Chapter 2
Thane
I kneel before the scrying mirror in the ruins of what was once a Scarborne sanctuary, dust motes dancing in the pale light filtering through cracked stone. The chamber breathes with dormant magic, old power sleeping in the walls like a dying heartbeat.
I haven’t touched the mirror yet. I don’t need to.
The air changes—sharpening, thickening—like the room is holding its breath. The mirror, smooth and dark as polished obsidian, begins to hum. Just faintly. Just enough.
That’s when the light hits.
It explodes through the surface like molten silver, so bright I have to shield my eyes. The mirror screams, and the stones in the walls begin to sing—high, aching, ancient.
I stagger backward, breath caught.
No.
It can’t be.
But it is.
She’s here.
The light fades, leaving me gasping in the sudden dark. I stumble, catch myself on a fallen pillar, heart pounding hard enough to echo in my ribs.
Slowly, I step forward again—toward the mirror. Toward the thing I didn’t summon.
The surface is already dark. Cold. Dead again.
But the air still hums. And from the shattered edges of the obsidian frame, silver mist curls—threading up like smoke from a lightning strike. It brushes across my skin, and I flinch.
Ether.
Not ambient. Not wild. Hers.
It pulls against me like gravity, like instinct, like recognition carved into bone.
The pull isn’t just magical. It’s cellular. Like some part of me I thought long-dead just remembered how to want.
I hate how easy it would be to give in to it. To follow.
"Well. That was dramatic."
I don’t turn at the voice—can’t. I’m still too stunned to summon the composure I usually wear like armor.
Stellan steps from the shadows, his gray cloak dust-covered from the journey here. One of the few contacts I trust. One of the fewer still who knows what I’ve been watching for.
"She’s crossing through the fold," I say, voice rough with awe and something like grief. "The five lights, the tethering, the surge—everything fits. She’s finally coming home."
Stellan snorts. Actually snorts.
"It didn’t come from the fold," he says, dragging a hand through his dust-coated hair. "You idiot."
I blink, thrown. "What?"
"The surge," he says, gesturing vaguely at the humming stones. "That wasn’t transplanar. It originated in the mortal realm. That city you refuse to set foot in."
My breath catches. If she didn’t cross over... then she was already there. Hidden. Suppressed. Forgotten.
And I missed her.
"That’s not possible," I whisper.
"Apparently it is." He shrugs, but the edge in his voice is real now. "And if the Council felt it too—"
Pain flares beneath my ribs, sudden and searing.
A summons. Burned into my skin like a brand.
I exhale sharply, already burying the part of me that wants to react. Wants to run. I have to be composed. Controlled. Exactly what they expect.
Stellan sighs. “And here we go.”
He steps back, his expression softening for just a breath.
“You know nothing about her,” he says. “Remember that.”
I don’t answer.
And then the Council takes me
The magic pulls me sideways through space, twisting light and shadow into a corridor of sound. And then I’m there.
The Chamber of Five is already in session.
The thrones encircle a shallow basin of mirrored stone, carved into the floor like a scar.
Each seat is sculpted from the material of its wielder's domain—Elemental, carved of molten rock and ice-cracked crystal.
Shifter, a throne of twisted roots that pulse like veins.
Seer, moonglass streaked with fractures of time.
Mentalist, polished steel that reflects nothing.
So gaudy it’s almost offensive. But of course the Mentalists would demand a seat that reflects nothing and still manages to scream importance.
My place, as always, is last in the circle. Set slightly back. Lower than the others. A block of matte black stone—unadorned, unpolished, utilitarian. It doesn’t glow or hum or shimmer. It just absorbs.
Like we do.
I sit without ceremony. Let them see how little I care for the theatrics they cling to.
Valdris is pacing, flames hissing softly beneath her boots. She never sits unless she’s about to burn something.
Nyx is draped sideways across her throne, all predator grace and performative boredom. She’s watching me without blinking. Never a good sign.
Eris leans forward, her silver eyes blank with prophecy. She doesn’t blink at all.
And Marcus, of course, is already staring at me like I’ve broken protocol just by existing.
“You’re late,” Valdris says, not even looking in my direction.
“I wasn’t invited,” I reply. “Just summoned.”
Nyx’s mouth quirks. “Still defensive, Feeder?”
“Still obsessed with me, Shifter?”
She smiles. Sharp and slow. She always does love it when I bite.
It’s easier for her to pretend she’s not circling when the others are in the room.
“Enough,” Marcus says. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. His tone cuts through everything like frost.
“The surge,” Eris says, voice hollow, drifting. “It broke something. Time bent.”
“No,” Valdris snaps. “Not time. Power. It cracked open and screamed. That wasn’t elemental. Not even close.”
“It wasn’t any of us,” Nyx says, pushing upright. “That was Scarborne. Pure. Unfiltered. Like it used to be.”
“So the line survived,” Marcus says. “Despite our efforts.”
“One,” Eris confirms. “Mortal realm. Female. Hidden. Shielded.”
“Protected by who?” Valdris demands.
“Others,” Eris says. “Not bonded. But touched. Pulled toward her, even if they don’t know why.”
Her gaze sharpens—just slightly. “And some of them… they’d die for her already.”
I keep my expression neutral.
But inside, something twists.
Of course they would. Whatever charm she’s using, it’s working. That’s what Scarborne blood does. It pulls. Promises. Makes people believe they matter.
That kind of power isn’t random. It’s tactical.
I just have to get there before she decides how to use it.
“We should have eradicated the line more thoroughly,” Marcus says. “Their ability to bond made them dangerous. It gave them influence they didn’t earn. Power they didn’t deserve.”
“It made them unpredictable,” I say. “But useful. In the right hands.”
Nyx arches a brow. “Useful to you, you mean?”
I shrug. “She’s untrained. Surrounded. Emotional. You send one of you, and it escalates. You send me—she doesn’t see the blade until it’s too late.”
Valdris studies me. “You’re volunteering to kill her, then?”
“If I have to,” I say. “But I’d rather get her under control first. Alive’s easier to manage. Dead is messier.”
“And if she tries to bond with you?”
“She won’t,” I lie. “There’s nothing in me worth taking.”
Eris tilts her head. “Your thread intersects hers. Faint, but present.”
“Coincidence,” I say flatly.
“Convenient,” Marcus murmurs. “Expendable.”
I nod. “Exactly.”
One by one, they vanish. Magic curling them back into their domains, into their power, into their ignorance.
I remain seated in the dark.
Not because I was dismissed.
But because I have decisions to make.
She’s here. And they’ve just handed her to me.
If she’s what they fear, I’ll know first.
If she’s worse—
I’ll handle it.
They think they’ve sent a weapon.
What they don’t know is that I never needed permission to strike.