Page 26 of Beasts of Shadows #1

The next morning, I’m beat.

But, we made it through our first Bonfire Moon. Feels like a win.

The dorm is still cloaked in a hazy pre-dawn darkness, the windows casting soft lavender light across the warped floorboards.

Everything smells like sweat and half-popped kernels and whatever potion Reema laced the air with to ward off night beasts.

The silence feels heavier than it did last night, but less haunted.

I’m the first to rise, stumbling over a twisted blanket in my quest for water. My legs ache from sleeping in strange angles, and my mouth tastes like shame and stale popcorn. I rub at my temples and grope for my water bottle—except instead of finding plastic, my fingers brush leather.

A notebook.

Cody’s journal.

Worn and cracked along the spine, with a frayed ribbon sticking out.

I pick it up without thinking, then freeze as a name at the top of the open page catches my eye.

Reema .

I frown, confused. Is this a hate letter? I glance toward the beds. Geneir and Cody are curled on their sides in the far corner, both still out. Reema’s burrowed into Geneir’s, tangled in sheets with only the mess of her hair visible.

I shouldn’t read this.

I should close it. Hide it. Pretend I never saw—.

Your laugh is the most enchanting song .

I nearly drop the journal.

My fingers tighten on the edge, and I snap it shut. My hands are shaking now. This is wrong. Private. Cody’s, probably. I should put it down.

But the pages don’t let go.

They cling, like parchment dipped in longing. Like the words want to be seen.

My breath hitches as I reopen it. The ink sharpens in the dim light. My eyes scan faster than I can think.

Reema ,

Your laugh is the most enchanting song. The gold of your eyes the rarest metal.

I’m only happy when I’m near you; such is the inspiration potency of your presence.

The words sound nothing like Cody. And yet, he clearly crafted them, given all the scratches and cross-outs.

I cherish every moment that I’m welcome in your circle, and I’m consumed with ache in the seconds I’m cast out.

Could this be something Geneir wrote in here? As a joke?

The looping swirls seem like Cody’s handwriting. Although, I’m hardly any expert.

It’s you that keeps me awake at night. I mull over every encounter, every stray brush of a limb; praying that you may hide an affection parallel to my own.

The night of the formal

You might think of me as a selfish, conceited jerk. And in truth, I am selfish—selfish enough to crave you when you’re in someone else’s arms. It’s made me cruel in ways I only regret. I love like loathe

Nothing can come of it, but I want you all the same. And I hate that. But I cannot rid myself of this feeling as much as I cannot rid myself of my own reflection.

I shouldn’t

The letter trails off unfinished, the ink at the bottom faded and jagged, like Cody’s hand had trembled.

I stare at the circled name Napoleon, the smudged insult—LAME—and wonder if this was ever meant to be read. If this was a purge, not a plea.

But now I’ve read it. And I can’t unread it.

Behind me, someone stirs.

I close the journal softly and slide it back onto the desk.

Whatever this is… it isn’t mine to carry.

Not yet.

#

Picca doesn’t believe in chairs.

Or at least, not for me.

She lounges on a velvet settee like a bored duchess while I kneel on the cold stone floor in a circle of crushed rosemary, inked thread, and salt.

“Again,” she says, picking dirt from under her nail with a divination needle.

My fingers are cramping from holding the thread too tightly. My knees are numb. My spine aches from staying upright. But I nod anyway and force my breathing steady.

I hold the thread between my palms and close my eyes.

Stillness.

Darkness.

Then…

Flashes.

The glint of glass. A hand reaching. A gold ribbon in a black hallway. The smell of burning cinnamon. Reema’s voice—half-laugh, half-sob—saying my name like it’s a warning.

I gasp and snap back. The thread slices a thin line across my palm.

“Good,” Picca says. “Well. Better.”

I blink at her through a film of sweat. “That didn’t feel better.”

“That’s because you haven’t learned the difference between what is, and what will be. Or what already was. You’re drinking from a river and trying to sip only the future. That’s not how rivers work.”

“Are you trying to confuse me?”

“No,” she says. “That’s just a bonus.”

She stands, finally, and crosses the floor in bare feet. Her pantsuit barely disturbs the salt as she steps over it—like the mess is beneath her. With a gentle touch, she takes the thread from my hand and examines the crimson dot now forming on my palm.

“You’re resisting the visions,” she says.

“Maybe I don’t want to see everything.”

“You don’t get to choose that,” Picca says coolly. “You’re a seer. Not a child peeking through fingers.”

I exhale through my nose, jaw tight. “Sometimes, it’s not about me. Sometimes it’s other people’s pain.”

She hums. “Ah. So it’s not the pain you’re scared of. It’s what it reveals.”

I don’t answer.

She runs her thumb across my palm, smearing the blood just a little. “What did you see this time?”

“Nothing clear,” I lie. “A hallway. Something gold.”

She studies me. Not with suspicion—just knowing. It’s worse.

“Matholwch has teeth. But it’s not his bite that marks you—it’s your willingness to lean in.”

I feel heat crawl up my neck.

“It’s not like that,” I mutter.

“No?” she says, voice sharpening. “Then what is it, really? The prophecy-bound seer. The cursed heir with a superiority complex. The dead lover turned faculty member.”

She crouches, her maroon trousers folding neatly at the knees, eyes gleaming like she’s about to dissect me for sport.

“You’re not caught in a love triangle, Harper. You’re building a noose.”

My breath stutters, but she’s not finished.

“I could almost excuse the thing with Sumner. History. Power. Obsession. At least it’s real.”

She leans in just enough for it to sting.

“But Matholwch ? Come on. That’s just bad taste.”

My cheeks flare hot. She’s absolutely right.

She stands again, brushing salt off her pants like I’m dust she picked up accidentally.

“How many threads are you planning to knot around your own throat?”

I open my mouth to protest—but nothing comes out.

Picca doesn’t need my answer. She already knows.

“I am a seer,” she says. “A real one. Disciplined. Initiated. You—you’re just a raw thread dangling off the loom, catching every current that passes. It’s no wonder the gods are already unraveling you.”

A chill curls down my spine.

“I didn’t ask for any of it,” I whisper.

“You never do. That’s the nature of threads. They find you. Especially the ones that want to tangle.”

I stare at my palm, where the blood has begun to dry into the ink and rosemary dust. My fingers ache with the weight of what I won’t name.

“What do I do with it?” I ask.

Picca’s gaze sharpens—not softer, just clearer. “You decide whether to cut it. Or let it drag you under.”

The silence stretches, taut and loaded.

Eventually, she presses the needle into my hand.

“Again.”

I steady my breath. Force my spine straight. The blood on my palm hasn’t dried yet. The thread drinks it.

This time, I don’t resist.

I let it take me.

The room tilts. My stomach lurches. The salt circle drops away beneath me and I’m falling—through air, through ash, through time that doesn’t feel like mine.

Then…

Snow.

Not like the kind that dusts the cliffs around Van Ritten. This snow is wrong. Too thick. Too heavy. It falls upward.

The world is all white and ice and soundless ruin.

Something sharp pricks at the base of my skull, and when I reach back, my hand comes away red. My own hair is frozen. I’m barefoot on marble. The veins of the stone are black as rot, and they pulse beneath me like a heartbeat.

A voice slithers in.

“Little prophet. Still looking through cracks in the door.”

I spin.

There’s a woman in the distance, standing at the far end of a frozen lake. Cloaked in shadows that move like wolves around her ankles. Her mouth doesn’t move—but I hear her. In my ears. In my throat. In my bones.

“You carry her echo.”

I take a step back.

The lake cracks beneath me.

Another voice speaks—familiar, male, desperate. Ravi?

“Run. Before she sees your face.”

But it’s too late.

The woman lifts her hand.

And the snow stops falling.

Every flake hangs in midair, suspended in a breathless pause. Then one by one, the flakes turn—revealing not ice, but tiny mirrored shards. Each one showing a different version of me: burning, drowning, begging, crowned.

My pulse spikes. I can’t move.

“When you kneel, I will make it gentle.”

Her voice rings like a lullaby made of knives.

Then the lake shatters.

And I’m yanked back—gasping, choking on rosemary smoke, my knees scraped from the stone floor. The thread has snapped. The needle is gone.

Picca doesn’t rush. She doesn’t gasp. She just stands there, arms crossed, like she’s been waiting for me to finish convulsing on the floor.

“Well,” she says. “You got her attention.”

My hands are still trembling. “That was—Calea. I saw her.”

Picca tilts her head. “You sure? You didn’t mistake her for a snowflake with opinions?”

I glare at her. She smirks.

“Congratulations,” she adds, walking back to her settee. “You’ve officially entered the part of your education where the gods might kill you.”

She flops into the cushions and waves a hand, dismissive. “Go rinse the blood off. You reek of prophecy.”

#

The hallway is too bright after the salt and smoke of Picca’s workshop.

I blink against it, each step down the stone stairwell scraping the raw edge of my nerves. My fingers still smell like rosemary and ink. There’s dried blood in the creases of my palm. And in the back of my mind, Calea’s voice lingers like a frost that won’t melt.

When you kneel, I’ll make it gentle.

I don’t remember leaving the tower. Only that my boots are crunching gravel now, and I’m near the edge of the southern bluff, where the trees thin out and the cliffs catch the wind like they’re daring it to bite.

“Rough day?”

I freeze.

Ravi is leaning against a warped old rail just off the path, hands in the pockets of his slate-grey coat, hair wind-tousled. He looks out of place here—too polished for the wild edges of the forest, too human to be a god, and too god to pretend otherwise.

I roll my eyes, though my voice comes out softer than intended. “What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting for you,” he says, like it’s obvious.

He pushes off the rail and falls into step beside me as I walk. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t crowd.

Just matches my pace.

“You handled Picca better than I expected,” he says. “She’s not exactly gentle.”

“She called me a thread waiting to strangle itself.”

“She’s not wrong.”

I glance sideways, but he’s smiling faintly. Not cruel. Just knowing.

“You’ve grown,” he says after a beat. “Since you got here.”

“Thanks,” I murmur. “It only took visions, ghosts, and a few attempted murders.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Van Ritten works fast.”

The wind rises, carrying the scent of salt and pine and something colder—something older.

His voice shifts. “That vision… It was her, wasn’t it?”

I don’t answer.

“You don’t have to say it,” he says gently. “I saw your face when you came out.”

I stare ahead. “She saw me.”

He nods. “Then you’re in deeper than I hoped.”

“That’s not exactly comforting.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

A long silence stretches between us. I hear gulls somewhere beyond the cliffs. Below, waves slap at the rocks with careless power.

“She said I carry her echo. Bea’s.”

“That’s dangerous, Nari.”

“I think everything about me is dangerous now.”

Ravi turns toward me. “Not everything.”

I look at him, and it’s too easy to remember softer things. Past lives. Shared breath. The heat of a body I thought I’d never see again.

“You’re allowed to want something gentle,” he says. “Even here.”

I shake my head. “There’s no space for gentle.”

“Then make space.”

I laugh, bitter. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“No,” he says, more serious now. “It’s not easy. But it’s possible. And if you don’t—Fate has never been kind to us. Already she’s working to keep us apart.”

I frown. Are we talking about Fate, the person, or just the idea.

He pauses.

“I know you’re drawn to him,” he adds. “To Matholwch.”

I tense.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Ravi continues. “Men kike him are built to pull you in. They shine bright, and they burn through everything they touch.”

“And you’re what? The better option?” I say, too sharp.

“No,” he says softly. “I’m just someone who already knows what it feels like to love you. And what it costs.”

That shuts me up.

For a moment, all I can hear is the wind.

Ravi steps back, giving me space.

“I’m not here to stake a claim,” he says. “But if you’re going to give your heart to anyone—just make sure he knows what it’s worth.”

Then he walks away, coat snapping behind him like smoke off a fire.

And I’m left staring out at the sea, wondering what it is about me that gods keep circling like vultures—and what’s left beneath the feathers.