Peace—of a sort.
The room smelled of old paper and dust, a grounded, familiar scent that eased me more than the tea ever could. My father’sgreat-uncle had amassed an impressive collection. Shelves rose from floor to ceiling, crammed with volumes on continental mythology, Celtic folklore, and histories written by men too arrogant to doubt their own pens.
I traced a finger along the spines, reading titles as the throb behind my eyes settled into a resentful pulse.
A dark green volume without a title caught my attention.
I eased it from the shelf.
The leather binding creaked as I opened it.
Wulverson History
K. B. Wulverton — 1938
The handwriting was neat and deliberate.
Intrigued—and grateful for the distraction—I took the book and crossed to the armchair.
My journey began in 1909, the ink read, searching for my clan’s history after losing everyone. First my younger brother, then my parents, and finally my darling Iona. I still search the stars at night for a glimpse of you, my darling.
I blinked.
Melodramatic nonsense.
Eilidh Manor clearly had a talent for driving its occupants toward sentimental rambling. Or madness.
I scoffed under my breath and turned the page.
Only through visiting the Island did I discover the truth. Hidden away in the cracks of a broken home was where I found the parchment. Written in an ancient tongue, battered by centuries of storm and salt. Yet enough remained for me to understand that we were born from more than men.
I paused, thumb resting on the brittle edge of the page.
“Born from more than men,” I repeated dryly.
Superstitious drivel. Folklore at best, lunacy at worst.
And yet—
A faint, sharp press bloomed beneath my sternum.
A push.
As though something inside me approved.
I exhaled slowly, refusing to acknowledge the unease prickling up the back of my neck.
“Ramblings of an old man,” I muttered, turning the page again.
But my hand wasn’t as steady as I would’ve liked.
Is it truly possible that Fenrir has tainted our bloodline?
I stared at the line, finger tapping once—twice—against the page.
Fenrir.
The name tugged at a half-formed memory, something from the tales my governess used to read to me.
