized me with your outsider wiles.”

She rolled her eyes, then grinned in spite of herself. “You wish. Keep your secrets, guard dog.”

He stood aside, just enough for her to pass. “Name’s Fen. And if you get bored, try the kitchens. I stash sweets in the left cupboard.”

She hesitated, caught off guard by the offer. He could absolutely kill me. And yet, for some reason, I trust him more than half this pack. Maybe I just like people who talk back.

“Thanks, Fen,” she said quietly.

He winked. “Go on, then. Just don’t get yourself gutted, witch.”

Thalia slipped past him, heart pounding with adrenaline and something almost like excitement. Behind her, Fen resumed his lazy watch, but she caught him humming a tune—an old song, almost familiar, that made the hair on her arms prickle.

The packhouse by night was a different creature entirely. Gone was the bustle and noise of day—now it was all quiet menace, the scent of smoke and old secrets drifting through drafty halls. She moved carefully, conscious that the guards Rowan had posted might be more interested in eavesdropping than actually protecting her.

She padded past alcoves lined with musty books and more wolf-themed decor than any one house should legally hold. A carved statue near the stairwell leered down at her, jaws open, fangs bared. Subtle. Really puts the “welcome” in “welcome to our murder den.”

Downstairs, the dining hall was empty but still heavy with the memory of the council dinner. Crumbs littered the table like the aftermath of a tiny battle, and the air still carried the scent of venison, singed rosemary, and the sharp, metallic note of candle stubs burned too low. She snuck a fingerful of leftover honey-butter from the serving tray and licked it clean.

The main hall opened onto a sweeping staircase. Thalia hesitated, listening. Far off, a door slammed—followed by murmurs and the clink of glass. The council’s study, if she remembered Mara’s whispered map.

What’s the worst that could happen? she told herself. Other than death, exile, or a scolding from Mara for not following the “don’t get murdered” rule.

She drifted down the stairs, silent as breath, pressing herself to the wall when voices grew louder. At the far end of a narrow passage was a heavy door, cracked open. Lamplight spilled out, pooling on the stone floor in uneven gold.

She crept closer, heart hammering.

Inside, councilors clustered around a round table cluttered with maps and empty tankards. Shadows danced on the walls—here Bryndis’s sharp braid, there Marek’s hunched silhouette, Osric’s massive frame looming by the window.

“—cannot trust her,” Bryndis hissed, her voice slicing through the air. “It’s too great a risk. You saw the candle flare. If she is what I suspect—”

Marek rumbled, “We have survived worse. Silverpine’s survived worse.”

A third voice—Linden, probably. “Rowan’s made his move. If he’s right, she could be our salvation. Or our undoing.”

Tamsin interrupted, voice smooth as oil, “What if she’s not who she says? The borderland tale doesn’t add up. I heard a rumor—old witch blood, powerful lines. There was a girl, years ago, who—”

A name drifted through the room, unfamiliar and yet shivery as a cold wind down her spine. “—Aradia.”

The word made Thalia’s heart stumble. She pressed closer, blood roaring in her ears.

Osric grunted, “Aradia’s dead. She has to be.”

“Or hiding,” Tamsin countered. “You know what they’re like—always slipping out of the noose. If it’s her…”

Bryndis spat on the floor. “Then Rowan’s playing with fire. For all our sakes, we better hope he knows what he’s doing.”

Thalia clung to the wall, heart racing, that name—Aradia—echoing inside her skull. Why does that sound familiar? Why does it feel like someone else’s name and my secret at the same time?

She risked a look inside. The councilors’ faces were tight with fear and frustration, their power games hanging thick in the air. Only Jessa sat quietly, watching, a flicker of something like pity—or warning—in her eyes. Jessa’s gaze snapped up, meeting Thalia’s through the crack in the door.

Thalia froze.

For a heartbeat, Jessa didn’t move. Then, almost imperceptibly, she turned back to the table, saying nothing.

Thalia melted back into the shadow, heart jackhammering, every sense jangling. She slipped away, feet barely touching the floor, all the way back up the stairs. Fen was waiting at the top, leaning in the same lazy sprawl.

He eyed her, a sly smile tugging at his mouth. “Back so soon? Didn’t find the afterparty?”

“Nothing but sour wine and secrets,” Thalia replied, breathless.

He shrugged. “Welcome to Silverpine. Get used to it.”

She managed a grin. “See you on my next midnight escapade?”

Fen’s eyes glinted. “Count on it.”

Only when her door was shut and locked behind her did she let herself breathe.

She collapsed onto the bed, pulse slowly returning to normal. The name burned on her tongue.

Aradia. Why does it feel like a ghost and a prophecy? And why am I so sure it has something to do with me?

She curled under the furs, the house creaking and shifting around her, memories flickering at the edge of her mind like fireflies she couldn’t quite catch. The darkness pressed in, thick with questions.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll find answers. Or maybe I’ll just find more trouble. At least I’m good at that.

Sleep came slow, heavy with the promise of secrets—and the certainty that Silverpine’s walls heard everything.