Page 29
"What is it?" Darius moves beside me, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold creeping up my spine.
"Family signatures." My voice sounds hollow, distant. "Crowe witches carve their magical signatures into permanent workings. It's like a signature on a contract—except the contract holds something in a cage."
The carved symbols sprawl across a section of wall I hadn't noticed before, hidden beneath decades of grime and neglect. But even through the dirt, the distinctive spiraling patterns are unmistakable. Crescent moons intertwine with binding runes, while containment circles layer over suppression seals.
"This is old magic," I whisper while tracing the outermost circle with trembling fingers. "Really old. Centuries, maybe."
"Can you read it?"
"Unfortunately, yes. It's a prison seal. Multiple layers of them, actually. Designed to contain something powerful."
Darius's hand lands on my shoulder. "Contain what?"
I follow the carved lines further along the wall, horror mounting as I read the ancient Crowe script. The binding patterns are intricate beyond anything I've seen in modern practice, woven by a desperation born of absolute necessity.
"A lunar entity." My throat burns as I force the realization out. "Something connected to moonlight and blood magic. It feeds on magical energy and grows stronger with each feeding."
My legs threaten to buckle again. "Darius, look at this."
I point to a section where the binding runes intersect, forming a complex pattern that sends a jolt of pure recognition straight through my core. The crescent moons carved into the stone mirror the ones marking my forearms exactly.
"I recognize these Crowe signatures. They match my exact bloodline. My ancestors are the ones who constructed this prison."
Stepping back from the wall, I watch the bright glow from my phone cast the carvings in harsh relief. Generations of Crowe witches poured their magic into these bindings—layered signatures read like geological strata, each one adding to the weight smothering whatever writhes beneath. The magic traces back through my grandmother's generation and her mother's before that. It forms an unbroken chain of family members spending their power to keep this cage locked.
And not one of them ever told me it existed.
"How much do you think Estella knows about what’s down here?"
Darius pauses before responding. He stands beside me, solid and silent, giving me room to follow the thought wherever it leads.
"She's the head of the Crowe family. She has access to every archive, every record." I stare at the carved signatures on the wall—generations of my blood, poured into keeping this cage shut. "There's no way she hasn't seen these bindings. No way she doesn't know what they're holding."
The possibility sits heavy in my gut. It is a distinct inkling—a growing suspicion that is going to demand answers.
"And that tells us what, exactly?" he asks after I've run out of steam, his cadence careful but direct.
The implications crash over me, heavy and suffocating. Every unstable outburst and every time Darius had to calm my magic through touch clicks into place with terrifying clarity.
"My role in this is entirely deliberate." I drop my forehead against the cold stone, fighting nausea. "I'm connected to whatever they imprisoned down here. My bloodline and magical instability is all tied to this thing they locked away centuries ago."
"Serenity," his hand tightens on my shoulder, easing me back from the wall. "We need to document this and get above ground. Kellan needs to see all of it."
"I know." My response is steadier than I feel.
Fishing out my phone, I photograph every inch of the carvings—the prison seals and the binding runes that mirror the tattoos on my own arms. The camera flash throws the ancient markings into sharp relief, and each burst of light makes my crescent moons ache in response.
There are too many questions and a lack of answers. Why my bloodline specifically? What did my ancestors fear enough to build a prison this elaborate? And why does every inch of this wall feel like it's been waiting for me to find it?
I pocket my phone and turn toward the passage that leads back to the surface. Darius falls into step beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine in the narrow corridor.
Neither of us speaks on the walk back to the surface. We emerge from the damp subterranean maze and slip back into our hidden vehicle, the weight of the ancient carvings heavy on our minds. They remain patient in the dark, keeping their ancient secrets a little while longer.
12
DARIUS
The drive north takes us through increasingly isolated terrain, past abandoned gas stations and farmland that goes endlessly under gray skies. Serenity sits quietly to my right, processing what we discovered in those tunnels. The photos on her phone tell a story neither of us wants to accept—her bloodline tied to something ancient and dangerous.
