Chapter 10 — Cracks in the Day
782 Words
Aria
The morning feels wrong.
Too bright. Too calm.
When I wake, the sunlight cuts across the floorboards like blades, slicing the room into gold and shadow. For a moment, I can’t breathe. The dream still clings to me — thunder in the distance, a man’s voice whispering my name like a prayer and a warning all at once.
Lena sits at the foot of my bed, arms folded. “You were thrashing again,” she says quietly. “Talking in your sleep.”
“Dreams,” I mutter. “Just dreams.”
Her gaze drops to my hands. “Then what’s that?”
The mark burns faintly against my palm — not a scar, not a wound. A sigil that wasn’t there a month ago. It throbs with a rhythm that isn’t mine.
I curl my fingers around it, hiding the glow. “Training injury.”
Lena doesn’t believe me, but she lets it go. “The council’s meeting early. Rhea’s been up since dawn whispering with the sentinels. If I were you, I’d try to look less like I lost a fight with lightning.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
When she leaves, the silence rushes back in — heavy, aware. The mark warms under my skin again, spreading like an echo through my chest. I press a hand there, right over my heartbeat, and for the briefest second, it stutters — syncs — then steadies again.
Not mine.
His.
I move to the balcony, throwing the doors open. The forest stretches endless beneath me — ancient pines, mist curling through the hollows like breath. It’s beautiful in a cruel way, the kind of beauty that hides teeth.
The air hums. A whisper of power slides across my senses. My wolf stirs restlessly.
Hold, a voice murmurs.
It’s not spoken aloud. It vibrates through my bones.
A word I shouldn’t know.
I grip the railing until my knuckles ache. “You’re not real,” I whisper. “You’re not—”
The wind answers with a sigh that feels too much like a heartbeat.
By the time I reach the lower courtyard, the world feels off-kilter. Wolves move quickly, whispering, their eyes darting to the treeline as if expecting something to emerge. The wards shimmer faintly above the forest, threads of gold unraveling and reknitting in the air.
Rhea stands near the gates, sunlight glinting off her armor. Perfect. Composed. Untouchable.
Always untouchable.
She turns when she hears me approach. “You’re late.”
“I didn’t know we were meeting.”
“You should always assume we are.” Her gaze drifts down my arm, to where the faint red mark peeks from my sleeve. “That’s new.”
“It’s nothing.”
She smiles — that slow, careful smile that never reaches her eyes. “You always were a terrible liar.”
I ignore her and look toward the forest instead. The air shivers again — subtle, but real. Even Rhea feels it; I see it in the slight tension of her shoulders.
“The wards are fluctuating,” I say. “You feel it too.”
Her expression hardens. “Stay out of it. The sentinels will handle it.”
“I’m not a child anymore, Rhea.”
“No,” she says softly, “you’re something else. I just haven’t decided what yet.”
She turns on her heel and walks toward the council hall, the scent of cold steel and power trailing after her.
I stand there long after she’s gone, staring into the line where the wards blur against the trees. The wind shifts again, carrying the scent of rain and something wilder beneath it — a scent I can’t name but that makes every part of me go still.
The mark on my palm flares.
A pulse of warmth.
Then a whisper — deeper, rougher — threading through the storm clouds rolling over the horizon.
Aria.
The sound freezes me. I don’t know if it’s his voice or the echo of my own thoughts, but the moment it fades, I’m left shaking.
The storm breaks a few miles off, a low growl of thunder rolling through the valley.
Lightning flashes silver across the sky, painting the forest in brief, violent beauty.
And for a heartbeat, I swear I see him.
A figure standing on the other side of the wards, haloed in moonlight and ruin.
Then he’s gone.
The mark fades back to ember-glow, and I’m left staring at nothing but rain.
That night, I can’t sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I hear that whisper again. Not calling me.
Warning me.
Something is coming.
And it already knows my name.
- Writer
