Wildborn

Kindred

A fig tree.

A winding river.

The same place as before.

The sky here was colorless, neither day nor night, but the water shone like molten glass. The fig tree spread wide over the riverbank, roots knotted deep into earth that breathed faint warmth through her bare feet.

And there he was again.

The young man sat beneath the tree, one knee drawn up, his arm draped across it in effortless grace. His skin gleamed with sunlit gold, his hair a dark crown of tight curls that caught hints of copper when he turned his head. His clothes were fine linen, leather tooled with ancient sigils, a sash of pale blue silk bound at his waist. He might have stepped from a legend carved into the stones of old temples.

When he looked up at her, his eyes, those deep-set, almond-shaped eyes, lit with a warmth that felt almost human. Almost.

He smiled. “Brielle.”

Her name left his lips as if it belonged to him. She should have felt wary, but something about the way he said it made her still.

“I know you,” Bri murmured. “Or I’ve… seen you.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You have seen me, yes. Many times.”

She stepped closer, the grass folding soundlessly under her feet. The fig tree’s branches rustled, though there was no wind.

“Why do I keep coming here?” she asked.

“Because you are preparing to wake.”

There was a strange weight to his words, the kind that made her throat tighten.

His gaze softened, almost tender. “My child,” he said quietly, the words threading through her like warmth and sorrow intertwined.

“My Stormborn Sentinel.”

Something in her chest caught, a flicker of understanding she couldn’t reach. “Who are you?” she asked.

Before he could answer, there was a rustle behind her.

She turned sharply, immediately captured by a pair of eyes. One was a deep cobalt, storm-swirled and alive with flickering light; the other, glacial blue, still as frozen water. Her eyes, but they belonged to something else.

They stared through her, ancient, endless.

Bri gasped—

—and woke.

The world snapped into color: morning light pouring through her window, the faint hum of voices in the apartment outside her door. Her breath came fast. For a moment she wasn’t sure what was real, the fig tree, the eyes, or her quiet room in the Umbral Dawn packhouse.

The dream slipped away in fragments, but the memory of those eyes lingered, too vivid, too familiar, as though she’d known them long before she’d ever dreamed.

She swung her legs from the bed, grounding herself in routine. Bri dressed in a pair of leggings and a tank top, tied her hair back, and threw on some shoes before hustling to conditioning. Although very early, the Umbral Dawn packhouse was always alive by sunrise. Wolves of every age moved through its corridors, students and warriors heading for training, omegas preparing for daily cooking or cleaning duties, and others walking in deep conversations with hushed voices.

She spotted Sera at the edge of the training ground stretching with Keenan, Myla, Avi, West, and Fin. When she caught Bri’s glance, she grinned and mouthed you’re late.

“I'm on time,” Bri muttered under her breath.

"On time is late," teased Myla with a wink.

Morning strength and conditioning passed in disciplined rhythm, balance drills, military style calisthenics, and wrapping it all up with a lower body weight lifting session. Bri’s focus wavered more than once, her thoughts dragging back to the dream, but she forced herself to keep up with the group.

Sera threw her a look once, half amusement, half concern, but said nothing.

At breakfast, the group sat together. Conversation swirled around her about the upcoming welcome barbeque, the return to Lunebrook, and speculation on the upcoming trials for Year Twos.

“You'll be on your own for Medicum Prep this afternoon,” Sera mentioned between bites. “Mom needs help with something.”

“I'll survive,” Bri joked. She meant it, and she didn't press Sera for details. Bri reminded herself, Sera was technically a princess, or royalty at the very least, and she imagined that as close as they had become in a short amount of time, there would likely always be things Sera couldn't share in their entirety.

Bri searched for her grandmother in between her scheduled commitments. Riona was a quiet presence in the packhouse, never announcing where she went, never explaining what she did. Her absences weren’t strange, but today they felt heavier to Bri; intentional.

By midafternoon, Bri finally gave up the search and packed her satchel to head to Ivy’s. The forest greeted her like an old friend, cool and quiet, the kind of hush that felt alive. Shafts of sunlight slanted through the canopy, breaking into pools of amber and green on the mossy path. Ferns brushed against her calves, and the damp scent of earth and cedar filled her lungs. Every now and then, a bird trilled overhead or a squirrel darted up a trunk, scattering droplets from the last night’s rain.

By the time she reached the familiar bend in the trail, her shoulders had loosened and her thoughts felt lighter. The forest thinned, opening into the small clearing where Ivy’s cottage rested, its stone chimney wreathed in her namesake, smoke curling lazily into the late-day sky. The windows glowed faintly gold in the fading light, and Bri felt the familiar pull in her chest: warmth, safety.

She climbed the wooden porch steps, their creak softened by years of moss and sun, and pushed open the door. The scent of rosemary and firewood wrapped around her instantly. Inside, the little cottage radiated comfort and it was the kind of place where time seemed to move slower, where even the air felt softer.

But it wasn’t the cozy glow or the familiar comforting scents that made her stop short. It was the sight of the two women by the fire.

Ivy was there, of course, stirring something fragrant in a small cauldron set on a trivet, her eyes catching the light like liquid amber.

And across from her, seated with perfect composure as if she belonged there all along, was Riona.

“Grandma?” Bri’s voice faltered. “You’re here?”

Both women looked up, expressions unreadable.

Riona’s lips curved faintly. “Of course I am, child. Where else would I be?”

Bri sat cautiously, her curiosity prickling. “You two know each other?”

The women exchanged a glance that was half amusement, half nostalgia.

“Oh, we go back a long ways,” Ivy said lightly. “We’ve known each other longer than most remember their own names.”

Riona gave a small nod, her eyes glinting. “We share a bond not easily spoken of.”

Ivy stood and made her way to the workbench. “You’ve come for instruction, yes? Let’s begin.”

Bri took the stool across from Ivy’s workbench, and Ivy rolled up her sleeves. “Today we’re blending traditional herbcraft with modern field application. You know your tincture ratios?”

“Yes, ma’am. Two parts base to one part concentrate, unless stabilizing for prolonged infusion.”

“Good,” Ivy said, pleased. “Let’s see it.”

Bri began mixing carefully, measuring each portion with the focus of someone balancing equations rather than medications. Her movements were precise; her mind wasn’t. It returned to linger on her dream, on the golden man, on the name he’d spoken like a claim.

As she stirred, her thoughts brushed instinctively toward her grandmother sitting near the hearth, hesitant at first and then giving finally. Grandma? I need to tell you something.