Epilogue - Hannah
One Week Later
Darkness swallows me whole. But unlike the first time I entered someone else’s mind, I am not afraid of it anymore.
I have learned that fear is exactly what creatures like this feed on. Fear makes you hesitate. Fear makes you lose sight of your purpose.
So, instead of letting fear take over, I cling to my intention.
Answers.
That’s what I’m here for.
The witches’ chanting echoes faintly around me, sounding distant, as though I’m hearing it through vast depths of water. Their voices anchor me to the world beyond this vision, while my consciousness drifts deeper into the dark witch’s memories.
Around me, shadows twist and shift like living things.
The witch fought us every step of the way before Amalia administered the potion. Even now, I can feel her resistance pressing against my magic. It feels like thorn-covered vines wrapping around my arms, trying to drag me away from the truth.
But I am stronger now.
I know it the moment my power surges through the darkness.
White-gold light blooms from my hands, illuminating the endless void around me. The shadows recoil immediately, hissing like frightened snakes dispersing as they retreat from the glow. The resistance weakens.
The darkness parts, and suddenly, I am no longer standing in emptiness.
I am somewhere else entirely.
The scent of smoke fills the air. Burning wood.
Ancient stone walls surround me, damp and cracked with age. Hundreds of candles burn in iron brackets along the walls, their flames flickering unnaturally despite the absence of wind.
People fill the chamber.
Dozens of them; men, women, witches, wolves, humans. All dressed in black robes.
Every single one of them kneels before a massive stone altar etched with symbols that make my stomach twist.
The symbols are older than anything I have ever seen in the August Moon archives. Older than Ashclaw. Older than the valley itself.
A chill slithers down my spine.
A figure draped in black robes stands at the center of the chamber. Unlike the others, this person’s face remains hidden beneath an elaborate silver mask that takes the shape of a perfect face with chiseled features.
The mask gleams in the candlelight, beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Power radiates from the figure in suffocating waves, and I almost choke just by looking at it.
The witch whose memories I’m exploring kneels among the others, her head bowed reverently as the masked leader raises both hands.
“Brothers and sisters,” the figure says, its voice layered as if it’s hiding its true voice with something more deliberate than just the mask.
The voice is distorted, neither male nor female. Ancient. Cold.
“Our king stirs beneath the earth!”
The crowd murmurs in response, a strange excitement rippling through the chamber.
My pulse quickens.
Vaelkor.
They’re talking about Vaelkor—the Hollow King.
“The prison weakens,” the masked figure continues, its voice carrying in echoing ribbons through the chamber. “The bloodlines have awakened. The descendants have returned. The prophecy unfolds exactly as it was written.”
My breath catches.
Bloodlines? Descendants?
Ashclaw…
They’re talking about us. The children. The lunas. About every hybrid they have hunted.
The crowd begins chanting then, as if the news alone induces ritual. The words are unfamiliar, spoken in a language I don’t recognize, yet somehow, the meaning settles into my bones.
This is devotion, worship, an obsession with the Hollow King. These are his followers. They aren’t just serving Vaelkor—they adore him like he’s a god.
The realization horrifies me.
These people don’t think they’re doing something evil. They believe they’re saving something sacred. As if our ancestors didn’t lock the dark entity away for a reason, for the goodness of mankind and everything earthly.
The masked leader turns toward a wall covered in ancient markings. A single name is carved into the stone above the symbols. The letters blaze with crimson light, and I have to force myself to focus to read it first, then to memorize it. To hold on to it.
Because this is why I came here. This is what we’ve been searching for. The answer.
The name burns itself into my mind, along with the heavy realization of what’s going on here. This is a secret society hidden among wolves, witches, and humans alike. The very people working to free Vaelkor.
A cult.
“The Crimson Veil will endure,” the masked leader declares, and the crowd erupts in cheers again.
“We will break the prison.”
The chants grow louder.
“We will free the Hollow King!”
The chamber trembles with the vibration of the cult’s devotion, the candles exploding just as the memory begins to shatter.
Suddenly, every head in the room turns toward me, and my breath catches. A hundred pairs of eyes lock onto mine as the masked figure slowly tilts its head.
“Hannah Young.” The voice echoes through the chamber, and my blood freezes.
The figure can see me. Not the memory. Not the nameless witch whose name doesn’t even matter anymore.
Me.
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
The darkness lunges in treacherous ribbons around me, like tendrils aiming to grab me. That’s when I rip myself free from the vision, using every ounce of might I possess to get out.
My eyes snap open, and air floods my lungs. For a moment, the world spins around me.
The ritual chamber comes into focus, but it takes me a moment to gather my surroundings, to figure out if this is still the vision, the memory inside the witch’s mind, or reality.
I blink, and things start to come into focus. Candles. Runes.
Looking around, I see familiar faces, and breathe a sigh of relief when my eyes stop on Conan.
Everyone is staring at me. Waiting. Watching.
I take a slow breath as Conan comes toward me, then another, letting my heartbeat find a steady pace again.
Unlike last time, I remain standing. There’s no darkness threatening to pull me under, and I’m fully conscious when William, Theodore, Orlando, and Heinrich come forward to cover the witch before and take her away before she wakes up.
Conan’s hands grip my shoulders gently, and he leans down to look into my eyes.
“Hannah?”
I smile softly. “I’m okay.”
Relief washes over his face so quickly that it almost makes me laugh. Almost. Because what I learned is far too important.
Amalia steps forward immediately.
“What did you see, my child?”
I glance around the room, at the anxious faces, at the people who have become family, all awaiting an answer. The alliance that has sacrificed everything to protect our children waits with bated breath.
I meet Conan’s gaze when I say, “We have a name.” The room is silent around us, tension palpable.
“Not the witch’s name, but the name of a cult,” I continue. “The people behind all of this. The ones helping the demons.”
Amalia’s expression hardens. “A cult? What are they called?”
I take a deep breath before saying the name that had been etched into my mind. “The Crimson Veil.”
Heavy, dangerous silence follows as everyone digests the name. Even the alphas who’d taken the dark witch away come back just in time to hear it. For the first time since this nightmare began, we finally have a lead.
A solid one. The beginning of a path forward. The beginning of a hunt. And perhaps, the beginning of the end.
“They knew I was there, in this witch’s memory. The leader, some man in a silver mask, knew my name,” I reveal with a shiver, and Conan tightens his arm around my shoulders. “I have a theory that he’s the same man I saw in Hale’s memory. But I still haven’t seen a face.”
Amalia nods. “We shall call for another meeting with the alliance council and the elder council of the Bitterroot Valley packs,” she says. “A virtual one.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “You did well, Hannah. Go home and rest.”
***
“Home” is still not the valley, but it’s the one place that has been safe for the past week.
Much later that night, after we returned, had dinner, and I watched as Conan tucked Clarissa into bed and read her the bedtime story about the three little pigs, I found myself standing on the balcony of our apartment.
The city lights stretch endlessly beneath the stars, and I sigh, for once my thoughts not consumed by fear.
The future still terrifies me because the demons are still out there. Vaelkor remains imprisoned beneath the southern ruins, while the Crimson Veil is waiting somewhere in the shadows.
But for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel alone. Strong arms slide around my waist, and I smile as relief washes over me, the feeling of safety, of peace, bittersweet. It might be a breadcrumb of a moment, but it’s something.
And he’s everything to me.
His chin settles on top of my head as he pulls me gently against his chest.
“You did well today, my love,” he murmurs before pressing a kiss to my neck, making me smile.
“We did well,” I correct him.
His laughter vibrates through me. “Wanna have a drink before bed?” he asks, and I shake my head, rolling my shoulders as I turn around.
“I think,” I stand on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck. “I would like to have a nice, hot bath.”
Conan raises one brow, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Oh, would you now?” He slides his hand onto mine, drawing it to his lips. “Your wish is my command.”
I giggle as Conan takes my hand to lead me back inside, but just as we’re about to leave the balcony, the door slides open, and tiny footsteps follow.
Clarissa appears wrapped in a blanket, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“Mommy?” she yawns. “Daddy?”
Conan and I exchange knowing looks before he leans down and scoops her into his arms.
She curls against his chest without hesitation, her eyes closing again when she feels safe. Loved.
My heart swells at the sight, and I lean my head on Conan’s arm as I stroke Clarissa’s head.
Eight years ago, I thought I had lost everything.
Now, standing beneath a sky full of stars, I realize that somehow, against all odds, I found my way back to where I was always meant to be.
Home.
Whatever comes next, we will face it together.
As a family.
And for the first time, that future feels worth fighting for. Because peace is right here, with us as a unit.
*****
THE END