THE LUNA HE THREW AWAY

Her Father

The grief hit me hard. It wasn’t the old, dull ache I’d carried for fifteen years, the kind you learn to live with because it becomes part of you. This grief was sharp and burning; the pain of learning a story you trusted was a lie. The truth hurt, but it was also freeing. It hurt more because of the cruelty, but it was better because of the courage. He knew what I was...he must have known, or at least suspected it. In his final years, he made himself invisible to keep Aldric from noticing anything unusual about his daughter. “He was protecting me,” I said. “Yes.” “He thought if he made himself small enough, I’d be safe.” I laughed, but the sound was too short and too sharp. "That’s what my mother did, too. Different method, same math. "I put my hand to my mouth. "All my life, I believed I was the problem, that I was the one who needed fixing. But maybe they were just..." I stopped. “Trying to keep you alive,” Kael said quietly. He watched me from across the fire, not in his usual calculating, strategic way. He was just watching. “My father makes people do that. Make themselves small. It’s how he keeps control.” “Don’t.” I looked at him. “Don’t make this about your father right now.” He nodded. Looked away. I looked at Fen. “Aldric burned my father’s records, the Greymoor bloodline evidence?” “Yes.” “And Aldric burned all of it.” “He thought he did.” Fen reached into his jacket and pulled out something small. It was a piece of folded paper, old and worn at the edges. He held it out. “Your father wasn’t the only one who knew. The old man in the Exile community, Cass’s grandfather, was there the night Aldric came for the records. He didn’t get all of them out, but he saved some.” For a moment, I pictured the Exile community: makeshift homes clustered under lanterns strung between fallen trees, firelight flickering over faces marked with ash tattoos, the air always thick with spice and woodsmoke. People who whispered old songs at dusk and hid stories for safekeeping. The old man must have hidden the records in the same careful way he hid himself. I took the paper. Opened it carefully. It was a list of names. A bloodline chart, handwritten in cramped, careful script. At the bottom, in different ink, newer: Emric Vale, Greymoor line, last confirmed. And below that, in the same hand: daughter, unconfirmed, believed living. Believed to be living. Someone had written that. Someone had been watching from a distance, hoping. “Who wrote this?” I asked. “Cass’s grandfather. He’s been looking for you for twelve years.” I folded the paper back up. Held it in both hands. My father had died refusing to erase me. And somewhere in the Exile community, an old man had spent twelve years trying to find me. I’d spent twenty-two years thinking I was alone. The silver in my eyes flared, but it wasn’t the angry rush from the Hall or the wild feeling from training. This was quiet, as if it had been waiting for this moment. Aldric is dying, he said. “Aldric is dying,” I said. “Yes.” “How long?” “Months. Maybe less.” Fen watched me closely. “That’s why he acted so quickly when he felt the bond break. He doesn’t have time to wait anymore.” “Good.” I stood up. My legs were steady. The shaking was gone. “Then neither do I.” I looked at Fen. “The old man. Cass’s grandfather. I need to talk to him.” “That means going deeper into the growth." “I know.” “Aldric’s perimeter....” “I know, Fen.” I looked him in the eyes. “My father spent fifteen years making himself smaller so I’d be safe. I’m done with that.” I tucked the paper into my torn dress pocket. “Tell me how to find him.” Fen looked at me for a long moment. Then he stood up, and something changed in his expression. It wasn’t quite a smile or relief, but something in between, he said. “And he’s going to want to see that locket.” I stopped. “What?” “The locket Jax gave you.” He nodded toward my collarbone, where it still hung. “Open it.” For a moment, I only touched the cool weight of it with my fingertips, feeling the familiar shape through the thin fabric. The chain caught softly at the back of my neck, strangely comforting, as if the locket had always belonged there. I remembered the times I had twisted it while thinking, the way my mother once pressed it into my palm and told me to keep it close, though she had said nothing about what was inside. It had been with me through grief and silence, resting over my heart like a secret I had never dared to unlock. Now, the small hinge felt heavier than before. I didn't realize I was holding my breath as I reached for the clasp. I hadn’t opened it. I’d been wearing it since Jax gave it to me outside the hall. He said it was my mother’s locket, taken from my room. I’d gotten used to the sound of it tapping against my chest, but I hadn’t thought to look inside. I opened it now. Not a photograph. Not a lock of hair. A small, folded piece of paper, with the same cramped handwriting as the bloodline chart. Three words. Find the Hollow. I looked up at Fen. “Your father hid it there,” he said. “Fifteen years ago. He knew your mother would keep it. He knew that if things went wrong, she’d give it to you one day.” He paused. “He knew you’d end up here.” The Hollow hummed around us. The pool sat still and black and waiting. My father had been dead for fifteen years. And he’d left me a map.