The image looked old. Dangerous.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A resonance seal,” he said. “It interacts with raw magic. If you are what I think you are… it should react.”
I leaned forward. As I did, my arm brushed his.
The contact struck with the force of an impact. A searing arc of light bridged the gap between us, bright enough to bleach the dust motes in the air. My shoulder—the scar—responded with a powerful, eager throb that felt like a heartbeat trying to break through the skin. A buzz ran down my arm and settled in my fingertips.
I reached out, my finger hovering over the central shape as Riven’s thumb anchored the black curve of the arch. The air between our hands thickened, vibrating with a pulse that made my skin prickle. I looked up and caught the raw, unguarded shock in his eyes; he felt it too—the same ancient recognition striking straight at the marrow. I looked back down, my breath hitching as the sigil ignited.
A flood of golden light erupted from the centre, rushing to meet a cold explosion of dark from the arc. The two colours clashed within the ink, vibrating with a force that rattled the oak table before vanishing.
I jerked back, staring at it.
Riven looked at me instead of the book. His eyes were dark, the swirls moving like smoke.
“You see?” he whispered. “It recognises its own.”
I didn’t know if he meant the sigil, the magic, or the fact that in this massive, sun-drenched room, he was the only thing I could feel.
“I see,” I said.
And I was terrified that I did.
TWENTY
Selene
The taxi tyres hissed over the cobblestones of the Old Quarter, cutting through the long, violet shadows of late afternoon. The driver said nothing, leaving me space to organise the chaos in my head as the city’s workday grey thickened into evening gloom.
Outside, the cooling air signalled dusk. The sun—finally clear of the storm that had battered the coast all night—was already setting, washing the sky in fading amber. The city quieted as the final glow sank behind the skyline.
I leaned my head against the cool glass, watching the familiar terraced houses pass. The ache in my left shoulder had vanished, along with the headache. The shift was undeniable. Instead, the gnawing ache had settled into a treacherous contentment, soothed by proximity to the very man I should be running from.
My hands looked the same resting on my lap—pale, a few small scratches, nails bitten down—but the echo of the healing lingered in the nerves. Power leaked from me like a phantom current. The sensation of his skin fusing beneath my palms refused to fade with the daylight.
Aetherkind.
The word anchored itself in my mind, refusing to settle. He thought he was one of them. A survivor of a civilisation that shouldn’t exist.
I thought of the book -The Echoes of Shattered Dawn.
Eamon lied. He told me the hard truths, that I wasn’t theirs by blood, that my mother wasn’t human—but he never gave it a name. He never told me what I actually was. He just hid the danger, letting me walk blind into a world that wants to eat me alive. The half-truth knocked me off balance. I could have asked him when he handed me the books, but I wasn't ready. Fury flared at his silence, eclipsing the knowledge that he only meant to protect me. I resented us both for staying quiet, and dreaded the answers I might finally get.
Riven, conversely, offered a name—even if it’s a guess. I don’t know if he’s right. I don’t know if I’m a survivor of a lost civilisation or just something broken that shouldn’t exist. But at least Riven gave me the dignity of the answer.
Heat warmed my neck, born from the memory of the study and the golden light of today. I thought of the way he grabbed my wrist to stop me from falling and simply did not let go. His magic-threaded gaze stole my breath. We were close, and I did not want to move away. My mind returned to the symbols in the book, the intricate geometric designs that had ignited beneath our hands. We needed to find an explanation for what those marks were and why they had reacted with such force to our combined touch.
A vibration in my pocket brought me back to the taxi’s worn leather seat. I fished the phone out, squinting at the screen as the streetlights ignited along the pavement. Orin was calling. I swiped to answer, and his voice came through immediately, sounding thin and jagged.
“Selene? Thank gods you picked up,” he said, his breathing sounding uneven. “I hate to ruin your Monday evening, but patrol just called in a body. Industrial Crescent. It looks… it looks wrong, Selene. You need to see this.”
My stomach turned over. The Industrial Crescent. The site of the dead zone, where I nearly failed to walk out yesterday.
“Wrong how, Orin? Calm down,” I said, though my own pulse started to race.
“A guard with nasty injuries,” Orin stammered, his words tumbling over each other. “The medical examiner says he’s been dead for more than a day. Patrol has the perimeter, but I’m… I’m not sure how long we can keep this quiet. It can wait for morning if you’re occupied, but Morrow is already asking questions.”
