Page 16

Chapter

Sixteen

The city seems to watch me as I return, but then again, everything feels different when I’m in wolf form.

Inanimate things have human qualities, reaching and watching.

Always. I’m not sure if I can sense reality better like this or if my imagination is unleashed.

Either way, it’s a wholly different experience.

My run stripped away the sharpest edges of my anger, but not the weight beneath it.

At least I can think more clearly now. At the edge of camp, I shift back into my natural form then step into the darker edge of the courtyard, sneaking to the spot where we stashed extra supplies and spare clothes.

While Harek and Einar are busy by the dimming fire, I quickly dress, grateful for the familiar weight of fabric after the raw vulnerability of the wolf form.

My muscles ache from the shift, and my skin still hums with the leftover pulse of the wolf. But my mind feels clearer.

The ruins are still, blanketed in low fog and the faint light of a new day. Cold breath coils from my mouth as I slip between leaning pillars and charred walls, silent as shadow. The campfire ahead glows faintly as nothing more than embers now.

Harek sleeps closest to the heat, curled on his side, one arm beneath his head, his brow furrowed even in rest. The sword rests within reach, always. Einar sleeps farther back, flatter, still as stone, like he’s trained himself not to trust rest.

I pause, watching them both. Part of me wants to wake Harek—to apologize for the harshness of my words and for everything I didn’t say. But another part knows better.

The night air presses close, thick and heavy. My breath slows, but I can’t rest. Something draws me toward the city. I glance toward the broken eastern archway.

The city calls. It still has animal qualities, even now while I’m in my human form. What can that mean?

Almost on their own, my feet move. I’m heading toward Courtsview alone, and I don’t try to stop myself.

The closer I get to the city’s shattered edge, the heavier the air feels.

It presses on my delicate human skin. The stone arch is split clean through, making me think of a jaw forced open too wide.

Vines crawl up its sides, pulsing faintly with the same sick magic that’s infected the rest of Courtsview.

But beneath it, something seemingly older than the curse hums.

I should turn back, but I don’t.

A soft scrape echoes behind me. It’s barely audible, but it’s there. Someone is behind me, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my lingering shift, but I can tell instantly who it is.

Without turning, I speak. “I wondered when you’d show up.”

“You came.” Lys’s voice is soft as he steps out from behind a crumbled pillar. He approaches slowly, not close enough to threaten, but close enough to share the thick air between us. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“Neither should you.” I finally meet his gaze.

His eyes seem brighter tonight, as if lit faintly from within. Not glowing like the corrupted fae I’ve seen, but sharp, precise. Alive. “You feel it too, don’t you? The pull. The city waking.”

I nod. “It feels like it’s breathing.”

“It is.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“You only say that because you spent your entire life in a human colony.”

My mouth drops. “How did you know?”

“I’ve been tracing the bloodlines for a great many years.”

“Speaking in riddles again, I see.”

A hint of a smile tugs on his mouth. “Not this time, huntress.”

“Then speak more clearly.”

His expression turns serious. “I’m hardly the only fae who has been waiting for the first female hunter to come into her powers.”

My chest tightens. “People know?”

Lys nods, his expression grave.

“Who?”

“Those interested in bloodlines and curses.”

“You’re seriously frustrating.” I’m beginning to see why Harek doesn’t like him.

He straightens his back. “The scholars, for one.”

“Who else?”

“Others. Ancient ones who stay cloaked with magic so old it should be dead.”

That catches my attention. “What do they want with me?”

Lys shrugs, as if it wasn’t my life on the line.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I narrow my eyes and step toward him.

He holds up his palms. “Easy. I’m not the one threatening you.”

“Then who is?”

“Like I said, the ancient ones. I’m nowhere near their inner circle—or even their outer ones—so I don’t have any intel to give you. All I know is they’re also watching you.”

“Because I’m the first huntress?”

“Correct.”

“Why do they even care? I can’t be all that different from the hunters before me, except that I’m female.”

Lys leans against the wall. “That makes all the difference.”

“How?”

“Feminine energy is something altogether unique. What you’re able to bring to the table as a huntress will change everything. Then there’s the fact that you’re part of the Secret Keeper line.”

“What do you know about that? My mother didn’t tell me anything.”

I shouldn’t have told him that. What if it leaves me vulnerable? If he and others know I don’t know what it means, they could use it against me.

Lys doesn’t appear to delight in this news that could be used for my harm. If anything, he looks a little bored by it. “That’s the way of the Secret Keeper. They never speak a word about what they know, not even to the next in line. It keeps everything… secret.”

A sense of relief washes through me. My mother wasn’t holding out on me for any other reason than she had to. If she could have, she would’ve told me. “So that’s just the way of the line?”

“To my understanding.”

The words settle into the night like an old truth finally spoken aloud.

I need time to process everything, so I change the subject. “You know what this place was before.”

“Right.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“How much?” He cocks a brow.

“All of it.”

He watches me carefully. “Are you sure you’re ready to hear it?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s a lot, especially for someone so new to the fae world.”

I hesitate. “I want to understand. Actually, I need to.”

“Then listen.” He takes another step closer, lowering his voice to something intimate and heavy. Like a secret only for me. “The hunter curse was not born from fae hands alone, Eira. Your bloodline was forged in rebellion—not purity.”

“Rebellion?”

“Long before you,” Lys continues, “there was a pact. A desperate gamble made by your ancestors and Harek’s alike. The werewolf packs and their witch allies rebelled against a fae tyrant who ruled these lands with cruelty. They wanted to create a weapon—a hunter who could end him.”

“A weapon strong enough to kill fae,” I whisper.

“Power that great always demands balance… and blood. They didn’t understand what they were binding. Or perhaps they didn’t care.” His voice lowers. “The result wasn’t a champion, but a blade cursed to feed on its own lineage.”

The truth strikes like a cold sword against my spine.

“They created it all.” My voice shakes. “The hunter line, the curses.”

“And your werewolf pack.” Lys nods. “They twisted what should’ve been shared into something that could only be inherited through death.” He lifts his hand briefly, gesturing toward me. “And you’re the convergence of that broken oath.”

The weight of it presses into my chest. Harek’s and my family were woven into this curse together from the start.

Lys watches me absorb it. “You aren’t a victim of fate, Eira. You are its evolution.”

I stare at him, heart pounding, the weight of his words heavy in my chest. Since my mother died, I’ve been afraid of what I am. Afraid of what the curse might take from me and what it might make me do.

Lys doesn’t talk of fear but of possibility. That, somehow, feels even more dangerous.

Finally, I find my voice. “You speak like this is a gift.”

“It could be. If you choose it.”

“But the cost?—”

“There’s always a cost, Eira.” His voice dips lower, warm and steady. “But imagine carrying it without shame. Without fear of hurting the ones you love because you’ve mastered it first.”

His words dig into the deepest part of me, to the place that feels alone, no matter who stands beside me.

Einar sees my responsibility, and Harek sees my danger.

But Lys sees my potential. He takes another step closer, stands close enough that I can feel heat radiating from him and smell the faint scent of something like rain on scorched stone.

He steps closer, leaving barely a breath between us. “You’ve fought so hard to suppress what you are, but suppression isn’t mastery. Control comes not from denial, but from acceptance.”

My breath hitches. The air between us electrifies.

He watches me carefully, his gaze quickly dropping—not to my sword or the ruins, but to my mouth—then slowly returns to my eyes.

My pulse stumbles. I should step back, but I don’t.

“I can help you rewrite it,” he murmurs. “The bloodlines and the cycle. The hunger inside you doesn’t have to own you.”

I swallow hard. “How?”

A faint, knowing smile curves his lips. “That answer comes later, when you’re ready.”

I hate how badly I want to ask him for more.

He steps back at last, giving me space, but the tension between us lingers, stretched tight as a drawn bowstring ready for release.

“The longer you resist your nature, the more others will shape it for you.” He holds my gaze for one last heartbeat then vanishes soundlessly into the broken streets.

I’m left by myself, heart racing, guilt coiling under my ribs.

Beneath it all, something dangerous whispers that I’m not alone.