The Starborn Luna

Chapter Three

. ....,What Vorryn Left Behind

She opened the door.

Zorn was nothing like his brother. Where Draven was still and measured, this one leaned against the doorframe with a bowl in each hand and the easy grin of a man who had never once in his life felt unwelcome anywhere. Younger by a few years. Same dark colouring, lighter eyes, the kind that noticed everything and pretended not to.

He held out one of the bowls. Venison. I made it myself, which means it's actually edible.

She took it because she hadn't eaten since yesterday and her body was past the point of pride. She stepped back. He came in, sat on the only chair without being invited, and ate like they had known each other for years.

She watched him over her bowl.

He didn't look at the collar. Didn't look at her hands. Ate three spoonfuls before he said anything.

The woman who took your blood, he said. Vorryn. She was gone before we realised she'd left. But her room wasn't empty.

Zyrael kept eating. What did you find.

Books. Old ones, the kind that have no business being in anyone's private quarters. Elder texts, ritual documentation, records that should be locked in the Conclave archives. He set his bowl down. All of them marked at the same section. A specific ritual involving the blood of a marked female.

She put her bowl down too.

The suppression ritual, she said.

He went still. You know about it.

I know the name. I didn't know what it meant until just now. She looked at her arm. The small mark where the needle had gone in. What does it do.

If it works, and there's no guarantee it works, it delays the awakening. Keeps the mark dormant. Weeks, maybe months. He paused. Long enough to move someone without the territory feeling the activation.

Move someone where.

That's what we don't know. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. But here's the part I didn't tell Draven yet. One of those books had a name written inside the cover. Someone who'd had the same texts, marked the same pages, twenty years ago.

She waited.

Vorryn didn't find this on her own, Zorn said. Someone sent her to you. Someone who has been planning this since before you arrived in Ashfang. Before you met Kaedryn. Possibly before you knew what you were.

The room felt smaller.

What name, Zyrael said.

We don't know yet. It was partially burned, someone got there before us. But there was enough left. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Set it on the bed between them. Three letters. That's all that survived.

She looked at the paper but didn't open it.

Why are you telling me before you tell your brother, she said.

Because if I tell Draven first he will go into full Alpha mode and spend the next twelve hours protecting you from information instead of giving it to you. He said it with complete affection, no apology. And because you have a right to know what was done to your body before anyone else decides what to do about it.

She picked up the paper. Opened it.

Three letters. Burned at the edges, the ink old and faded.

V, R, N.

She stared at them. Her mind turned them over. VRN. Not enough to name anyone. Enough to make her uneasy in a way she couldn't place yet.

She folded the paper. Put it in her pocket.

The ritual, she said. Did it work.

Mira thinks no. She checked the site on your arm and there's no sign of suppression. The mark is active. He looked at her steadily. Which means whoever sent Vorryn is going to find out soon, if they don't know already.

And then they'll send someone else.

Yes.

She stood and walked to the window. Outside, Duskfang at night, fires along the perimeter, two guards on the east wall, the forest starting fifty yards past the gate. Everything looked calm. That was the problem with calm. It was often just the surface.

How long do I have, she said.

We don't know. Could be days. Could be less.

She turned. Does your brother know I'm pregnant?

Zorn's face didn't move. Which meant he already knew and had been waiting to see if she'd say it.

Mira told him, he said. An hour after you came in. She had no choice, your condition affects how she treats the injuries.

And.

And he didn't tell anyone else. That's all I know. He stood, picked up both bowls. He's not going to use it against you, if that's what you're asking.

I'm not asking. I'm calculating.

He almost smiled. Yeah. I can see that. He moved to the door. Try to sleep. I mean it this time. What's coming will need you sharp.

What's coming, she said. You say that like you know.

He paused with his hand on the door. Draven sent word to Vorrath two hours ago. He'll be here by dawn. A beat. Whatever you thought today was, the rejection, the exile, landing here, it's not the story. It's just the beginning of it.

He left.

She stood at the window for a long time.

Dawn. Vorrath. A name in burned paper. A ritual she'd been subjected to without knowing it. Four heartbeats under her hand. And somewhere, a person who had been watching her long enough to plan this, long enough to place Vorryn, to arrange Thessa, to engineer three years of her life as a setup for something she still couldn't see clearly.

She pressed her fingers against the mark at her neck.

It was warm. Warmer than it had been yesterday. Warmer than it had ever been, like something waking slowly from a long sleep.

A sound from the courtyard below made her look down.

A rider. Coming fast through the main gate, horse lathered and heaving. Not Vorrath, too soon, wrong direction. The rider pulled up hard, jumped down before the horse had fully stopped.

He looked up at the lit window.

She knew that face.

She had last seen it eight feet from her, looking at the wall while Vorryn put a needle in her arm.

It was one of Kaedryn's betas.

He had ridden through the night to get here. He was looking directly at her window. And even from two floors up, even in the dark, she could see what was on his face.

Not a threat. Not a message from Kaedryn.

Fear.

She's here, he said to the guards below, and his voice carried up clear in the cold air. Vorryn, she came through Ashfang two hours ago. She took something else. Not just the blood.

He reached into his jacket. Pulled out a small cloth bundle, the kind used to carry delicate objects. His hands weren't steady.

She took a piece of the mark.