Beneath the Crescent Mark

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**Home**

The smell of her mother’s lavender perfume hit Ravyn the moment she walked through the front door. Dr. Elena Thorne appeared in the hallway, still in her hospital scrubs, her shoulder-length auburn hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. At forty-two, Elena had the kind of graceful beauty that came from years of helping others—laugh lines around warm brown eyes, capable hands that had delivered countless babies, and a smile that could comfort even the most frightened patient.

“There’s my almost-eighteen-year-old,” Elena said, pulling Ravyn into a fierce hug. “How was school? How are you feeling? Are you excited?”

Ravyn laughed, breathing in the familiar scent of antiseptic and vanilla that always clung to her mother after work. Elena was barely taller than Ravyn’s five-foot-six frame, but she had always seemed larger than life—a force of nature who could work a twelve-hour shift at the hospital and still have energy to help with homework.

“It’s just a birthday, Mom.”

“Just a birthday?” Elena pulled back, eyes wide with mock horror. “Ravyn Thorne, this is your eighteenth birthday. This is when you officially become an adult. This is—”

“When she becomes a real person with real responsibilities and real problems,” came a warm voice from the kitchen. Ravyn’s grandmother, Iris, appeared in the doorway, flour dusting her floral apron and a knowing smile on her weathered face.

At seventy-one, Iris Thorne was a woman who had aged like fine wine. Her silver hair was always perfectly styled in soft waves, her blue eyes bright with intelligence and warmth. She moved with the quiet dignity of someone who had spent decades as the town librarian, helping generations of children discover the magic of books. Even in retirement, she carried herself with the poise of someone who had always been respected and loved by her community.

“Just like when your mother turned eighteen.”

Elena groaned. “Please don’t tell that story again.”

“Oh, but I must,” Iris said, moving to embrace Ravyn. Her grandmother’s hugs always smelled like cinnamon and old books, comfort and wisdom wrapped in soft cashmere. “Your mother was so convinced that turning eighteen would change everything. She stayed up until midnight, waiting for some grand transformation. When nothing happened, she cried for an hour.”

“I did not cry for an hour,” Elena protested, but her cheeks were pink.

“You did,” Iris insisted, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “And then you asked if we could have a re-do birthday when you turned nineteen, just in case.”

Ravyn grinned. This was what she loved about being home—the easy warmth, the stories, the way her family had always made her feel like she belonged exactly where she was. The Thorne women had lived in this house for generations, each one leaving their mark on the community. Her great-great-grandmother had been a teacher, her great-grandmother a nurse, her grandmother a librarian, and now her mother a doctor. They were pillars of the community, respected and trusted.

The house itself reflected that legacy—built in the 1920s, it had tall ceilings, hardwood floors that creaked in all the right places, and built-in bookshelves that were always overflowing. Family photos covered the mantel, showing generations of strong Thorne women who had made their mark on the world.

“Well,” Elena said, smoothing Ravyn’s hair with gentle fingers, “regardless of teenage dramatics, eighteen is special. You’re going to do amazing things, sweetheart. I can feel it.”

Something in her mother’s tone made Ravyn look at her more closely. There was pride there, yes, but also something else. A kind of fierce protectiveness that seemed deeper than usual. Elena’s hands were trembling slightly, and there was a tightness around her eyes that spoke of worry.

“Are you okay, Mom?” Ravyn asked.

Elena’s smile faltered for just a moment. “Of course. Just… you know how mothers get when their babies grow up. I’m being sentimental.”

But Ravyn caught the look that passed between her mother and grandmother—quick, worried, loaded with meaning. It was the kind of look that said they were keeping secrets, and those secrets weighed heavily on them both.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Iris said quickly, but her voice carried an edge of something that sounded almost like fear. “We’re just… we love you so much, dear one. That’s all.”

Ravyn wanted to push, to ask why they both seemed suddenly tense, but Elena clapped her hands together with forced brightness.

“Enough of this,” she said. “Let’s focus on celebration. What do you want to do tomorrow? Cassian mentioned something about the lake?”

“Yeah, he wants to do something with everyone.” Ravyn studied her mother’s face. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay. You should celebrate with your friends. With people who…” Elena paused, then finished, “With people who care about you.”

There was something strange in the way she said it, like she was trying to convince herself as much as Ravyn.

“Mom, you’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird. I’m acting like a mother whose daughter is about to turn eighteen.” But Elena’s hands were shaking slightly as she reached for Ravyn’s backpack. “Why don’t you go get started on homework? Grandma’s making your favorite dinner.”

As Ravyn headed upstairs, she caught her mother and grandmother exchanging another look. This time, she was certain she heard her grandmother whisper something that sounded like, “Are you sure she doesn’t know?”

And her mother’s response: “She can’t know. Not yet.”

Know what? Ravyn wondered as she climbed the stairs, her hand trailing along the smooth banister that had been polished by generations of Thorne women.

In her room, she pulled out her phone and texted Cassian: *My family is being weird about tomorrow. Like, really weird.*

His response came immediately: *Weird how?*

*Like they’re scared of something. Or hiding something. IDK.*

There was a longer pause before he replied: *Want me to come over?*

She almost said yes. Almost. But something held her back—the same instinct that made her keep her guard up, that made her question things others took for granted.

*Tomorrow,* she typed back. *At the lake. Like we planned.*

*Promise?*

*Promise.*

Later that night she looked out her window at the night sky. The moon was nearly full, hanging heavy and bright above the treeline. Tomorrow night, it would be complete.

Something stirred in her chest—anticipation mixed with dread. Like her body knew something her mind didn’t.

But birthdays were just birthdays. Tomorrow would come and go, and she’d still be the same Ravyn Thorne who lived in the same house with the same family in the same quiet town.

Wouldn’t she?

Outside her window, a shadow moved between the trees. Too tall to be human, too fluid to be natural. It paused, as if sensing her watching, then melted back into the darkness.

Ravyn blinked, and it was gone.

Just her imagination. Had to be.

But as she finally drifted off to sleep, her dreams were full of running—through forests that felt like home, chasing something she couldn’t name, with a howl echoing in the distance that made her heart race not with fear, but with longing.