“It’s not hunting the children,” Adrastea said.

  Her voice was quiet. Final.

  “It’s hunting you.”

  The words didn’t echo. They landed—a stone dropped into deep, black water. I felt the ripples bleed out through the room, through my chest.

  Through everything.

  Apolloh stepped closer, his body tensed like he was about to throw himself between me and an arrow.

  But there were no arrows.

  Just truth.

  And it cut deeper.

  “Why?” I asked. My voice sounded distant. Small. “Why me?”

  Adrastea studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Because it remembers.”

  “I don’t,” I said through clenched teeth. “I don’t remember anything about it.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s forgotten you.”

  My breath hitched.

  Veyris stirred inside me again, the storm behind her swelling, but even she was quiet. No snarls. No rage. Just a pulse of cold, old instinct.

  I looked around the room.

  Caelen. Zia. Even Thalos, stone-faced and silent now.

  No one argued.

  Not this time.

  “So what,” I said. “I’m cursed? Marked? What does that mean?”

  Adrastea took a step forward. “It means that what we’re dealing with isn’t just some creature from outside the Veil. It’s tied to you. To your blood. Your soul. Maybe even your past lives—if such things exist.”

  I didn’t realize my fists had clenched until I felt my nails digging into my palms.

  “You’re telling me I brought this here.”

  “No,” Zia said sharply, stepping in. “She’s saying it found you here. That it waited.”

  Caelen’s voice followed, calmer but laced with fire. “You didn’t bring the storm. But you might be what calls it.”

  Silence again.

  And somewhere, beneath the fear and confusion and outrage trying to rip me apart, something clicked.

  Elara’s smile.

  The whispers in the storm.

  The dream.

  The faceless figure.

  “I need to know everything,” I said, looking Adrastea dead in the eye. “Everything you know about Nyxaroth. About the cursed kin. About me.”

  Adrastea’s jaw tightened. Then—

  “We’ll tell you,” she said. “But you must understand, Laika…”

  Her voice dipped.

  “This goes beyond the pack. Beyond our land. Beyond this world.”

  ——

  Adrastea didn’t speak right away.

  She moved to the fire instead—small and low now in the council hearth—and stirred it with the iron poker like she was trying to summon the right words from the coals.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter. Not soft, but measured. As if the walls were listening.

  “As far as we know… Nyxaroth was not born. It was not made. It was remembered.”

  I frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means it existed before stories,” she said. “Before memory. Before time was something we could count.”

  She turned her gaze toward the fire, and something flickered in her expression—like she was seeing something far older than the flames.

  “Most of the things we face come from beyond the Veil,” Adrastea said. “That boundary—thin, shifting, dangerous—is all that holds the other side back. We’ve guarded it for generations, kept the worst of what waits in that darkness from bleeding through. But this?” Her gaze met mine. “This didn’t come through the Veil.

  It came from beneath it.”

  My skin crawled.

  “Long before this world shaped itself into what it is now, there were things that slipped through the cracks. Things that weren’t meant to take form—but did anyway. The old ones called them The Forsaken Memory. Fragments of something older. Worse. They were worshipped, feared, or forgotten… depending on who survived them.”

  “And Nyxaroth?” I asked, mouth dry.

  Adrastea nodded once.

  “A remnant. The strongest. The one that learned to become a god in the places between death and dream. It cannot be killed. Only banished. Sealed. Put back to sleep.”

  My pulse thundered. “Then why is it awake now?”

  She met my gaze.

  “Because you are.”

  I stepped back like I’d been struck. “What does that mean?”

  Thalos shifted at the far end of the table. “We think it’s tied to your bloodline. Maybe to your soul. Maybe to something older than that. The cursed kin—those touched by Nyxaroth in ages past—were marked not by choice but by resonance. Something about them called to it. Woke it.”

  “Resonance,” I repeated.

  Apolloh growled under his breath, his arms crossed tight. “That storm. The dreams. The way it looked at her. That wasn’t a random attack.”

  Adrastea nodded solemnly.

  “No. It sought her out.”

  My mouth went dry. “And the four?”

  “They’re not marked,” she said quickly. “They’re not like you. But they’re close to you. That matters.”

  “Then why did Elara smile?”

  That gave even Adrastea pause.

  Caelen spoke for her.

  “Maybe… she remembers something too.”

  The fire popped.

  And for a moment, all I could hear was the wind clawing against the stone walls of the council chamber.

  I didn’t know what scared me more—

  The idea that I’d been chosen.

  Or that I was being remembered by something that never forgot.

  ——

  The fire’s glow blurred at the edges of my vision, but I couldn’t look away from it. It cracked, hissed, popped—like something whispering just beneath the flames.

  Something old.

  I swallowed hard, my throat tight.

  The word resonance echoed through me like a stone dropped into deep water.

  How could it seek me out?

  Why me? Why now?

  Was it because of what I was?

  Or who I might become?

  Around me, the room had gone quiet again, but it was a weighted silence. Everyone sitting with the same unspoken question:

  What the hell are we supposed to do now?

  A chair creaked as Thalos shifted again. I didn’t need to look at him to feel his unease. I could almost smell it. But this time, he didn’t speak.

  Caelen did.

  “This changes everything.”

  Adrastea didn’t nod, didn’t blink. Just stared into the fire like it might bite her if she looked away.

  “We need time,” she said. “And answers we don’t yet have. But one thing is certain: we cannot keep this quiet.”

  That pulled me from my thoughts.

  “You want to tell the pack?”

  “They deserve to know something is stirring,” Adrastea replied. “Even if we don’t know what form it will take.”

  “But what do we tell them?” Apolloh asked, his voice low. “That an ancient horror knows her name? That it’s crawling up from beneath the Veil just to find her?”

  “They already feel the shift,” Caelen said. “They’ve seen the sky. The dreams. The storms. They’re waiting for a name to put to the dread.”

  And it hit me, then.

  I was that name.

  My hands curled into fists in my lap. A slow, pulsing pressure behind my eyes warned a headache was coming—but I welcomed it. Maybe it would drown out the static running through my skull.

  I didn’t want this.

  I didn’t ask to be remembered by something that shouldn’t even exist. I didn’t ask to be the key to something ancient and terrible. And I sure as hell didn’t want my children—my family—anywhere near it.

  But it wasn’t up to me anymore.

  The room started to fade again. That strange, drifting feeling like I was here and not here. My heartbeat thudded like war drums in my chest.

  And beneath it all, the memory of Elara’s smile.

  Not soft.

  Not sleepy.

  Knowing.

  ——

  Caelen shifted first, his brows pinched as he studied me like he could see the unraveling lines behind my eyes.

  “Laika…” he said carefully, “you don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Because wasn’t I already?

  Adrastea’s gaze softened—but only slightly. “No one wants this fate for you. But we can’t deny what’s waking. What’s moving. You may not have chosen it, but you are part of it.”

  “I didn’t ask to be,” I said quietly, voice rough. “I didn’t ask to be anything.”

  “No one ever does,” Thalos muttered. “That’s how fates like these work.”

  Zia’s head snapped toward him.

  “Oh, fuck off,” she said, flat and sharp. “You think she wants to be tied to some ancient, memory-dwelling nightmare? This isn’t some badge of honor. It’s a curse.”

  Thalos opened his mouth but Adrastea held up a hand, her voice a quiet command. “Enough.”

  The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. Just… hollow. Like everyone was searching for the right thing to say and finding nothing that wouldn’t sound like paper in a storm.

  Apolloh moved closer to me, his hand brushing mine beneath the table. Warm. Steady. A tether I didn’t know I needed.

  “She’s still her,” he said. “The same person she was before this thing showed its face. Before any of us knew the name.”

  Caelen nodded. “And if this thing wants her? Then it doesn’t get her without going through us.”

  It should’ve made me feel better.

  It didn’t.

  Because I wasn’t sure it needed to go through anyone.

  It was already inside. Already echoing.

  Adrastea looked at me then—not as a leader or a soldier, but as a woman who’d once carried something she didn’t understand.

  “We’ll find answers,” she said. “Before it finds more than just your name.”

  And for a moment, I let myself believe her.

  Even if I could still feel Elara’s smile behind my eyes.

  Thalos crossed his arms, muttering, “You’re letting emotions cloud what this is. It’s not about what she wants. It’s about what’s already been set in motion.”

  Zia leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowed like she was considering whether his soul could be drop-kicked. “And you’re letting your fear wear a crown and call itself wisdom.”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Just because you’re afraid of change doesn’t mean the rest of us get to bury our heads and pretend fate makes sense. She’s part of the pack. Whether you like it or not.”

  “Careful,” he growled. “You’re stepping into dangerous territory.”

  “Oh?” Zia sat back, arms folded. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got claws.”

  A moment passed where I honestly wasn’t sure if one of them would launch over the table.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  But Adrastea’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

  “Enough.” Her tone wasn’t raised, but it cracked through the tension. “This is not the time for old wounds or posturing. We’re done for now.”

  I didn’t wait for anyone to say more.

  I stood—too fast—but Apolloh rose with me, steady as always, and followed as I turned and left the room.

  The hallway was dim and quiet, the shadows cool against my burning skin. I didn’t say a word until we reached the end, until the door closed behind us and the sound of the council faded like fog.

  Only then did I stop, leaning back against the wall, my head tipped up to the ceiling.

  A slow breath. Then another. Trying to anchor myself in something other than the weight in my chest.

  Apolloh stepped beside me, his voice low. “You okay?”

  I almost laughed. “You know I’m not.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. But sometimes I think asking gives you space to say it out loud.”

  My eyes drifted to him. That quiet strength. That storm of his own he always seemed to hold back just for my sake.

  “I don’t want to be part of this,” I said softly. “I don’t want to be a name in some ancient creature’s memory. I don’t want to be the reason the ground splits open.”

  He didn’t try to argue with me. Didn’t offer the empty comforts others might.

  Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing my cheek.

  “But if it has to be you,” he said, “then it’ll be me beside you.”

  Always.

  His fingers lingered at my cheek, warm and sure despite everything that felt like it was slipping out from under me.

  I closed my eyes.

  Just for a second.

  Just to remember what still mattered.

  He was here.

  I leaned into his touch, my hand catching his wrist like I was afraid the weight of my thoughts might make him pull away.

  “You should hate me,” I whispered.

  Apolloh didn’t flinch. “Why would I ever do that?”

  “Because I’m not who I was when we met,” I said. “Because everything about me is changing, and I don’t even know if the person left standing will still be me.”

  He stepped closer, his forehead resting gently against mine. “You’ve always been more than one thing, Laika. That’s not changing. If anything, you’re becoming all of you.”

  The words hit deeper than I expected.

  I opened my eyes, and his were already there—stormy, unwavering.

  “I don’t know how to fight something that existed before memory,” I said.

  “You don’t have to yet,” he replied. “Right now, you just have to breathe.”

  And I did.

  Slowly. Sharply. Like drawing in air after almost drowning.

  My body was still shaking. My thoughts still ragged. But I wasn’t falling.

  Not with him holding me like that.

  And for now—just now—that was enough.

  Apolloh’s breath warmed the space between us, and I leaned into it like it was the only thing tethering me to the ground.

  For a moment, we didn’t speak.

  Didn’t move.

  Just stood there, forehead to forehead, his hand still cradling my cheek like I was something precious—something that hadn’t cracked open and spilled half of herself onto a council floor.

  Then I stepped forward, slow and uncertain, until I was in his arms.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  His arms wrapped around me, strong and steady, pulling me into his chest like he could absorb the shaking in my bones. His hand moved to the back of my head, holding me there, shielding me without ever smothering.

  I closed my eyes again. Let the silence press in around us like a soft barrier against everything waiting outside this moment.

  His heartbeat was steady.

  I matched my breaths to it, little by little, until the tremble in my hands faded. Until I wasn’t spiraling—I was anchored.

  “I’m scared,” I admitted into the curve of his shoulder.

  “I know,” he whispered back.

  “And I don’t know how to stop it.”

  “You don’t have to,” he said, fingers curling in the fabric at my back. “Not alone.”

  I stayed there, held against him in that empty hallway, letting the world fall away.

  There was no prophecy here.

  No council. No shadowed gods.

  Just warmth. And breath. And the man who saw all my pieces and still called me his.

  We didn’t speak for a while.

  There wasn’t a need.

  Apolloh’s arms stayed around me, and mine clung to him like I was afraid if I let go, everything would shatter again. Maybe it would. Maybe I was allowed to be afraid of that.

  But I was also allowed to rest here, in the shape of his hold, even if just for a little while.

  I felt his chin press lightly to the top of my head, his breath rustling through my hair. Steady. Quiet. Everything in him grounding me like I was a flickering wire he refused to let short-circuit.

  “You remember,” I said finally, the words barely above a murmur. “That morning, before any of this started. Before the twins. Before the visions. When we were just… us.”

  He hummed softly, chest rising against mine. “I remember.”

  “I miss that,” I whispered.

  “Me too.”

  A pause.

  “But I wouldn’t trade this version of us,” he added. “Even with all of it. Even with the madness.”

  I nodded against him, even though the ache inside didn’t lessen.

  Then—I felt it.

  Like a breath I hadn’t taken. A thread in my spine pulled taut.

  I lifted my head slowly, brows furrowing.

  Apolloh noticed instantly. “What is it?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  But I did.

  I felt it in the marrow of me.

  Something had shifted.

  It wasn’t the storm—it had passed. It wasn’t the Veil—it hadn’t stirred again. This was… different.

  Lower.

  Older.

  My breath caught as a sudden pressure settled at the base of my skull, like the faintest touch of something watching—listening. A silence within the silence, pulling at me.

  Apolloh’s grip tightened, his wolf rising just behind his eyes. “Laika…”

  My eyes glazed slightly, not with sleep, but something else.

  Something tugging.

  Something calling.

  And the name that whispered through my mind wasn’t one I had ever heard spoken aloud.

  Not in this life.

  Not in any story.

  But somehow, I knew it.

  “Sahrathei…”

  The moment it brushed my thoughts, everything around me dimmed—just for a blink.

  And then the world was real again.

  But not the same.

  ——

  The name echoed in my thoughts long after it vanished.

  Sahrathei.

  It wasn’t spoken.

  It wasn’t told to me.

  It surfaced—like it had always been there, etched beneath everything I thought I knew about myself.

  “Apolloh…” My voice sounded distant, like I was hearing it from underwater.

  “I’m here,” he said quickly, cupping my face. “Laika—look at me. What did you hear?”

  I blinked. “A name. I don’t know how I know it. I’ve never heard it before but… I think it’s mine. Or part of me. Or—”

  “Say it again.”

  I swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

  “Sahrathei.”

  Something shifted in the air. Just a pulse. Barely noticeable. But it was there.

  And it responded.

  A breathless cold passed through my chest, not chilling but awakening. My vision shimmered at the edges, and behind my eyes, I saw flickers—images that weren’t mine.

  Stone halls lit with blue flame.

  A circle of towering figures in masks, each whispering in a language older than language itself.

  A single figure standing alone in the center. Bound. Glowing. Silent.

  A judgment.

  A sacrifice.

  Me.

  I stumbled back into Apolloh, gasping.

  “Laika—”

  “I was there,” I said. “I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but I was. That name—it’s not just a name. It’s a title. A punishment. A seal.”

  I grabbed his forearm, clutching hard.

  “I think… I think I was something before. Something the world wasn’t meant to remember.”

  And then, like a final whisper, the answer slid into place—

  A word, an understanding, unspoken but heavy in my chest.

  Not just Sahrathei.

  Not just sealed.

  Bound.

  Because I wasn’t the one who bore the mark.

  I was the mark.

  And something beneath the Veil remembered me.

  The name still rang in my ears like a silent bell—no sound, just weight. It dragged me inward, into some hidden corridor in myself I hadn’t known existed.

  I closed my eyes again.

  And fell into the dark.

  ?

  Stone beneath my feet. Cold. Cracked.

  The air smelled like lightning and ash, like something divine had died here.

  I stood at the edge of a vast chamber, one I had never seen but somehow recognized. It had no ceiling—just an open sky of swirling void, where stars blinked like dying embers and massive shadows moved in slow, inhuman arcs beyond the veil of vision.

  In the center of the room, she stood.

  The figure from before.

  Bound in threads of gold that shimmered like liquid fire, wrapping her from neck to toe. Her eyes were closed. Her skin shimmered like stormlight. Cracks ran along her arms and face, glowing faintly with violet-blue energy. Her lips were moving, forming a prayer—or a curse—I couldn’t hear.

  And then—

  Her eyes snapped open.

  And they were mine.

  I staggered backward—but I didn’t move.

  Because I wasn’t watching her.

  I was her.

  “This is the last time,” a voice whispered—not in the room, but in me.

  “The final breath. The final name. The final shape you’ll wear.”

  “Until the Veil is broken.”

  A great, shuddering sound echoed through the void, and the chamber cracked as if reality itself had been struck. The stars went dark.

  And then—

  I woke.

  ?

  My eyes flew open, and I gasped like I’d surfaced from drowning.

  Apolloh had me in his arms, calling my name. I clutched at him, trembling, unable to speak for a moment.

  Then—voices.

  Footsteps.

  The corridor around us shifted from quiet to alert in seconds.

  And from the shadows at the end of the hall, she appeared.

  Adrastea.

  Her presence slammed into me like a tidal wave of memory and certainty. Her eyes were already on me—sharp, knowing, almost afraid.

  “You heard the name,” she said before I could speak.

  I nodded.

  “Then it’s starting,” she murmured.

  Apolloh looked between us. “What the fuck does that mean? What is Sahrathei? What did she see?”

  Adrastea stepped closer, her voice low, steady.

  “It’s not a name. It’s a lock. A name given to bind something that couldn’t be destroyed. A word etched into the bones of time.”

  Her gaze found mine.

  “It was you, Laika.”

  “But I don’t remember—”

  “You weren’t supposed to. That was the point.” She exhaled. “You were buried. Hidden. Beneath story, beneath the Veil itself. Not just to keep you safe—but to keep the world safe from what would follow if you were ever awakened.”

  A long pause.

  Then she said it:

  “You are Sahrathei. The last living seal.”

  ——

  I stared at Adrastea, her words echoing through me like thunder.

  “The last living seal…”

  My chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths. Apolloh still held me, but his grip had tightened, his wolf flickering behind his eyes. He didn’t speak—not yet. His fury had gone still, simmering like coals in a hearth, waiting for a reason to ignite.

  I swallowed hard. “What does that mean? What does it mean that I’m the seal?”

  Adrastea’s jaw tensed. For once, the certainty in her expression was touched with hesitation.

  “It means you weren’t just given power, Laika,” she said slowly. “You are power. You’re what was left behind when a creature beyond understanding was forced into stillness. Your existence binds it. Your heartbeat… your soul… keeps it asleep.”

  A beat.

  “If you break—if your control fractures—so does the lock.”

  Apolloh’s arm tightened protectively around me.

  “But she’s already bonded,” he said. “To Veyris. Her wolf is a part of her. That means she’s one of us. Right?”

  Adrastea’s expression didn’t change. “She’s both. Wolf-born… and something else entirely.”

  A cold silence stretched between us.

  I whispered, “Then what is Veyris?”

  Adrastea met my eyes—and that’s when I knew she’d been afraid of this moment.

  “She’s not just your wolf,” she said. “She’s the last guardian of the seal. The final piece. A shadow of the original force that bound you. You weren’t matched with her by chance. She was drawn to you because she belongs to you. Because without her, the storm wouldn’t stay quiet.”

  My blood ran cold.

  It all made sense now—the way Veyris had reacted to my power, not just frightened but reverent, intertwined. The way she hadn’t taken control… but had started to merge.

  Apolloh’s breath caught. “You’re saying if something happens to Veyris—”

  “Then the balance collapses,” Adrastea said.

  A beat of silence.

  “Then it wakes.”

  The room didn’t feel like it had walls anymore.

  My breath was shallow, uneven, as if even air hesitated to come near me now. Apolloh hadn’t let go. He stood at my back, his chest against me, arms tight as if he could hold me together just by being there.

  But I was unraveling.

  Sahrathei.

  The Seal.

  The Lock.

  My mind spun with it. My skin buzzed, Veyris pacing behind my ribs—awake, alive, alert. Not frightened. Coiled.

  “I’m not… I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered.

  “I know,” Apolloh said against my hair.

  “I don’t even know what I am.”

  “You’re mine,” he said, quiet but sharp. “And you’re you. That hasn’t changed.”

  But he was afraid. I could feel it. He wasn’t afraid of me—but for me. For what this meant. What it could cost.

  The moment stretched—and then the floor shuddered beneath us.

  Not hard. Not like an earthquake.

  But like something far below had just stirred.

  The torches flickered. The air turned sharp, heavy.

  Adrastea’s head snapped up. “Do you feel that?”

  Zia stepped forward, her expression paling. “It’s the Veil. Something just… moved.”

  I stepped back from Apolloh, my breath fogging in the suddenly chilled air. “That wasn’t me.”

  “No,” Adrastea said darkly. “It was it. It knows.”

  A sharp, pulsing knock slammed into my skull.

  A wordless voice.

  “Awake…”

  I flinched. My hand flew to my temple. Apolloh reached for me again, and I heard him whisper my name—but his voice was distant now.

  Everything else fell away.

  And suddenly I was standing somewhere else.

  Stone at my feet. The sky above me cracked and bleeding light. Wind howling in reverse. And in front of me—a figure.

  Not the faceless one.

  Worse.

  This one had eyes.

  No face. No mouth. But eyes. So many eyes. Black and gold, spiraling, shifting across an unseen form. Watching me.

  My knees buckled. I couldn’t look away.

  And then it spoke—not aloud, but into my bones.

  “You are not the first. But you may be the last.”

  The wind screamed louder.

  “Come find me, little seal. The lock is weakening.”

  The eyes blinked, one by one.

  “And I remember your name.”

  ?

  Then—darkness.

  And I was back. On the floor of the council chamber, Apolloh clutching me, panic in his voice.

  “Laika—Laika!”

  I gasped, sitting upright like I’d been drowning.

  “It’s awake,” I choked out. “It knows my name.”

  ——

  A hand gripped my shoulder. Another cradled the back of my head. I could barely hear over the sound of blood in my ears, breath in my throat, thunder in my chest. I wasn’t shaking—I was vibrating. Like the world had touched something deep inside me and now everything wanted out.

  “Laika,” Apolloh whispered, voice hoarse. “Look at me.”

  I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t move.

  My mouth tasted like ash and starlight.

  “She’s in shock,” Zia’s voice said sharply. “She’s—”

  “No,” I croaked. “It saw me. It spoke to me.”

  That silenced the room.

  I turned toward Adrastea slowly, like the act itself took too much effort. “It said… I’m not the first. But I might be the last. And then—then it said…”

  My voice cracked.

  “It said it remembers my name.”

  Apolloh’s arms went around me. Not gently. Not softly. Like he was afraid I’d fall into pieces if he didn’t hold me hard enough.

  “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

  “No, I’m not,” I whispered into his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever been.”

  His arms tightened. And then—his wolf pushed forward.

  I felt it. The sudden heat beneath his skin. The golden edge to his voice. His breath caught against my neck, and when I turned my face slightly, I saw his eyes glowing.

  Feral.

  Frightened.

  Protective.

  He bared his teeth at the room, eyes flicking across the Elders like they were prey. “What the fuck did you keep from us?”

  Adrastea didn’t flinch. But the others did.

  Thalos stood abruptly. “Control your wolf, boy.”

  “Make me,” Apolloh snarled.

  “Enough!” Adrastea’s voice cut, sharp and cold. “The Veil just shifted. The storm—this being—isn’t hiding anymore. The game has changed.”

  She looked at me—not pitying. But weighed. Like I was something precious and volatile.

  “Whatever woke beneath the Veil,” she said, “has waited for eons. It only stirs when the seal begins to weaken.”

  I swallowed. “Why now?”

  Adrastea didn’t answer at first.

  Then, quiet and low: “Because the last one died.”

  My breath caught. “The last…?”

  “Sahrathei,” she said. “The one before you. The last living seal. And when she was gone, you awakened.”

  The room went still.

  Apolloh held me tighter. “Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?”

  Adrastea’s gaze didn’t waver.

  “We find the place where the first seal was forged. The cradle of the lock. There, the truth will wait… if it hasn’t already begun to slip free.”

  ——

  Adrastea didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. Her voice fell to something lower than words. Something that hummed in my bones.

  “The cradle,” she said, “was not built by wolves. Not by men. Not even by the gods our kind remember.”

  My heart skipped.

  “It was built by the ones who came before. The ones who saw the first breath of creation. They forged the seal. And then, they vanished.”

  A silence.

  She looked to me. Only me.

  “But they left behind one place. One wound in the world.”

  My mouth felt dry. “Where?”

  Thalos, tight-lipped and pale, spat the word like it burned. “Nyxhal.”

  I stared. “What?”

  Zia hissed. “You can’t be serious.”

  Adrastea nodded once. “There is a chasm deep in the world, further than roots or oceans, carved before time. They called it Nyxhal. Wolves have other names for it. The Hollow. The Bleeding Pit. The Echo Gate. None of them are wrong. And all of them are afraid.”

  Apolloh’s hand gripped mine.

  “What the hell is down there?” he asked.

  Adrastea turned her eyes back to me.

  “The first scream,” she said. “Still echoing.”

  ——

  We didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t speak. Apolloh and I moved like a single force, his grip still firm on my hand, my legs already in motion.

  The Elders called after us, but I didn’t care. Couldn’t. The words Nyxhal and first scream were still echoing through my skull like they were written in blood and thunder.

  We reached the old map chamber—a dome of worn stone and weathered glass. Dust stirred as we entered. The moment we stepped across the threshold, the flames in the sconces hissed to life, reacting not to motion, but to presence. Something old. Something known.

  Apolloh didn’t stop. He moved straight to the raised map platform, the one carved with the continents and etched with veins of glowing silver that shimmered faintly in the low light.

  His voice was tight. “Where is it?”

  I moved beside him, breath shallow. “It’s not on here…”

  Then Adrastea entered behind us. Silent as a shadow. She walked past us both and touched the edge of the table with a hand older than any of us could guess.

  And the stone shifted.

  A pulse moved through the room, and then the map re-formed—mountains stretching taller, rivers winding sharper, deepened chasms yawning open. One, in particular, near the southern edge of the world… opened wider.

  Nyxhal.

  A great, circular scar in the land. Black etched into black.

  “This place,” she said, “was not named by tongues. It was named by sound. The scream left a mark, and that mark became a name.”

  A chill crept through me. “So it doesn’t mean anything?”

  “It means everything,” she said. “In the Old Tongue—the one only the Veil remembers—Nyxhal means: the place where silence was broken.”

  Apolloh’s voice dropped. “The first scream…”

  Adrastea nodded. “And if it wakes again, there won’t be silence left to break.”

  The light from the map pulsed again—faint, like a heartbeat beneath skin. Silver veins throbbed gently around Nyxhal, and something inside me shifted, like the pull of the tide. I didn’t like how it felt.

  Apolloh was staring too. “Tell us,” he said, voice sharp but quiet. “Everything you know about that place.”

  Adrastea didn’t hesitate.

  “Nyxhal was not made by gods,” she said. “Not shaped by storms or fire or time. It was torn. A wound in the skin of the world. Before we walked on two legs. Before the moon kissed the sky. Before the first wolf howled. It was already there.”

  I swallowed. My voice was dry. “What tore it?”

  She looked at me, and I hated the answer before she said it.

  “No one knows.”

  She placed a hand over the dark scar on the map. “But legends say there were three echoes. The first was the scream. The second was the silence. And the third…” Her fingers trembled slightly. “The third hasn’t happened yet.”

  A cold breath of air swept the room.

  Apolloh’s head snapped up. “Did you feel that?”

  I nodded slowly, my spine rigid. “It came from the map.”

  We stared as the darkness at the center of Nyxhal’s depiction began to seep, faint tendrils of shadow spilling out along the etched lines, curling like smoke across the continents.

  Adrastea backed away. “That’s not part of the map…”

  A whisper passed through the room. So soft it felt imagined.

  She is awake.

  I stepped back. “What—what was that?”

  But then came another. From nowhere. From everywhere.

  She has seen. She remembers.

  The shadows recoiled suddenly—slurped back into the mark of Nyxhal like breath being held. The map stilled. The lights dimmed.

  Silence.

  But not peace.

  Adrastea was pale. “You asked what Nyxhal means? You asked why it matters?” She looked at me—through me. “Because when it stirs, the world changes shape to contain it. And sometimes, it fails.”