I retrieved my phone from my pocket, scrolling idly through the message thread I had been avoiding. He didn’t send them every day, only after training sessions when we parted ways in the car park. Clipped messages. Sharp. Precise.
Faster next time. Find your anchor.
Instructions, always. Never sentiment. And yet… they grounded me.
He had warned me away from Highspire this week. Not directly, not with a command. More like a suggestion.You’re not ready yet, he’d said, that low voice of his carrying something heavier than the words. He saw the instability I still carried.
Highspire had always been a place where power congregated, where people with influence pulled strings from behind mirrored glass. If augmentation was coming from anywhere, it would be there. People like that didn’t miss weakness. They devoured it.
So yes—maybe Riven was right. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
I was stronger now. More controlled. But the emotional landmines remained. Highspire’s predators would smell that instability on me from a mile off.
My mobile chimed on the counter, breaking the thought. The screen lit up with a notification from Marcus.
Marcus:Report to ACD liaison re: Lows patrol findings. Immediately.
The message was a transparent attempt by the top brass to keep us tangled in bureaucracy. Marcus’s hands were tied; he was simply a conduit for the ACD’s paranoia. I’d compile some surface-level data to placate him—just enough to look busy while we dug into what was actually happening in the city.
My thoughts drifted back to Jack Preston. He had provided the initial whispered clues regarding the injection tools and the augmented fighters. He warranted another visit. Best to go during theday this time, when the place is empty. No need for another near-explosion of magic.
I filled the kettle, catching my reflection in the darkened metal. My eyes—usually warm brown—looked different today. More defined, as if the magic bleeding into my system was actively rewriting my features, dragging old storms to the surface. That strange pull low in my belly tightened again—the one that only appeared when he was absent.
The one I refused to name.
Everything inside me was shifting, rearranging itself into something new, and the buried part of my mind welcomed the alteration.
It was daunting. Exhilarating. Dangerous.
Just like him.
By the timeI reached my father’s house, the morning had turned bleak and oppressive. The familiar red-brick terrace looked the same as ever—stubborn, tired, holding itself together through the years purely by will.
I stepped inside. The old floorboards creaked beneath my boots, a sound I had known since I learned to walk. The warm air carried the faint scent of cedar and old paper.
Eamon appeared in the hallway almost instantly. He must have been waiting.
His shoulders loosened when he saw me, the tension easing just a fraction.
“You look… better,” he said. His tone was soft and guarded, hovering somewhere between a question and approval.
I shrugged, keeping my hands in my pockets to hide the tremor I couldn’t quite shake. “I’ve been resting.”
It was a lie, and we both knew it, but neither of us touched it.
We moved into the living room, the familiar, slightly suffocating warmth wrapping around me. Everything remained the same—theworn armchair, the thin curtains, the row of framed photographs lining the mantelpiece. I drifted towards the hearth. The first picture showed Liora, a stack of books tucked securely under her arm. Beside it sat another of my parents; Eamon was looking at her with absolute devotion, while she smiled wide for the camera.
The final frame held a picture of me at eight years old, taken during a springtime trip to the city zoo. The memory surfaced with a dull ache. I had seen a litter of wolf cubs that day and instantly decided I needed one. I had told Eamon, with complete childhood stubbornness, that when I grew up, I would get a wolf to be my fluffy friend.
The dream had materialised, in a twisted sort of way. Dane was a wolf, and he was my closest friend, even if he wasn’t exactly the cuddly companion my eight-year-old self had envisioned.
Eamon sank into his armchair, the old springs groaning under his weight.
“How is he?” he asked, watching me closely. “Dane?”
“Awake,” I said, leaning against the mantle to keep my legs steady. “He’s stable. Complaining about the hospital food, so… he’ll be fine.”
Eamon let out a breath that seemed to deflate him slightly. “Good. That’s good.”
