It began quietly, the way most dangerous things do.
Devon's headaches returned first. Subtle pulses behind his eyes that he dismissed as fatigue. Then the faint tremor in his hands. Then, finally, the warmth under his skin whenever he tried to suppress the vibration of power inside him.
It was happening again.
He should've stopped when he first felt it, but the thought gnawed at him constantly, the whispers of inadequacy, the doubts that crawled up every time he caught someone calling him Luna.
He didn't deserve the title. He wasn't strong enough. Not graceful enough. Not one of them. He couldn't even stand beside Lucien without feeling like an imposter.
So when the mansion fell asleep, Devon stayed awake, hunched over the candlelight in one of the storage rooms, drawing runes across the wooden floor with trembling fingers. His blood served as ink again, his magic flickering between scarlet and blue, unpredictable, wild.
