“I need you to look into Theodore. His family lineage. Everything.”
“Why?”
“From the information I’ve received, he may be our necromancer. Or he may not be. But we need to be sure. I want to know where his wealth comes from, why he’s so influential, how far back his lineage can be traced, how many witches are under his command.”
Lucian studies me, and I can see the questions forming. “I’ll look into it.”
“Thank you.”
I leave before he can press for details I don’t have. The hallway is quiet, most of the palace settling in for the evening meal. I should find Daciana, make sure she’s alright after everything we learned today.
Then, I feel it.
Magic. Faint, indistinct, but wrong. It pulses from the direction of the forest, a sickly thread of power that makes my wolf bristle.
I change direction and follow the sensation. It’s not dark magic, not exactly. This is something else.
The palace grounds give way to the tree line. I shift partially, letting my enhanced senses take over. The magic grows stronger as I move deeper into the woods, and beneath it, I catch hints of something else.
Blood. Not fresh, but recent enough.
And fear. The scent of it lingers like a stain.
I move faster, tracking the source. My wolf pushes harder, demanding I hunt, demanding I find whatever caused this disturbance so near the palace. So near my mate.
The trail leads to a clearing I don’t recognize. Someone was here recently—branches are broken, undergrowth disturbed. But there’s no one here now.
Just a symbol carved into a tree trunk.
I step closer. It’s crude, cut with a blade, but unmistakable.
The Ravelholt sigil.
But that’s impossible. That family is dead. Has been gone for nearly three decades.
I press my hand against the carving. The wood is still bleeding sap. This was done today. Maybe just a few hours ago.
“Someone knows,” I mutter. “Someone knows we’re looking into them.”
The magic pulses again, stronger this time, and I spin. There, in the shadows between the trees: a figure, too far away to make out clearly, watching me.
I lunge forward, but they’re already moving, dissolving into darkness that shouldn’t exist in the fading daylight. I chase after them, crashing through underbrush, following the diminishing trace of their power.
But they’re gone.
I stand alone in the forest, my wolf snarling with frustration.
This is a message. A warning, maybe. Or a taunt.
Either way, we’re being watched. And whoever is watching us knows exactly what we’re investigating.
I need to get back to Daciana. Now.
The strange magic is gone, but the unease it left behind crawls under my skin as I run back to the palace. Every shadow feels like a threat. Every whisper of wind sounds like an omen.
The Ravelholt Clan was supposed to be a dead end. A tragedy from the past with no bearing on the present.
But nothing about this is past tense anymore.
