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“Tá tú caillte le fada an lá, iníon na cuirte fiáine. An bhfuil a fhios agat cé tú féin?”

You have been lost for so long, daughter of the wild court. Do you know who you are?

The words don’t just echo—they illuminate pathways through my consciousness I never knew existed. Ancient familiarity settles into me, keys unlocking doors I’ve kept sealed my entire life.

My hands shake so violently I have to dig my fingers into Litvak’s shoulders to keep him pinned. Knuckles blanching white with effort.

“Speak English, asshole,” Davis says, roughly hauling Litvak to his feet. The movement breaks my grip.

Litvak ignores him, his eyes never leaving mine—seeing through me. Into me. Beneath me to something I’ve spent a lifetime burying.

He switches to English, his voice lilting with an accent I can’t place.

“They have hunted you across lifetimes.” His accent makes each word feel deliberate.

“All that iron discipline, all that careful training... and still your true nature bleeds through like wine through silk. Does Graves know what you really are?”

What the actual fuck?

“Is that why he’s kept you close all these years, hm? His perfect little weapon?”

“Shut him up,” I order. Voice cracking like thin ice under pressure. Suddenly terrified of what else he might say. Not because I think this is the rambling of a mad man but because his words ring true, resonating at a frequency that makes my bones ache.

Cold sweat erupts across my skin in a sudden wave, soaking through my clothes. Saliva floods my mouth with the bitter warning of impending sickness.

Davis clamps a hand over Litvak’s mouth as the team secures him, but Litvak’s eyes stay locked on mine. Filled with a terrible knowing that makes me want to disappear into shadow.

I step back, examining my arm where the blade cut me. The wound doesn’t bleed like it should. Patterns crawl from the cut. Not bleeding—burning. Racing up my arm like living tattoos carving themselves into my flesh. Each line sears hot enough to make me dizzy.

It’s beautiful in its terribleness. Brown swirling lines curl like ancient script across my skin, glowing with greenish blue light, pulsing in time with my heartbeat—growing brighter with each panicked acceleration.

My stomach lurches at the sight. Bile rises hot and bitter in my throat. My fingers tingle, nerves firing without reason as the patterns spread upward, reaching my elbow in delicate spirals.

Each new line that appears whispers of forests I’ve never walked, rituals I’ve never performed, a home I’ve never known.

I yank my sleeve down. Fingers trembling so badly I can barely grasp the fabric. Whatever this is, I don’t want anyone else to see it. Especially not Davis, who’d insist on a medical evaluation.

“You okay, Ash?” Davis asks. Concern obvious even in darkness. He reaches toward me, and I flinch away before conscious thought, skin crawling at the thought of his touch.

“He barely grazed me,” I snap. Words brittle as frozen leaves. Then force my voice to soften into something resembling normal. “Just a scratch.”

The blade did graze me. The fact that it’s turning my arm into a damn garden feels like a separate issue.

Davis nods toward the altar. “What the hell is all this? Looks like something from a bad horror movie.”

“Above our pay grade,” I reply, collecting the files and the small stone object from the altar. My fingers tremble as I reach for it, hesitating millimeters above its surface. “We retrieve, we don’t analyze.”

The stone burns cold against my palm. My pulse syncs to something else—something older. Words form in my head but in my own voice. Not yet. Not here. Soon.

I nearly drop it.

The stone feels alive against my palm, vibrating at a frequency that makes my teeth ache and sets my nerves jangling like plucked strings. I wrap it in a containment bag without touching it directly, hands shaking so violently I almost fumble it twice.

For a heartbeat before the bag seals, I swear the stone pulses with a light synchronized to the throbbing patterns on my arm.

The whispers thankfully fall silent.

As the team leads Litvak away, he calls back one final time. “Ask him what happened to you! Ask him why they hid you!”

His eyes bore into mine with a certainty that makes my knees weak. “Ask him about the Four Treasures!”

Four Treasures. The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing breath from my lungs. Something buried deep within me recognizes the term—not from training or briefings but from somewhere else. Somewhere older.

Davis frowns, glancing between Litvak and me. Suspicion draws his brows together. “What’s he talking about?”

“Raving,” I stammer. The word breaks apart even as I force it out. Sounding false even to my own ears. The half-truth burns like battery acid in my throat. “Let’s wrap this up.”

As we emerge from the tree line, I feel the weight of Graves’s upcoming interrogation pressing down on me.

Twenty-five years of subtle tests. Of being his special project.

Of feeling his eyes on me during training exercises.

That slight smile when I did things that should have been impossible for someone my age and size.

He used to call me his ghost girl like it was a pet name. Back when I thought that meant protected. Not owned.

Davis falls into step beside me. Too close. His hand clamps on my shoulder, thumb pressing my pulse point. When I step away, his fingers dig deeper.

“Good work tonight, Ash,” he says, and there’s something in his tone—pride mixed with ownership—that makes me want to shower. “Though I noticed some interesting... reactions out there.”

“Mission accomplished. Target secured. Package retrieved.” I recite the facts like a mantra. “Standard parameters met.”

“Standard.” His thumb traces across my collarbone before I finally step away. “Yet your heart rate tells a different story. Elevated during the interrogation. Spiked when he spoke in that... interesting language.”

“Adrenaline.” True. My heart was racing. “Happens in tactical situations.”

“Does it?” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s solving. “Because you’ve been in thousands of tactical situations, and I’ve never seen you react quite like... that.”

“Like what?” I keep walking, forcing him to either follow or fall behind.

“Like you were coming home.”

The words hit like a physical blow. I stop walking, turn to face him fully. “Explain that.”

“The way you moved through those trees. The way the shadows seemed to... welcome you.” His eyes are sharp, assessing. “I’ve known you for years, Ash. You’ve always been exceptional. But tonight? Tonight you were something else entirely.”

“I was doing my job.” Each word is carefully measured.

“Were you?” He steps closer, voice dropping to silk over steel. “Or were you finally doing what you were born for?”

The question hangs between us like a blade. I study his face—the slight smile, the knowing look in his eyes. How long has he been watching?

“Careful, Davis.” My voice goes deadly quiet. “You’re starting to sound like you have theories.”

“Oh, I have more than theories.” His smile widens. “I have plans.”

The emphasis on plans feels less like a promise and more like a threat.

“You up for that drink tonight?” he asks. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which remain sharp and assessing. “Team’s heading to O’Malley’s to celebrate another successful extraction.”

“I have other priorities tonight.” I step back until his hand drops, muscle memory making the movement look casual. “Sleep being one of them.”

“That’s the third time you’ve had ‘other priorities’ this month, Ghost.” His smile sharpens, predatory. “One might begin to think you’re avoiding something... or someone.”

“I’m a woman of many priorities.” I return his smile with one that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Time management is everything.”

“Indeed it is.” He steps closer again, and I notice how he moves—calculated, like he’s herding me. “Though I notice your time management has become remarkably... selective lately.”

“Efficiency is about choosing the right investments.” I shoulder my gear bag. “Some yield better returns than others.”

“And what kind of return am I, Ash?” The question carries weight, like he’s asking something else entirely.

“The kind that requires a cost-benefit analysis.” I meet his eyes directly. “Still running the numbers.”

His laugh is soft, dangerous. “Take your time. But remember—some opportunities have expiration dates.”

I nearly snort at that but somehow swallow the noise.

“Things are changing. You’re changing.” The quiet certainty in his voice freezes my blood, turning my veins to glass.

His gaze drops to my concealed arm—the exact spot where the thorns spread beneath my sleeve like something alive and hungry.

As we hike out of the forest, the strange words Litvak spoke repeat in my mind. Each repetition louder than the last until they’re screaming inside my skull. The thorn patterns on my arm pulse beneath my sleeve in time with the chant, like the rhythm feeds them, helps them grow.

The faces in trees no longer hide. They watch openly now, bark shifting to form expressions that shouldn’t exist. The moon follows me despite cloud cover, its spotlight finding me no matter how I try to blend with shadows.

For a moment, I think I see her again—the woman with forest-green eyes—standing among shadows. She raises a hand in what might be a greeting.

Or warning.

I stumble, nearly falling. Davis catches my elbow before I hit dirt. I flinch away from his touch as if scorched, nausea rolling through me in waves.

The forest knows me. Trees lean toward my footsteps, and the ground feels more solid than anywhere I’ve ever walked. Part of me feels an answering pull toward the darkness between trees.

And somewhere deep beneath military conditioning and forced humanity, something wild and ancient unfurls—like a heartbeat thumping for the first time after decades of silence.