Last night crashes back unexpectedly. Dane’s hands on my skin. His mouth at my throat. The way he said my name like it was enough to anchor him through a storm.
He knew what I was planning. Not explicitly. Not in words. But he knew.
And he let me go.
Not because he didn’t care. Because he trusted me to come back.
That truth cuts deeper than rejection ever could. It demands something of me I’m not sure I know how to give.
I push forward, refocusing. The trees have begun to hum with held energy. Vibrating at a frequency just below hearing. I can feel it in my teeth, in the back of my skull. The convergence point is close.
When I reach the clearing, I know immediately it’s wrong. Too symmetrical. Too still. No birds call here. No insects buzz. The air hangs unnaturally thick, as if paused mid-breath.
It’s a stage setting, not a natural space. The perfect circle of trees. The too-even spacing. The ground free of debris where it should be littered with pine needles and leaves.
I draw the blade from my thigh holster, testing its weight in my palm. The silver edge catches what little sunlight filters through the canopy.
Trap or not, I’m walking in. On my terms. With my eyes open.
If Faelan wants to play with magic and manipulation, he’ll learn I’m not the prey he expected. I’m the predator who tracked him to his own door.
I step into the clearing, and the air thickens in my lungs like I’m breathing underwater. The silence presses against my eardrums.
The trees form a perfect circle around me, spaced at identical intervals. Too perfect. The ground beneath my feet is bare earth, swept clean of pine needles and fallen leaves. Sanitized. Prepared.
My skin prickles. Magic hangs in the air, not flowing but suspended, like time has paused mid-breath.
That’s when I see it. Carved into a flat stone at the center of the clearing: a symbol. Not quite a rune, not quite a sigil. Knotwork etched into the rock itself, ancient and cold. The lines twist in impossible angles, folding back on themselves in ways that make my eyes want to slide away.
I know what it is before I reach it. The same pattern I’ve been drawing obsessively since I came back from the Fade—the one that matches the silvery mark on my wrist. The mark that appeared weeks before I ever entered that realm, that I don’t remember getting, that’s only grown stronger since.
My fingers hover over the etched stone. I should back away. Should call for backup. Should do anything but touch it.
I press my palm against the cold surface.
The scar reacts when I touch it. No dramatic burning, just a quick pulse. Magic responds to magic; simple as that. The air shifts around my fingers, a reaction to whatever’s in my blood.
My stomach drops. “Shit.”
This was never random. Faelan didn’t find me.
He marked me.
The realization hits like ice water. Every step I thought was mine was guided. Every trail I tracked was already laid. The scar wasn’t an accident or battle damage. It was a key. And I walked right into the lock.
Before I can pull away, the magic in the clearing shifts. The air vibrates with a subtle hum, and something brushes against my consciousness—not a voice, not a touch. A resonance.
I strain my senses, trying to understand what I’m feeling. The presences aren’t physically here, but their essence lingers, suspended in the magic like insects in amber. I can feel their confusion, their drifting awareness.
The missing wolves. The hikers from the trails.
They’re alive. Suspended. Caught.
Just as I suspected.
I focus harder, trying to separate the threads of consciousness. Three ... No, five. Wait—
Eleven. Not five.
