Home. A place of my own. A place to think.
As I walked, the realisation hardened from vague unease into brutal certainty: The missing Calysteri, the dead bodies, the sigil burned into the Umbrakynn’s neck, the vanished evidence—they were all connected.
And someone powerful was making sure I never found out how.
ELEVEN
Selene
Stepping out of the taxi, the familiar grey façade of my building loomed, solid and unyielding. The air hung thick with the scent of damp stone and cheap tobacco from the shop downstairs.
The hallway was narrow and cold. My scent—faint magic, old leather, and too much coffee—had been replaced by the chemical tang of the repair crew: harsh cleaning products and fresh paint. I was hollow, a shell waiting to be filled. Just like I left it.
I stepped inside, the latch clicking shut against the silence. The main living space was cool, the high ceilings of the tenement holding the chill. My dark grey sofa sat waiting—a practical purchase chosen for sleeping on as much as sitting—facing a coffee table scarred by the ring marks of old mugs. In the kitchenette, the fridge door was a chaotic mosaic of case notes and takeaway menus, the only real colour in a sea of muted neutrals. It was a space designed for existence, not nostalgia. Functional. Anonymous. Mine.
I pushed open the bedroom door. The unmade bed and the pile of clothes on the chair remained untouched, the blackout curtains drawn tight against the world. Visually, the room was exactly as I leftit, yet the air was wrong. The magic here was thin, stretched taut and displaced. The cleaners had stripped away more than dust; they had scoured the flat’s atmosphere raw.
I moved through the flat on autopilot. The shower was a blast of scalding water, a physical attempt to scrub away the lingering chill of the hospital and the spectral touch of the Umbrakynn’s shadow magic. I pressed my forehead against the tiles, letting the steam prickle my skin, willing it to wash out the grim guilt gnawing at me.
But the water couldn’t reach the words Eamon had finally let slip.Not by blood. The foundation of my life had turned to smoke in a single kitchen conversation. He wasn’t my father, and Liora wasn’t the fragile human woman I’d been told to remember. He had spoken of Aetherkind—a name that belonged in the blue-bound book of myths on my childhood shelf—but the conversation had broken before he could actually give me the name. He’d given me the tragedy, yet the definition remained out of reach.
I leaned into the heat. The realisation of the lie should have hurt more, but it was eclipsed by a stubborn, fierce clarity. He was the one who had taught me how to throw a right hook, who paced the floorboards every time I worked a late shift, and who always kept the coffee hot. He was my father because he chose to be. I was his daughter, regardless of what was singing in my marrow.
The problem was the song itself. It was loud, chaotic, and it had cost me everything because I hadn’t been fast enough to control it.
Dane. His face, pale and motionless. The rasping breath of the respirator.
Shaky breaths shuddered through me. If only I’d been stronger. Faster. If only I hadn’t let my magic get away from me. I tried to push the thoughts back into the dark corner where they belonged, but they clung like burrs—the Umbrakynn and the memory of the sigil burning hot on his flesh, the violent implosion of stolen magic.
No. I wasn’t going to drown in what-ifs. Not now.
I climbed out, wrapping myself in a thick towel, the chill in the air a stark reminder of my exposed vulnerability. I needed leads. Realones. I needed the truth, bypassing the ACD’s pathetic scraps and the redacted lines of the official narrative.
My fingers, still clumsy, found my phone. My thumb hovered over Orin’s number. He would be worried. They all would. But he would also understand.
I hit the call button. It rang twice.
“Selene?” His voice was a hushed hiss, pitched high with disbelief. “Why are you calling me? Why aren’t you sedated? Mira said you were under twenty-four-hour observation.”
“I’m fine. I discharged myself, Orin,” I said, the lie slipping out easily, a habitual shield. My shoulders ached, my head still pounded with a dull beat, and every nerve ending felt shot, but fine was what he needed to hear. “I’m back at my flat. Pipes are fixed.”
“You… you just walked out?” A pause, filled with the sound of frantic typing on his end. “Selene, you were comatose yesterday. Your magical readings were off the charts. Eamon was practically breathing fire at the attending doctor.”
“He’s dramatic, my dad.” A weak attempt at humour that hurt my chest. “Look, I’m fine. But I need to do something.”
I swallowed hard, fighting down a fresh tide of guilt.
“Right.” His voice dropped, the panic receding into a shared, grim determination. “Anything I can do?”
“Actually, yeah.” I paced a small circle across the sparse living room floor, my bare feet freezing against the worn timber. “I need a favour. A big one.”
“Name it.” No hesitation. That was Orin.
“Daniel Thorne’s address.”
Silence stretched on the line. The clicking of keys stopped.
“Who?” he asked. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
