MOONBOUND: THE HUMAN HEART

Chapter 12 – Thorne's Secret

Three days.

I hadn't left my room in three days.

Meals appeared outside my door—trays of food I didn't eat, glasses of water I didn't drink. Notes slid under the door—Ela, please talk to me. Ela, I'm sorry. Ela, don't do this. I recognized Nikolai's handwriting on some of them, Kai's on others.

I didn't read them.

I couldn't.

Every time I looked at his name, I saw Lukas's smile. Every time I thought about his face, I heard his voice: A wolf in human skin. A monster wearing a girl's face.

So I stayed in my room.

And I cried.

The library was empty at midnight.

I'd snuck out while the dorm mother was sleeping, creeping down the stairs in my bare feet, my uniform wrinkled, my hair a tangled mess. I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't breathe in that tiny room for another minute.

I needed answers.

And the only place I might find them was here.

The stacks loomed above me, dark and endless. I wandered through them without purpose, my fingers trailing across the spines of books I couldn't read, their titles in languages I didn't understand.

Where do I even start?

How do I find out what I am?

What's the point, when Lukas already controls everything?

I turned a corner.

And walked straight into Thorne.

He was sitting on the floor between two bookshelves, a massive leather-bound volume open in his lap, a dagger in his hand. The blade caught the dim light, gleaming silver.

"Watch where you're going," he said without looking up.

"You're in the library."

"Astute observation."

"At midnight."

"I can read at any hour I please." He turned a page. "It's not a crime."

I should have walked away. Thorne had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with me. He was the one who'd said I don't care about your problems, your feelings, or your inevitable breakdown.

But I was tired.

And sad.

And so completely alone that even the company of a hostile stranger felt better than another night in that room by myself.

"Can I sit here?" I asked.

Thorne finally looked up.

His gray eyes—dark gray, like storm clouds—scanned my face. The tear tracks. The dark circles. The way my hands were shaking.

"Suit yourself," he said.

I sat down across from him, my back against a bookshelf, my knees pulled to my chest.

Neither of us spoke.

The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable.

Thorne went back to his book, his dagger still in his hand, his thumb tracing patterns on the hilt. He didn't look at me. Didn't acknowledge me. Just sat there, reading, like I was a piece of furniture that had wandered into his space.

I watched him.

The messy dark hair. The leather jacket over his uniform. The tattoos peeking out from his collar—black ink, strange symbols, things I didn't recognize.

"Why are you being nice to me?" I asked.

"I'm not being nice."

"You're letting me sit here."

"That's not nice. That's indifferent." He turned a page. "There's a difference."

"No, there isn't. Not from where I'm sitting."

Thorne looked up again.

His expression was unreadable—not cold, not warm, just... blank. Like he'd spent so long hiding his feelings that he'd forgotten how to have them.

"You're crying," he said.

"No, I'm not."

"Your face is wet. Your nose is running. Your eyes are red." He tilted his head. "That's crying."

I wiped my face with my sleeve. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're a mess. You haven't slept in days. You haven't eaten. You smell like fear and sadness and something else I can't identify." He closed his book. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

"Fine." My voice cracked. "Everything happened. Lukas is blackmailing me. Nikolai hates me. Kai won't even look at me. And I don't know who I am or what I'm doing here or why any of this is happening."

Thorne was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said: "Do you want to see something?"

He led me to the back of the library.

Past the regular stacks, past the restricted section, past a door that looked like a wall and opened like a secret. We descended a spiral staircase, the steps worn smooth by centuries of feet, the air growing colder and damper with each step.

"Where are we going?" I whispered.

"The archives." Thorne's voice echoed off the stone walls. "The real ones. Not the ones they show visitors."

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you asked."

"I didn't ask."

"No." He glanced back at me. "But you needed to."

The archive was a cavern.

Massive. Dark. Filled with shelves that stretched up into shadows, disappearing into a ceiling I couldn't see. The air smelled of old paper and older secrets, of dust and decay and things that had been hidden for centuries.

Thorne walked through the aisles like he'd been here a thousand times. Maybe he had. He didn't hesitate, didn't pause, didn't look at the thousands of books lining the walls.

He knew exactly where he was going.

"Who are you?" I asked. "Really?"

"Thorne Blackwood."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know." He stopped in front of a shelf near the back of the cavern. "But it's the only answer you're getting."

He pulled out a book.

It was old—older than anything I'd ever seen. The leather cover was cracked and faded, the pages yellowed and brittle. Symbols I didn't recognize were carved into the spine, glowing faintly in the darkness.

"What is that?"

"The truth." He held it out to me. "About your bloodline. About your mother. About everything Lukas is trying to hide."

My hands shook as I took the book.

It was heavier than I expected. Heavier than any book should be. When I opened it, the pages whispered against each other, ancient and fragile.

The writing was in a language I didn't know. Old Turkish, maybe. Or something older. Something that predated Turkish, predated the Ottomans, predated everything I thought I knew about my heritage.

"I can't read this," I said.

"Look at the pictures."

I turned the pages.

Illustrations. Drawings. Paintings so old the colors had faded to ghosts of themselves. Wolves running through forests. Wolves standing on two legs like men. Wolves with stars in their eyes and moons on their brows.

And then—

A photograph.

Tucked between two pages like a bookmark. Old, like the book. Yellowed at the edges, the corners soft from being touched.

I pulled it out.

And my heart stopped.

The photograph showed a woman.

Young. Beautiful. Dark hair falling past her shoulders, dark eyes bright with laughter. She was wearing a Silvermoon Academy uniform, the same one I wore now, the gray jacket and silver buttons and knee-high boots.

She was standing in front of the clock tower, her arm around another girl I didn't recognize, both of them smiling at the camera like they had the whole world in front of them.

My mother.

My mother.

Not the tired, sad woman who'd raised me in Istanbul. Not the woman who'd looked at me sometimes like she was seeing a ghost.

This woman was alive. Vibrant. Happy.

"She was a student here," I whispered.

"Yes."

"She never told me."

"They never do." Thorne's voice was soft. "The ones who leave. They never tell."

I traced my finger over her face. Over her smile. Over the eyes that were so much like mine.

"What happened to her?"

Thorne was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said: "She fell in love with the wrong wolf. Had a child by him. And when the Council found out, they gave her a choice: give up the baby, or leave and never come back."

"She chose me."

"Yes." He looked at me. "She chose you. And they've been hunting her ever since."

The photograph trembled in my hands.

"Hunting her?"

"The Shadowborn." Thorne's jaw tightened. "They don't just hunt impure bloodlines. They hunt anyone who threatens their power. And your mother—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Your mother knew too much."

"Knew what?"

"About the headmaster. About the bond. About what really happened to the wolves who tried to leave."

I stared at him. "How do you know all this?"

Thorne didn't answer.

Instead, he reached up and unbuttoned his collar. Pulled it down.

And showed me his neck.

The scar was brutal.

A crescent shape, carved into his skin just below his jaw. It had healed badly, the edges puckered and white, like it had been cut again and again, over and over, until the flesh had given up trying to heal properly.

"The Shadowborn gave me that," he said. "When I was twelve. Because my mother was human."

I couldn't breathe.

"Your mother—"

"Was human. Like yours. She fell in love with a wolf. Had a child. And when the Council found out, they—" He stopped. His voice cracked. "They killed her. And they marked me so I would never forget."

"Thorne..."

"I'm not telling you this for sympathy." He buttoned his collar again, hiding the scar. "I'm telling you this so you understand. Lukas isn't the only monster in this academy. He's just the one with the prettiest smile."

I looked down at the photograph again.

My mother. Young. Happy. Before everything went wrong.

She chose me.

And they've been hunting her ever since.

"Is she dead?" I asked.

Thorne didn't answer.

But he didn't have to.

I already knew.

We sat in silence for a long time.

Me, holding the photograph. Thorne, holding his dagger. Both of us surrounded by books that held secrets neither of us fully understood.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked finally.

"Because you remind me of her." His voice was barely a whisper. "My mother. Before they—" He stopped. Shook his head. "You have the same eyes."

"The same eyes?"

"The same light. The same stubbornness. The same refusal to stay down no matter how many times the world knocks you over." He looked at me. "She was the strongest person I ever knew. And they killed her because they were afraid of her."

"I'm not strong."

"Yes, you are." His gray eyes held mine. "You just don't know it yet."

I turned back to the book.

Page after page. Illustration after illustration. Wolves and moons and bloodlines stretching back centuries.

And then—

Another photograph.

Tucked in the back, hidden between the last page and the cover.

I pulled it out.

This one was newer. The colors were brighter. The edges weren't yellowed.

It showed a woman standing in front of a small house. A woman with dark hair and dark eyes and a tired smile.

My mother.

Older now. Weary. But alive.

And standing next to her, his arm around her shoulders, his face turned toward the camera—

Was a man.

A man with white-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes.

A man I recognized.

Nikolai's father.