The Last Bloom

A Hunter's Promise

The lights in the café flickered, once, twice. The neon wolf sign outside sputtered and went dark. Several customers glanced up in confusion.

Ethan's grip tightened on her hand. "My family. They've been... tracking something."

His eyes locked on hers, intense and pleading. "Something they think is you."

Before she could respond, the bell above the door jingled. A tall man in a dark coat entered, shaking rain from his hat. There was something familiar about him—the same cut of jaw as Ethan, the same predatory grace. His eyes scanned the café, landing on them with laser focus.

Ethan muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse. "Back exit. Now." He slid from the booth, pulling Lyra with him.

"That's your dad?" she hissed as they moved toward the back of the café.

"Part of the family business," Ethan said grimly. "Hunting."

The word sent a shiver through her. "Hunting what?

They slipped through the kitchen, ignoring the confused looks from the baristas, and out into the alley behind the café. The rain had intensified, drumming against the metal dumpsters, soaking through Lyra's thin sweater in seconds.

"Ethan, stop!" She yanked her hand free. "I'm not moving another step until you tell me what's going on."

He turned to face her, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead, running in rivulets down the scar above his eye. For a moment, he looked pained, torn.

"The wolf in your dreams," he said finally. "Silver eyes. Forest that feels alive. It's real, Lyra. All of it."

Her breath caught. "How do you know about that?"

"Because I've seen him too. He's been watching you. Protecting you."

"From what?"

"From my family." Ethan stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried over the rain. "They're hunters. Have been for generations. The Parkers. We hunt what others can't see or won't believe."

The pendant at her throat pulsed, a steady warmth against her chilled skin. "And what do they think I am?"

"The last of the Blooms. Witches bound to the forest." His eyes searched hers, desperate for comprehension. "My dad thinks you're dangerous. That you'll reawaken something that was put to sleep decades ago."

Lyra's legs felt suddenly weak. Her mother's evasiveness, the journal hidden away, the plants that responded to her touch... it was all connected.

"The texts," she said. "The moon remembers. That was you?"

A flicker of confusion crossed his face. "What texts?"

Before he could answer, a loud crash came from inside the café, followed by shouting. Ethan's head snapped up, his body tensing.

"We have to get to Blackwood Ridge." He grabbed her hand again. "Your mom's journal—did you bring it?"

She nodded numbly, clutching her bag closer.

"Good. We need it." He led her deeper into the alley, away from the café. "There's something you need to see."

"Why should I trust you?" Lyra demanded, even as she followed him. "You disappeared for months, and now you're saying your family wants to—what? Hunt me?"

Ethan stopped, turning to face her fully. Rain streamed down his face, but his eyes were clear, earnest.

"Because that night at the bonfire, when I kissed you... I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That I couldn't do what they wanted. That I couldn't be part of this anymore." His voice broke slightly. "That I would protect you, even if it meant betraying everything I've ever known."

The sincerity in his voice made her heart clench. Despite everything—the fear, the confusion, the hurt of his absence—she believed him.

"Then tell me everything," she said.

"Not here." He glanced nervously toward the street. "Blackwood Ridge. Midnight."

"That's hours from now."

"I need to throw them off. Make sure they don't follow." He hesitated, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "Take this. It'll help you understand."

Lyra accepted it, their fingers brushing. The paper was warm despite the rain, as if it contained its heat.

"Ethan—"

But he was already backing away. "Midnight. Come alone." He turned and disappeared around the corner, the sound of his footsteps quickly swallowed by the rain.

Lyra stood in the alley, rain soaking through to her skin, the paper clutched in her trembling hand. Slowly, she unfolded it.

It was a charcoal drawing of a wolf howling at a crescent moon, the lines stark and urgent.

Below it, in handwriting she recognised as Ethan's:

The forest remembers.

And so will you