The word "Soon" wasn't written. It was burned.
It sat there, clear and stark against the foggy windowpane, and no matter how long I stared, my mind couldn't conjure a human explanation.
It wasn't traced by a finger; the script was too fine, too precise, as if drawn with something sharp and elemental.
The condensation around the letters had evaporated completely, leaving an eerie clarity that chilled me to the bone.
My heart hammered against my ribs—not the panicked drumbeat of the night before, but a slow, heavy rhythm that felt less like fear and more like anticipation.
A terrifying, reckless curiosity.
"Soon," I whispered, touching the cool glass.
It felt like a promise.
A threat. A deadline.
I finally lifted my hand, half-expecting my fingers to sizzle.
They didn't. Instead, I noticed the silver crescent mark on my wrist, usually invisible, was faintly visible again.
It looked like a tiny, perfect piece of the shattered moon, pulsing with a light that only I could see.
I grabbed the nearest thing—a thermal mug—and scrubbed the word away with frantic effort.
The letters smeared, then vanished, leaving only a streak of clean glass. But the imprint lingered in my mind.
They were everywhere. In the air I breathed, the shadows I avoided, and now, in the very walls of my home.
I had to find out what they were. And more importantly, what I was.
My resolve lasted exactly until I got to the diner.
The air inside felt thick and charged, a residue of their presence clinging to the chipped counter and worn stools.
Mrs. Callahan was back, looking paler than usual, but thankfully, she pretended nothing extraordinary had happened.
That was the Blackridge way: if you didn't talk about the storm, it never rained.
I tried to focus on the routine. Wipe down the counter. Brew the coffee. Ignore the constant, humming awareness that lived under my skin now.
Around mid-morning, a delivery truck pulled up. Normal. Mundane. Safe.
But the moment the driver—a wiry man with a permanent five-o'clock shadow named Gus
—stepped inside, the low hum intensified. Gus's eyes, usually dull from long hours, were wide and darting.
"Something's off, kid," he muttered, dropping a box of syrups by the back counter. He didn't look at me, but around me.
"Road was empty this morning. Too empty. Smells like rain and… something else. Something wild."
I kept wiping the counter. "Just a storm, Gus."
"Nah." He shook his head, his voice low. "The wildlife.
They ain't makin' a sound. Like they're hiding. Like they know something big's comin' into town." He hitched his thumb towards the forest beyond the road. "That woods is quiet for the wrong reasons."
He left as quickly as he came, the door chiming a final, nervous note.
I looked out the window towards the dense, dark line of trees.
Gus was right. The silence was unnatural. It was the same charged, waiting silence from my dream in Chapter One.
The forest was holding its breath.
That evening, I didn't go straight home.
I drove the opposite direction, toward the only part of Blackridge that had real, documented wilderness: the old, abandoned Moonwood Preserve.
It was technically closed to the public—too many deep ravines, too many unsettling stories. Perfect.
The moon was barely a sliver tonight, hidden behind fast-moving clouds. Darkness was absolute.
I pulled the car over, killed the engine, and stepped out into the inky blackness.
The air instantly felt cooler, cleaner, and heavier. It smelled of pine, damp earth, and a faint metallic tang, like old blood.
The hum beneath my skin was vibrating now, almost a painful, high-frequency pitch. It was pulling me forward.
I reached the rusted gate of the preserve and easily slipped through a break in the fence.
Instinct guided my feet down a path that wasn't marked on any map.
Deeper and deeper I walked, the forest closing in, becoming a maze of twisted limbs and suffocating shadows.
Then, the pulling stopped.
I stopped too, breath catching in my throat.
I wasn't alone.
Three scents hit me at once: Storm and earth, smoke and sin, and something that smelled like clean, cold mountain air.
"Took you long enough," a voice purred from my left.
Crown stepped out from behind a massive oak.
The bone-like circlet on his head caught the faint light, gleaming like a cruel tiara. He looked predatory, his eyes fixed on the silver mark on my wrist, which was now glowing faintly.
"Why are you here?" I demanded, trying to sound brave.
"We felt you coming," said a voice from my right.
Kain emerged from the darkness, his eyes burning like embers in the pitch-black woods. He looked less amused and more acutely hungry than before.
"The pull works both ways, little one. You're an anchor. And you're dragging us down with you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I backed up a step, bumping into a solid, unyielding chest.
"Lies don't work here," Rhys's deep voice vibrated against the back of my head. His scent—the cold mountain air—was overwhelming up close, yet strangely comforting.
He didn't touch me, but his presence was a cage.
I spun around. They had me cornered.
Rhys was closer than the others, his expression tight, troubled. He looked like the only one who didn't relish my fear.
"We have to talk now. Before the others find you."
"The others?"
"The pack," Crown scoffed, stepping closer. He reached out and, with slow deliberation, brushed his thumb over the silver crescent on my wrist.
A shock of energy, sharp and electric, arced between us.
My breath hitched.
"This," Crown hissed, his voice dropping low enough to make the hairs on my arms stand up, "is the Moon Goddess's mark. It means you were chosen."
Kain stepped forward, his eyes blazing red.
"And we—all three of us—are your Alpha mates. You belong to us."
Rhys looked away, jaw clenched. "It's the prophecy. The Fated Three Alphas and the single heir. You're the key to our power, our survival... and our destruction."
Crown smiled, a chilling, triumphant expression. "But only one of us can truly claim you. One Alpha to survive the bond. The others must fall."
He leaned in, his lips just brushing my ear, the air stolen from my lungs. "And tonight, we decide who starts the fight."
Before I could process the words, before I could even scream, I felt three distinct, agonizing grips on my arm, my shoulder, and my neck.
A surge of primal, dark energy slammed into me, forcing a wave of power and excruciating pain through my entire body.
The last thing I saw before the world dissolved into black was the silver crescent on my wrist exploding with blinding, incandescent blue light.