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Come to us, it whispers in a voice like grinding stone. Embrace your true purpose. Become what you were always meant to be.
I wrench myself back to the lakehouse with a gasp that bursts from my chest like a scream. Fighting a fierce tremor, I dig my fingers into the cracks of the floor, clinging to the solid reality of wood grain and dust motes dancing in crimson light.
My breathing gradually slows back to normal, though my hands tremble from the intensity of the vision. The entity's whispers fade to a distant throb, yet its attention persists, a web of consciousness-straining tension clinging to my mind.
I need answers. Concrete facts must replace the careful omissions my family has been feeding me for years.
The collection of ancient Crowe texts sits stacked on the makeshift desk beside me—leather-bound tomes that smell of age and secrets. I've been avoiding the oldest one, a grimoire bound in black leather so worn the title has long since faded away. Something about it gives me goosebumps, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I drag the ancient book toward me, its weight surprising for something so seemingly fragile. The leather binding feels unnaturally warm beneath my fingers, as if it's been sitting in direct sunlight for hours. When I open the cover, a clashing aroma of dried roses and metal rises from the pages, wrinkling my nose.
The text is written in archaic script, but my bloodline grants me the ability to read the old magical languages. I flip through pages of ritual descriptions and warnings about celestial bindings until I find what I'm looking for.
The Vessel's Burden: On the Sealing of the Hunger Beneath
My pulse kicks into a gallop as I read the faded ink. The entry describes a ritual performed three centuries ago by my ancestor, Morwyn Crowe, during the entity's first imprisonment. This beautifully captures history while simultaneously offering a highly effective instruction manual for the path ahead.
Should the lunar prison fail and the ancient hunger stir once more, the Vessel may choose to complete the binding permanently. The ritual requires willing sacrifice of self—the Vessel must absorb the entity's full power into their own mortal form, then channel it back into the lunar realm from whence it came.
I read the passage three times, each word burning itself into my memory. The ritual is possible, and it can work, though the cost remains unthinkable.
The mortal form cannot contain such power indefinitely. The Vessel will be consumed in the process, their essence scattered across the lunar realm. However, the entity will be bound permanently, unable to influence the mortal world again.
The text demands a willing sacrifice, meaning my death in exchange for the entity's permanent imprisonment.
The sound of rustling sheets drifts from the bedroom down the hall, followed by Darius's low, sleepy groan. My fingers fly to close the grimoire, slamming it shut with more force than necessary. The sharp crack echoes through the quiet room.
"Serenity?" A rough, sleep-thickened inquiry calls out, its sudden sharpness cutting straight through the haze. "Everything alright out there?"
I shove the grimoire beneath a stack of other books, my heart pounding for different reasons now. He cannot know about this, and neither can the others. If Darius discovers there's a ritual that could end this permanently, he'll try to stop me. Or worse—he'll try to find another way, and we'll run out of time while the entity grows stronger.
"Just couldn't sleep," I call back, pleased that my voice sounds steady. "The blood moon makes everything feel... restless."
Footsteps in the hallway tell me he's coming anyway. I could set my watch by it—the moment I leave his side, the countdown to him finding me again starts at zero.
Darius appears in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep and wearing nothing but dark jeans that hang low on his hips. The crimson light streaming through the windows catches the defined muscles of his torso and the long scar across his ribs—a permanent reminder of the night his world shattered.
His eyes find mine, that familiar intensity softening when he sees I'm unharmed. Three quick steps bring him to where I sit on the floor, and he drops down beside me in one fluid motion.
"Morning, beautiful." There’s an intimate gravel in his greeting that makes my stomach flip. He cups my face with one calloused hand, his thumb sweeping over my cheekbone before he leans in to kiss me.
The kiss starts gentle—a soft touch of lips that tastes like sleep and the promise of lazy mornings we might never get to share. But then his wolf stirs beneath the surface, responding to my stellar energy thrumming stronger under the bleeding moon's influence, and the kiss intensifies. His free hand tangles in my hair, hauling me closer as if he can somehow pin me to this moment through touch alone.
Once we disentangle, I'm breathless and fighting the urge to drag him back down to the bedroom below. The grimoire’s revelations haunt my chest, a lingering, leaden ache pressing down inside me, but I force a smile that I pray looks genuine.
"Good morning to you too." I lean into his touch to memorize the warmth of his palm against my skin. "Did you sleep alright?"
"Better than I have in years." His eyes search my face, their unnerving perception seeing straight through most of my defenses. "You sure you're alright? Your magic feels... restless."
Before I can deflect with humor or sarcasm, the front door bangs open downstairs. Kellan's voice follows, tight and urgent.
"We've got a problem. A big one."
Darius tenses, his protective instincts shifting into high alert. He positions himself slightly in front of me as Kellan steps into the entryway, though his brother's expression suggests the danger isn't immediate.
Kellan crosses the main room toward us, his stride a bit stiffer than usual as he manages his recovery. His usually perfect hair falls loose around his shoulders, and the dark circles under his eyes suggest he’s exhausted, but there’s a quiet strength in how he pushes through the fatigue to stand with us.
"What happened?" Darius rises to his feet, lifting me up with him. "You look like hell."
