Fated by the Moon

2

Ember steps out of the lecture hall into raw daylight, the kind that bleaches color from the landscape and makes everyone look slightly hungover. The campus is an uneven grid of old brick, steel, and glass. She moves along the shadowed side of the building, avoiding knots of students gossiping on the steps or flicking cigarettes into the slushy gravel. There’s a bench behind the admin block where the Wi-Fi barely reaches and nobody ever goes. She claims it, perching on the cold metal slats with her duffel at her feet and her phone already out.

She scrolls through recent texts—three from Ana, one from Jordan, all still unread—and bypasses them for the number listed only as BETHEA (HOME). She presses call, tucking her chin and keeping her voice low when the line clicks over.

“Yeah?” Bethea’s tone is more sigh than greeting. On the other end, Ember can hear the distant yelps of children or puppies—or both, knowing Bethea.

“It’s me,” Ember says.

“Ember!” The relief in Bethea’s voice is almost palpable. “Finally. I was starting to think you’d gone rogue.”

“Long day,” Ember says. “Classes. Lab work. The usual.”

“Lucky you.” A beat, and Bethea laughs, softer now. “Never thought I’d say that. Pack drama’s at DEFCON two and climbing.”

Ember leans back, the sharp edge of the brick wall digging into her shoulder blades. “What’s the new disaster?”

“Same as the old disaster,” Bethea says. “Bryan’s pissed at Trevor—again—and my mate’s parents are threatening to ‘intervene’ if he doesn’t take the Beta slot. Like it’s a f*****g office job and not a blood oath.” There’s a hollow bang—Bethea dropping a pot on the stove, probably—followed by a shushing sound, then the clatter of something small being thrown at a wall.

Ember can’t help the smirk. “Tell them to start a spreadsheet. Keep the blood oaths organized.”

“Ha. As if.” Bethea lowers her voice, conspiratorial. “I caught your old friend Jasmine in the woods with Kael, day before last. They think nobody’s watching, but—”

“I’m not surprised,” Ember cuts in. “He always liked to keep it public.”

Silence, heavy. Then Bethea says, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.” Ember wraps the strap of her backpack around her hand until her knuckles ache. “I don’t miss it. The drama, I mean.”

“Bullshit,” Bethea says, but gently. “You miss the people.”

“Not most of them.” Ember glances around. Two girls in puffer coats amble by, shrieking at the cold. Ember shrinks further into her hoodie, watches the steam of her breath fade. “Ana’s been calling. I keep missing her.”

“She says hi,” Bethea offers. “Says you need to eat more. Says you’re too thin. You know how she is.”

“I know.”

They lapse into easy quiet, a lull that would be impossible with anyone but Bethea. Ember stares at the crumbling mortar in the bricks, the micro-crystals of salt pushing through in veins. The old world, breaking down into something new.

“Listen,” Bethea says, voice tightening. “Bryan thinks Kael’s going to challenge again. Officially, I mean. He’s sniffing around the council. If he does—”

“I know,” Ember interrupts. She touches the inside of her wrist, thumb pressing the faded scar tissue where a mark once lived. “He’s not my problem anymore.”

“Still,” Bethea says. “If you need backup—”

“I won’t.” Ember’s voice is firmer than she expects. “Let him play Alpha. I’m not pack. Not now.”

She hears a commotion in the background—children fighting over a remote, someone yelling about food. Bethea raises her voice to be heard. “Just don’t go hermit on me. I’ll come up for finals if I have to.”

“Fine,” Ember says, laughing despite herself. “But I’m not sharing my lasagna.”

“You owe me, Quinn.”

A final pause. Then Bethea says, almost whispering, “Take care of yourself.”

“You too.” Ember ends the call, staring at the black screen until the battery warning flashes.

She sits for a while, listening to the city’s version of quiet: the buzz of HVAC on the roof, the distant roar of traffic, the wet slapping of shoes on salt-stained pavement. Her mind flicks through the conversation, the names and politics, the constant gamesmanship of people who never really wanted her. Some things never change, she thinks.

Her hand drops from her wrist to her knee, fingers twitching restlessly. The sun has shifted and her bench is now half in shadow, half in light. She chooses the shadow, slings her duffel over one shoulder, and walks toward the next obligation.

It’s not freedom, exactly, but it’s hers.