Page 39 of Shadebound (Dark Fantasy #1)

She had been spiralling about it, trying to figure out how to get a message out, how to tell someone I was here, how to fix it before it ruined everything. She kept trying to make a plan, kept looking over her shoulder, thinking of ways to get me out. And I had just let her.

I had let her carry it.

Because I hadn’t wanted her to feel guilty for dragging me here. I hadn’t wanted her to think I blamed her for something that had been my choice.

But the longer I let her believe it, the heavier it sat in my stomach.

I should’ve told her.

I should’ve looked her in the eyes and signed the truth—that I had wanted to be here because she was here. That I would’ve followed her anywhere. That I didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

I hadn’t figured out how to say it.

And now I wasn’t sure I deserved to.

There had been other things I could’ve been doing right now. Easier things. Safe things. Things I used to love.

But none of them had mattered as much as staying with her did.

So I had stayed, and now I had to figure out how to stop her from finding out the truth. Or perhaps working out a way to tell her without her feeling worse for it.

The blanket on the bed next to mine shifted.

I turned my head and saw Luna sitting upright, blood trailing from one nostril in a metallic silver line.

It caught the light like spilt mercury, not red like it should’ve been.

Her hand trembled as she wiped it away, but she didn’t say anything—just slid off the bed and walked to the bathroom.

She left the door open. I didn’t know whether it was an invitation or if she just forgot. Her back was to me as she leant over the sink, the water spitting faintly. I watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, the slow-motion collapse of someone trying not to fall apart.

I got off the floor and followed, careful not to attract too much attention from nosy eyes or my sister. My feet were silent. Everything about me was.

Luna glanced up in the mirror as I hovered in the doorway, her hands cupped under the stream, now pink with silver threads. I signed to ask if she was okay. If she needed anything. But she shook her head, then signed, I’m fine.

She wasn’t.

I knew what was killing her. Knew that she was dying.

Silvermourn poisoning had taken root in her soul.

She’d been poisoned with silver until now she was rotting from a curse that clung to the veins like frostbite. The others in her pack thought it was new. Recently, before she signed up to join Mors. A tragic twist before she entered a tragic place.

But I knew it had been almost three years.

She told me that last night over dinner, like she was reciting the weather. She’d smiled as she said it. Said she wasn’t worried. Said she’d die any day now and that worrying wouldn’t change it.

It had unnerved me, how calm she was.

She hadn’t said it for pity. Not once had she asked for that. She said it as if it was a fact—like a season, or a storm rolling in. She’d twirled her spoon through her food and talked about her death like it was already scheduled on a calendar somewhere.

I knew a lot about Silvermourn. More than I should, considering my age.

My uncle—my mother’s sister’s husband—had died from it, and I remembered everything.

The way he looked. How he’d shaken and got sick so fast. The way his tanned skin turned dull, and his magic peeled itself away like old wallpaper until he couldn’t shift.

I’d read everything I could after he’d shifted into his wolf, searching for patterns.

Maybe a cure so my aunt Estelle would stop crying so much.

Nothing had helped. Felix had changed before the winter started. His human-like body had shuddered to a stop, and before the night was done, he was gone.

The wolf inside him took over. That was the one part a lot of people didn’t know.

Silvermourn killed the shifter. Slowly, deadly, quietly. And when they took their last human breath, the wolf awoke again.

Only the wolf awoke.

My aunt had tried to kill herself before his funeral. Not able to live another moment without her fated mate. Not able to survive knowing the man she loved was there, in beast form, unaware of who she was. What he was.

That he had died, but a reminder of him was still living.

Estelle had been in a hospital in the two years since then. She’d not been able to live alone. Not been able to function, even a little.

But Luna... Luna was different. It wasn’t just that she was surviving longer than she should. It was how . Silvermourn didn’t linger like this. It devoured and broke down the shifter until there was nothing left but evil.

It didn’t wait three years; it took thirteen months.

And yet she was still here. Still dying, yes—but slowly. Beautifully. Terrifyingly.

I watched her now under the flickering yellow light of the bathroom, her skin pale and ghosted, like moonlight trapped in a dying body. She turned off the tap and leant forward, pressing her palms to the sink. Her shoulders were shaking.

When she glanced up at me, I signed and asked if the noise was making it worse.

She nodded.

Her hands lifted shakily off the sink. The screams , she signed. They make everything flare .

Her hands trembled even as they spoke, the movements slight but heavy with effort. There was a gentleness to her, even in pain. Even with blood on her face and death coiled just beneath her skin.

Then she looked at me, head tilted, brows drawn . Can you feel it? The noise?

I pressed my hand against the tile wall beside me and nodded.

The chill of it seeped into my skin. Beneath the stone, I could feel something—not sound exactly, but vibration.

Pressure. A deep, pulsing throb that moved like breath through bone.

I could feel it now—vibrations thrumming through the stone, steady and cruel to those who could hear it.

The screaming ran deeper than sound.

She watched me for a long moment. Her purple eyes were tired. Too tired for someone our age. Then she signed, I’m not glad you can’t hear. But... I’m glad you can’t hear this.

I smiled. Not because it was funny. Just because I understood.

I signed back; I suppose this is definitely a benefit. I don’t think I could handle a lot of noise all the time.

She stared harder at me, with no emotion on her face. Then her hands moved slowly, as though worried she was asking something wrong. Is it not lonely, being in the quiet all the time?

I’d love to hear, sure , I replied. But being deaf isn’t a lonely existence when the people around you don’t allow it to be.

She was watching me closely. Like she wasn’t used to people speaking about things like this without shame.

I told her I knew people who hated it. Who felt isolated, abandoned, angry.

And I understood that. It was a common thing that made sense.

Most deaf people existed in their own bubble.

A lot even had parents who couldn’t be bothered to learn how to speak their language.

They had friends who didn’t want to make the effort to communicate, and they had most strangers in the world never once considering learning a handful of signs.

Too busy living in their noisy bubble of things not bothering them.

But that hadn’t been my experience.

Everyone I love learned how to talk to me , I signed. They learned my language. Even my sisters’ friends, and other friends I have back home. I’ve never been alone. Not once.

I was lucky. I knew that.

If anything , I added, people who can hear often seem lonelier than I am . Because my life may be silent, but it is not empty. And lots of hearing people exist in the emptiness.

She was quiet after that. The bloody water on fingers dripped faintly silver onto the white porcelain. It clung there like ink from a broken pen.

Then she asked, But... you don’t have magic, either. Doesn’t that make it harder? Living in a world like this? I can barely stand to live without my magic.

I shook my head.

You’re losing something , I signed. You had magic, and now you’re watching it fade. That’s like losing a limb. I understand why that hurts.

I paused, then added, But I’ve never had it. You can’t miss what you’ve never known .

Her hands stilled. She just stared at me for a long moment more. Then slowly, unsure, she signed back, I don’t like my life. But I feel like you do. And I don’t get how to do that. How to love things I don’t have.

I like who I am; I told her. I like my life. My family. My silence. I’m not unhappy.

I swallowed a lump in my throat and kept going.

The worst thing that ever happened to me was losing Bells. My chest ached as I signed it. She was taken far too soon. And I never get to see her laugh again. That’s the only thing I hate. Magic doesn’t change that.

Luna stared at me as if I were something fragile. Or maybe something ancient. Like I’d already survived a thousand things she hadn’t learned the names of yet.

Then she signed, Do you think you could help me figure it out?

I blinked. Figure what out?

How to be happy , she signed. Without magic. Without everything I used to be. At least until I kick the bucket and leave a wolf-shaped hole in the fabric of time .

Her mouth curved upward. A small, dry smile. Like a cracked flower blooming in winter.

I nodded. Of course .

Her hand reached out before I could prepare for it. She laced her fingers with mine, her skin cold and trembling and light.

Something fluttered in my stomach. A hush of wings. A tremble I didn’t expect and definitely shouldn’t have been feeling.

Not with a girl destined for death. Not with a girl who needed comfort and kindness more than anything else.

Thank you , she mouthed the words.

I didn’t let go. Neither did she.

And for a moment, there was no screaming shaking the walls. No sickness. No cuffs or shadows or poison and issues.

There were just two people standing in silence. And something that felt like hope.