Chapter 112

Chapter 112: Chapter 112

The forest was silent save for the whisper of wind through the ancient trees. Corvin moved through the darkness with practiced ease, his lantern swinging gently in his hand, his bag of supplies slung over his shoulder. He had made this journey so many times now that his feet knew the path without his mind needing to guide them.

The hut appeared through the trees like a ghost old and weathered, its roof patched with moss, its windows dark. He approached the door and knocked in the specific pattern they had established: three short raps, a pause, two more.

The door creaked open. A hand reached out from the darkness within.

Corvin passed the bag to the waiting hand. No words were exchanged. None were needed. They had done this too many times to require speech.

The door closed. The bolt slid back into place.

Corvin stood there for a moment, his hand pressed against the weathered wood. Then he turned and began the long walk back to the academy, not looking behind him.

Inside the hut, Nyra set the bag on the small wooden table and began unpacking its contents. Bread. Dried meat. A small jar of honey. A new whetstone for her blade. And beneath it all, folded carefully at the bottom, a sheaf of papers—Corvin’s reports on the happenings of the realm.

The hut was sparse. A single chair. A rough-hewn table. A bed of straw and wool blankets in the corner. A small hearth that she kept burning only at night, when the smoke wouldn’t be visible through the trees. It was not a home. It was a hiding place. A cage disguised as a sanctuary.

She was thinner now than she had been at the academy. The soft curves of her body had been replaced by lean muscle, the result of weeks of training in the cramped space of the hut. Every morning she ran through the drills Soren had taught her—the strikes, the blocks, the footwork. Every evening she practiced with the dagger he had given her, sharpening it until the blade could split a hair.

She had shifted once.

It had happened two weeks after she arrived at the hut. She had been sleeping, dreaming of the night of the showcase, and she had woken to find her body transforming without her consent. The shift had been terrifying and beautiful all at once—her bones reshaping, her skin giving way to fur, her senses exploding with the scents and sounds of the forest.

Her wolf was white with a mixture of gold. The color of moonlight. The color of Soren’s eyes when he was about to shift.

She had stared at her reflection in the small mirror Corvin had brought her, and she had wept. Not from fear. Not from pain. But from the terrible, aching beauty of it. She had a wolf. She had finally, after all these years, become what her father had always wanted her to be.

And Soren wasn’t there to see it.

She didn’t sleep well anymore. The nightmares came every night—the same images playing over and over behind her closed eyes. Soren falling. The arrow piercing his chest. His blood splashing across her face. The guards dying, their bodies flung across the hall by the force of her scream. She woke gasping, her sheets soaked with sweat, her heart pounding against her ribs.

Since that night, her power had not manifested again. The silver light that had erupted from her body, that had shattered chandeliers and killed a dozen men, had gone dormant. She couldn’t summon it. She couldn’t control it. It was as if the awakening had drained something from her, leaving her hollow and ordinary.

Luna was quieter now too. The wolf who had been so vibrant and playful in her mind had retreated into a silence that felt almost like mourning. She spoke only when necessary, her voice subdued, her presence a constant ache rather than a comfort.

She misses Kael, Nyra thought. She misses him as much as I miss Soren.

She unfolded Corvin’s reports and began to read. The first page was a summary of political developments across the realm. The second page detailed the movements of the royal guard. The third page—

The third page made her heart stop.

Lord Varek Astrlyn has been appointed regent of the Astrlyn pack. He has assumed full control of the pack’s military and political apparatus. In a public address, he vowed to bring his "murderous niece" to justice and restore honor to the Astrlyn name.

The paper crumpled in her fist.

Her uncle. The man who had poisoned her brother. The man who had sent assassins to kill her. The man who had stood before the King with fake tears in his eyes and called for her execution. He was now the ruler of her pack. Her people. Her home.

"I failed," she whispered to the empty hut. "I failed Thorne. I failed my father. I failed my mother. I failed my people. I’m just a failure."

"You are not a failure, little moon."

The voice came from behind her. She spun, her dagger already in her hand, her heart leaping into her throat.

Soren stood in the center of the hut.

He looked exactly as he had on the night of the showcase—his dark hair swept back, his formal pageantry coat still stained with blood, his dark eyes warm and gentle. He smiled at her, and it was the same smile he had given her a thousand times before.

"You," she breathed.

"Me."

"What do you have to say again today?" Her voice was hard, but it trembled at the edges. "And you are not in the right position to say I’m not a failure."

"Well, that’s true," he admitted. "But what I know from the Nyra I’m seeing right now is that she has not given up no matter what. She still trains herself every day. She still fights to take back what’s rightfully hers. That attitude—" He tilted his head, his smile widening. "I wouldn’t call that failure."

Nyra’s eyes burned. Her throat tightened. "Go away. You’re not the one I want. Please just leave me to my misery. Please."

"Okay. I will go." His voice was soft, gentle, the voice he had used when he held her through the night. "Till we meet again, little moon."

He smiled one last time and vanished.

Nyra stood alone in the empty hut, her dagger still clutched in her hand, her tears streaming down her cheeks. She had been seeing him for two weeks now. The first time—the first time she had run to him, had thrown her arms around him, had sobbed into his chest with relief and joy and desperate, aching love. But her arms had passed right through him. He wasn’t real. He had never been real.

Just a hallucination. A trick of her grieving mind.

She had seen him almost every day since then. Sometimes he spoke to her. Sometimes he just stood in the corner, watching her with those dark, gentle eyes. She had learned to live with it. She had learned to expect it. But it never stopped hurting.

She sat down on the edge of her bed and wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "I won’t cry for you again," she told the empty room. "I promised myself. No more tears."

She picked up the dagger he had gifted her two months ago and began to sharpen it, the rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone filling the silence.

In one of the abandoned classrooms on the east wing of Shadowmoon Academy, a secret meeting was taking place.

Finn, Marek, and Jasper sat on one side of the room. Ragnar stood near the door, his scarred face grim. And at the center, leaning against the teacher’s desk with his arms crossed, was Roderic.

"I still don’t understand why he’s here," Finn said, jerking his thumb toward Roderic. "No offense."

"None taken," Roderic said mildly.

"He wants to help," Ragnar said. "He knew Soren. He knew Nyra—briefly. And he has skills we might need."

"What kind of skills?"

Roderic’s storm-gray eyes flickered. "The kind that come from spending five years tracking threats across the realm. I’m good at finding people who don’t want to be found."

Finn studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Fine. But if you betray us—"

"You’ll kill me. I’ve heard it before." Roderic almost smiled. "I’m not here to betray anyone. I’m here because Soren was my brother, and whoever killed him is still out there. I want justice."

"Then we’re on the same side." Finn turned to the others. "What about Corvin? Has anyone talked to him?"

"I tried," Ragnar said. "He refused. Said he was busy. Had better things to do."

"Better things to do?" Finn’s voice rose with anger. "Nyra is missing. Soren is dead. And he has better things to do?"

"Finn." Ragnar’s voice was calm but firm. "Corvin was there. He was right in front of the two of them when everything happened. He watched Soren die. He watched Nyra vanish. If he’s not ready to face that trauma again, we have to respect it."

"But—"

"We give him space. He’ll come around when he’s ready."

Finn’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He trusted Ragnar. Even when he didn’t understand him.

"Fine," he said. "Then it’s just us. Let’s figure out where to start."

Killian watched from the shadows as Finn and the others filed out of the classroom. His dark eyes tracked their movements, cataloguing their expressions, noting the direction they walked.

They’re planning something, he thought. Something about Nyra. Something about finding her.

He waited until they were gone, then slipped into the corridor and made his way toward the potions laboratory. Corvin was there, as he always was these days, surrounded by bubbling vials and scattered notes.

"Eldritch," Killian said, his voice carefully casual. "You’re working late."

"I’m always working late." Corvin didn’t look up from his cauldron. "What do you want, Drak?"

"Nothing. Just checking on you. You’ve been... distant lately. Ever since the showcase."

"The showcase was a tragedy. Distance is an appropriate response."

Killian moved closer, his eyes sweeping across the laboratory. "Is there anything I can help with? Any potions that need brewing? Any research that needs doing?"

Corvin finally looked up. His whiskey-dark eyes were unreadable. "Actually, there is something. Some herbs and potions have gone missing from the laboratory over the past few months. Rare ingredients. Dangerous ones. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Killian’s heart stopped.

For one terrible moment, he couldn’t speak. His mind raced, scrambling for an explanation, a deflection, anything that would throw Corvin off the scent.

"I—" He cleared his throat. "I don’t know anything about missing ingredients. But I’ll keep an eye out. Find the culprit. Make sure it doesn’t happen again."

"See that you do." Corvin’s gaze held his for a moment longer. Then he turned back to his cauldron. "You can go now."

Killian walked out of the laboratory, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. Did Corvin suspect him? Was that a casual question, or a veiled accusation?

No, he told himself. If he suspected, he would have confronted me directly. He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

But as he walked back to his dormitory, his hands were trembling.