**Chapter 3** As I approach our family lodge, its ivy-clad exterior stands before me like a haunted sentinel, cold and unyielding under the night sky. A thick blanket of silence envelops the place—no lights flickering, no signs of life. “Mom? Jax?” I call out, my voice echoing in the stillness, wondering if they’ve retreated to the basement for some reason I can’t fathom. The thought is puzzling; surely, our grand dining table—stretching nearly ten feet—would suffice for any treatments at home. Next door, the house belonging to my aunt, uncle, and my three cousins sits equally dark. Of course, that’s to be expected. They were all deployed three days ago, sent as emergency reinforcements to Bloodbane Coven after a clearblood onslaught. And so was my younger sister, Brynn. The heavy tapestries lining our entryway loom over me like shadows, their embroidered depictions of long-ago mage battles becoming indistinct in the gloom. My eyes inevitably drift to the solitary photograph resting on the mantel—a frozen moment in time, capturing my father’s chiseled features. The facets of his face mirror my own, sharp cheekbones casting shadows that dance across the surface; his gray eyes hold mysteries forever elusive to me. Thirteen years ago, he left for Tarnhollow, a fledgling clearblood coven nestled five hundred miles to the east of Darkbirch. A routine reconnaissance mission, they had said, yet he never returned. Despite the fervent efforts of Bloodbane and neighboring covens to dispatch trackers, all we ever received were whisperings of pyres flickering in Tarnhollow's square. Evenings found my mother in this very spot, fixated on that photograph, her silence speaking volumes. We all knew she was waiting, lingering in a moment that refused to pass. If I’m honest, I was waiting too. Even after we ceased lighting the spirit-lanterns and the ritual scars on my wrist dulled and froze, the magic within retreating into nothingness. Some nights, I dream of smoke curling against a distant horizon and ponder if his spirit opted for the afterlife or if the clearbloods had cast spells to ensure he could never return to us, even in the faintest form. A heavy sigh escapes me. Yet, it no longer matters. I wrench my gaze from the photograph and force my mind to focus. Jax must be in the infirmary, which only confirms my worst fears about his condition. Isander probably attended to them both. Glancing at my watch, I note we still have several hours until dawn. I briefly step into my bedroom, examining its starkness. The place feels alien; I have hardly spent any time here since moving into the academy's dorms. My fingers brush against the cool surface of my old snakeskin whip, its silver blade glinting ominously from the white porcelain vase where it stands guard behind the door. Grabbing it, I exit the house in haste. Darkbirch is never tame, but when dusk descends, the creatures we harbor unveil their wild nature. The path to the infirmary stretches before me, a narrow ribbon of dirt illuminated sporadically by flickering lanterns. It should only take ten minutes to reach it. But the woods here seem more ravenous than usual, and it’s only a few steps before I hear the ominous thumping of paws and the rasp of heavy breaths too close for comfort. I turn with caution. Gleaming red eyes pierce the dark, their sharp teeth shining like shards of glass. Soren. My whip unfurls with a practiced ease, the silver blade catching the scant light available. “Watch your step,” I snarl. The wolf halts, a mountain of muscle with bristling hackles, saliva dripping from his maws in glistening strands. He doesn’t retreat; instead, he weighs the implications of disobeying. I crack the whip in the air. The sound slices through the silence, echoing like a gunshot. For a heartbeat, he wavers. Then with a growl that makes the foliage tremble above, he vanishes into the shadows, likely destined to hunt something fresh and unfortunate—or perhaps even his mate. I quicken my pace, pretending not to notice the trio of incubi lounging casually on the oak branches overhead. Their attire—more a suggestion of fabric than actual clothing—seems designed to lure one into chaos. One of them blows me a kiss, the air thick with the fragrances of jasmine and raw temptation, stirring something dark and primal within me. A moment later, a voice as smooth as velvet brushes against my ear. “Darling, you’re wound tight.” He emerges, a figure wrapped in shadows and moonlight, a dark fae molded from need and illusion. His fingers dance through the air, conjuring wisps of shimmer—half magic, half seduction. Then, his lips graze the curve of my ear, softly brushing against me, daringly close. “Let me… loosen you.” I sidestep his advance, shooting him a glare. This is like navigating through a supernatural fraternity out here. I let out a sigh of relief when the infirmary finally comes into view. In a rush, I cover the distance and shove open the heavy oak doors. Instantly, I’m assaulted by the scent of crushed yarrow mingled with something metallic. Pushing through a cluster of eight defense officers surrounding Jax’s bed, their black leather uniforms create an imposing wall, adorned with crimson insignias. At the head of the bed is Corvin, the academy’s formidable leader, his scarred hands gripping the frame with an intensity that betrays his usual calm. My mother hunches over Jax, methodically smearing yellow ointment across his temples, her fingers deft and practiced. My brother lies before us, his face twitching violently, blue veins stark against the pallor of his skin. My mother looks up and her gaze sharpens upon me. “What in the world happened to you?” she demands, her voice piercing through my thoughts before I can formulate a response. She finishes applying the ointment, then turns her full attention to me—hands planted resolutely on her hips, her cold blue eyes appraising my form. My grip tightens around the bedrail, fingers whitening with tension. “We were almost out,” I begin, urgency coloring my words. “Then this armored bastard—Mazrov—dropped from the upper level. Jax kept moving despite his injuries, and then… suddenly he was on his knees. Some spell or something took hold of him. I don’t even know what, but then someone called Mazrov off, said he wasn’t 'strong enough' yet to take me on.” My nails dig into the wood, urgency giving way to raw fear. “What’s wrong with Jax?” My mother swallows hard, her tongue flickering anxiously over her lips. Rarely anxious, she stands unnaturally still, fingers curling and uncurling as if grappling for composure. “His symptoms are… strange,” she finally replies, a taut formality coating her voice. “Mental fracturing. Temporal disorientation. But what concerns me most is his aura. It… it’s weakened.” I stare at her, bewildered. What? Our aura defines us as magical beings, our very lifeblood. Without it, we are as good as ash. “Esme, we need every single detail you can provide,” Corvin interjects, stepping toward me. His dark eyes have lost their usual warmth, replaced with a chilling seriousness that makes my stomach churn. “I saw the man’s eyes,” I reply, urgency blossoming in my chest. “They were this bright blue, but I swear there was fire. Fire in his eyes.” A heavy silence blankets the room, turning the air cold. No one breathes. All eyes are fixed on me, reflecting shock, disbelief, and dread, especially in my mother’s face, which has grown pale and wide with fear. “Are you certain, Esme?” Her voice is barely a whisper, yet it cuts through the heavy atmosphere like a blade. I don’t blink, holding her gaze steady. “I told you exactly what I saw… What does it mean?” Corvin’s eyes flicker to my brother's still form, brow furrowing with profound concern. His jaw clenches, twice, and then he turns back to me, every inch the predator coiling for the hunt. “You’ll be wanted at a council meeting.”