The Vaelis Knot

Chapter Four Stevie

The white-hot, jagged pain shot around my right ankle, spiraling into my foot like a live wire. I collapsed into a sitting position on the grit-covered pavement, my breath hitching as I instinctively reached down to rub the joint.

I didn't panic. I didn't even wince that hard. Instead, I just sat there on the rough asphalt, my fingers firmly massaging the skin over the bone. I wasn't waiting for the swelling to start; I was simply waiting for the pain to stop. I knew it would. By now, I understood the rhythm of my own body better than any textbook could explain it.

Under my palms, I felt that familiar, eerie sensation—a faint, internal hum that felt like static electricity moving through my tissue. It was the soundless machinery of my cells working at an impossible velocity. Within seconds, the sharp, biting edge of the injury began to dull. The heat that should have signaled a week on crutches simply dissipated into the morning air.

I gave it one last firm squeeze, then pushed myself up. I tested the weight, rolling my foot once, then twice. Nothing. No click, no catch, no throb.

I shifted back into a jog, my sneakers hitting the pavement in a steady, rhythmic thud.

I had always healed quickly from any injury, so had Caleb. We didn't understand the "why" of it, and since our parents weren't exactly around to ask, the mystery remained a blank space in our medical history. But we were smart enough to keep our mouths shut. Even though Caleb picked a hell of a career choice, he gambled with our secret everyday. But as far as I knew, only a small group we trust knows. We never mentioned the speed of our recoveries to a single doctor, fearing they’d lock us up and start poking and prodding us like lab rats the second they saw our cellular regeneration rates. I wasn't about to become some researcher's proprietary sequence. It became our secret.

I pushed the pace, my eyes fixed on the horizon. I had a ninety-minute window before the professor handed out the first exam, and apparently, my body was as determined to get me to that lecture hall as I was

I only had a quarter mile left of my jog when the news anchor started on a report that piqued my interest.

"Authorities are investigating a string of brutal animal attacks in the San Bernardino National Forest that have claimed the lives of four young hikers over the last week."

My heart gave a sudden, uneven thud against my ribs. San Bernardino. That was Mary Anne’s backyard.

"While there were no witnesses to the previous attacks, a lone survivor from last night’s incident is currently in stable condition at a local hospital," the anchor continued. "According to police, the survivor—a male in his early twenties—claims the animals were unusually large wolves. However, officials doubt any wolves were involved . A spokesperson for the Department of Fish and Wildlife stated this morning that the gray wolves in the region are strictly monitored with GPS collars, and data confirms that none of the tracked animals were within thirty miles of the scene. Authorities believe the survivor, likely in a state of shock, misidentified what they are now calling a rogue black bear or a highly aggressive pack of coyotes," the anchor added. "Park rangers have increased patrols in the residential neighborhoods bordering the forest. If you are in the area and spot any unusual predator activity, please contact the sheriff’s department immediately. Our hearts here at the station go out to the families of the victims.”

I hoped Mary Anne would be safe. I knew she practically lived in those woods—always hiking off-trail, disappearing for hours to collect medicinal herbs and strange, moss-covered roots.

She was an ER nurse who understood the cold, hard efficiency of a defibrillator—a woman who spent her twelve-hour shifts in a world of sterile steel and calculated trauma. But she’d always believed in the healing power of nature. "The earth has a memory, Stevie," she’d tell me while grinding lavender in a stone mortar. "It knows how to put back together what it breaks.”

I used to roll my eyes at her "hippie-dippie" talk, dismissing her herbal lore as the eccentricities of a woman who had spent too much time breathing in mountain air. I just hoped she would stay out of the woods—at least until they found whatever animal was behind those attacks.

I made it home just before 8 o’clock. I raced up the stairs, my feet hitting the steps with a lightness so I wouldn’t sound like a herd of stampeding elephants. I made a beeline for my closet, bypassing anything that required effort. I grabbed an old, faded tee. The kind that had been washed into a state of perfect, thin softness and a pair of black sweatpants. On any other day, I would have put in some effort. I took pride in my appearance, usually opting for a fitted halter or a skirt that caught the light, but today wasn't about being the most stylish girl in class. Today was about survival. In the ecosystem of a university during finals week, comfort was the universal uniform. I’d fit right into the sea of oversized hoodies and messy buns, just another sleep deprived student trying to keep their GPA from flatlining.

I hurried into the bathroom, kicking off my running gear and stepping into the shower. I turned the handle until the water was almost scalding, the kind of heat that usually leaves a mark, but for me, it just felt like a necessary reset. As the steam filled the small space, the hot spray hit my sore muscles, and I could practically feel the stress melting away.

The steam from the scalding water filled the shower, turning the small space into a hazy, white void that made it easy for my mind to slip back to the night I first discovered my body’s capabilities.

I was fourteen and Mary Anne wanted to take us to a spot in the forest that she said had the best view for the lunar eclipse that was happening

I remembered the trek in—a grueling hour-long hike into a part of the woods that didn't exist on any tourist map. Mary Anne had led the way with confidence, her flashlight cutting through the dense undergrowth. The "path," if you could even call it that, was a chaotic mess of tangled debris and thick, ancient tree roots that seemed to reach out like wooden fingers in the dark.

But Mary Anne had been insistent. She knew the perfect spot where the view was truly unobstructed.

When we finally broke through the tree line, I forgot the burn in my lungs. We were standing on the edge of a massive, hidden cliff. The world dropped away beneath us, leaving nothing but a vast, silent canyon filled with shadows. And there, hanging in the center of the dark velvet sky, was the moon.

It was on full display, framed by the sheer drop of the cliff. It wasn't the white, cratered orb I was used to; as the eclipse took hold, it began to bleed into a deep, haunting shade of copper and rust. The light it cast over the canyon was eerie and visceral, turning the trees below into a sea of swaying, dark silver.

Standing on that hidden cliff, far above the canyon floor, it felt like we were the only three people in the world witnessing it. The scale of it was overwhelming. I was so entranced by the mechanics of it the sheer, silent power of three celestial bodies aligning, that the trance, felt almost physical. It wasn't just a pretty sight. It was like the gravity of the entire solar system was tugging at my bone marrow.

I was so tethered to that copper light, so busy calculating the geometry of the shadow in my head, that I wasn't even aware of the world around me. I didn't feel the drop in temperature or hear the wind whistling through the canyon. I was just... gone.

"Stevie, come on," Mary Anne’s voice finally broke through, sounding like it was coming from underwater. "We need to head back before the light changes too much."

I turned, my neck stiff from staring upward, and started the trek back down. I was still looking back over my shoulder, trying to catch one last glimpse of the eclipse as we moved back into the thick cover of the trees. I was so focused on the sky that I never saw the snarl of massive roots waiting for me.

I went down with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on roller skates. There was no slow-motion slide or elegant tumble—just the sudden, jarring impact of my weight hitting the dirt and the sickening, violent crack of my radius snapping under the pressure.