The room falls silent again as the wings dissolve into faint starlight, leaving behind an almost tangible stillness. My shadows return to their usual restless state, but something feels different. They’re not just mine anymore—they’re something more.
"We need to be ready," Malrik says quietly. "Whatever's coming, it's bigger than Thorne. Someone doesn’t want Kaia to discover what she really is."
"Let them try," Torric says with a sharp grin. "We’ll be ready."
I clutch the necklace, its steady warmth grounding me as the room buzzes with quiet determination. Whatever’s coming, I’ll be ready. And for the first time, I know I won’t face it alone.
Chapter 46
Finn
The corridors of the academy stretch ahead, dimly lit and eerily quiet for this hour. The faint drip of water echoes somewhere unseen, and the air carries a chill that raises goosebumps along my arms. My footsteps echo against the stone floor, a rhythm that usually settles my nerves but tonight only amplifies them.
"This is a terrible idea," I mutter, even as I keep moving. "Why did I let Malrik talk me into this?" The truth is, I hate feeling useless. Kaia's shadows, the wings, the necklace—it's all connected to something bigger, something I can't joke away. I've spent too long being the guy who lightens the mood with a well-timed quip, safe behind my humor. But when Kaia looks at me, she sees past the wisecracks. Like she's glimpsing someone worth counting on. And that terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
I pause at an intersection, trying to remember Malrik's hastily sketched map. The restricted section should be just ahead. As I turn the corner, a flicker of movement catches my eye—just a tapestry stirring in a draft, but enough to make my heart jump.
The door to the restricted section looms ahead, its heavy iron handle gleaming faintly. "Don't think about the wards," I tell myself. "They're probably deactivated at this hour. Probably."
Taking a deep breath, I push the door open. The air inside carries the scent of old parchment and dust. Shelves stretch toward the high ceiling, crammed with books that practically vibrate with forbidden knowledge. Their spines shimmer faintly, some embossed with symbols that seem to shift when viewed too long.
I scan the shelves quickly, searching for anything related to stellar magic or artifacts of power. Most titles are written in languages I can't read, their faded lettering making me squint. Then I spot it—a thin, leather-bound volume tucked between larger tomes. Its cover bears no title, only a faint, embossed design that looks like a constellation.
I run my fingers over the design, feeling the grooves warm under my touch, almost alive. The air grows heavy with possibility. I pull the book free, its pages crackling as I open it. Diagrams of constellations fill the first few pages, accompanied by notes in a spidery hand. One sketch catches my eye—a swirling cluster of stars arranged in the shape of a phoenix, its wings outstretched. Beneath it, the notes describe the "Rebirth Constellation," linked to cycles of destruction and renewal, though the text grows fragmented, hinting at something intentionally erased.
My heart jumps when I spot a passage describing "living constellations" and their connection to wielders of ancient power. But before I can read further, footsteps echo down the corridor outside. I clutch the book to my chest, scanning for cover. The shelves are too narrow, the tables too exposed. Finally, I spot a shadowy alcove near the far wall and dart toward it.
A figure steps inside—Professor Thorne, his sharp features made sharper by the dim light. He moves with the precision of someone who knows exactly where they're going, selecting a book from a shelf near the center of the room. Its dark cover bears an intricate silver design.
"Not yet," he mutters, barely audible. "But soon."
I press deeper into the shadows as he turns, his gaze sweeping the room one last time before departing. The door closes with a soft click that seems to echo in my bones.
I wait a full minute, my legs trembling slightly as I step out. Thorne's presence here can't be coincidence, not with everything happening with Kaia. Whatever secrets this book holds just became far more dangerous—and far more vital.
The academy feels different as I make my way back, as though the walls themselves are holding secrets. One thing's certain: we're not ready for what's coming. But maybe what I found tonight will help us survive it.
Chapter 47
Aspen
The training field stretches before me, a canvas of trampled grass and well-worn equipment. My footsteps echo in the early morning stillness as I make my way across the dew-dampened ground. The air is crisp with autumn's bite, charged like the moment before a storm breaks.
Kaia's presence lingers behind my eyelids every time I blink—an aura of power that I can't fully comprehend. Yesterday's training session haunts me: the way she seemed more alive, more confident than she has been. Over these last few weeks since the dance, it almost seems as if she's accepted we've got her back. I'm grateful for it, but the way Finn and Malrik talk about her shadows still troubles me.
"Come on, Aspen," I mutter, watching my breath mist in the air. "There's something you're missing. Something important."
The harder I try to grasp at the fleeting wisps of memory—of my mother's stories about shadow warriors, of ancient tales whispered around fires—the further they slip away. It's maddening, like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands. Iknow there's a connection that should mean something to me, but it's just out of reach.
I approach the weighted bags, stripping off my shirt and tossing it aside. The morning air sharpens my focus, a physical reminder that I'm here, that I'm fighting. My water rune pulses faintly, responding to the moisture in the air.
"You should have done more," I berate myself, clenching my fists. "Should have seen the signs with Darian sooner."
The first punch lands with a satisfying thud. Impact travels up my arm, grounding me in the moment. Each strike punctuates my determination to do better. Sweat beads on my forehead as my water rune pulses in rhythm with my movements, its blue light flickering brighter with every hit.
"Stupid, useless memory," I growl. "What good is being empathic if I can't even figure out how to help her?"
I pause, breathing heavily, hands braced against the bag. Something in the old stories nags at me—I can almost hear my mother's voice, recounting tales of shadow warriors who wielded magic as vast as the stars. But the details blur, like ink smeared on wet parchment.
