As Lysander navigated the winding streets of Ashwood, the shadows seemed to grow longer and darker, as if they themselves were watching him. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being pulled by an unknown force.
The city's inhabitants seemed to sense the change in atmosphere, their conversations hushed and their glances nervous. Even the city's magical energies seemed to be building toward a crescendo, the ley lines pulsing with an otherworldly power.
Lysander's instincts screamed at him to be cautious, to prepare for the unknown dangers that lurked in every shadow. But he couldn't help feeling drawn to the very heart of the mystery, to the secrets that lay hidden beneath the city's surface.
The alley narrowed, the walls pressing in on either side as Lysander followed the echo of his own footsteps. He moved with the silent precision of someone used to shadows, his coat billowing behind him like a second skin. He didn't know exactly where he was headed—but something in his gut pulled him toward the eastern edge of Ashwood, to the forgotten parts of the city that even magic tried to ignore.
Then he heard it. Not footsteps, not whispers—something more primal.
A growl.
Low, almost inaudible. But Lysander had been hunted before. He knew when a predator was near.
He spun just in time to catch a blur of movement to his left. A Shade. Not a full-bodied creature, but a half-formed one, all smoke and malice. Its glowing eyes locked with his.
He reached for the dagger at his side—obsidian etched with runes that burned cold against his palm. The Shade lunged.
Lysander met it head-on, slicing through the air with practiced ease. The blade passed through the creature's body like slicing mist—it screamed, a sound that shattered glass and bent air. It recoiled, reforming with tendrils of shadow.
Another lunged from the opposite side.
Damn it.
This wasn't a random attack. Someone had sent them.
He pivoted, drawing on the faint magical current in the air, calling it into his bones. Light flared briefly at his fingertips—just enough to scatter the first Shade again.
And then—
"Lysander!" a voice shouted.
He turned, chest heaving.
A Lady sprinted from the mouth of the alley, her dark cloak flapping wildly behind her. Her hand moved in a sharp gesture, and a burst of flame erupted from her palm, striking one of the Shades and setting it ablaze in a strange violet hue.
"We need to move. Now." She said.
They ran.
The Shades followed.
Ashwood's magical veins twisted beneath their feet, pulsing in alarm. Wards flickered weakly on the walls, too old to offer protection. The streets narrowed and widened again, like a living maze that hadn't decided whether to help or hinder them.
They ducked beneath an iron archway and emerged into a crumbling courtyard where an old watchtower leaned against the moonlight. Lysander shoved the door open and both ran inside.
She muttered a few words in an old tongue, and a protective ward shimmered across the threshold just before the Shades slammed into it with a banshee wail.
Silence followed. Heavy. Tense.
Lysander turned to Her. "You followed me from the gala?"
He remembered, the Lady that brought back the memories of Martin's at the gala.
She gave a weak, defiant smile. "You looked like you needed backup."
"I didn't."
She ignored him, moving toward the tower's central chamber. Dust coated the floor, and broken furniture lay scattered like bones.
"They were after you," she said. "They were tracking your magic."
Outside, the shrieks of the Shades pierced the night, claws scraping against the warded stone, but they could not breach the magic-laced threshold. The wards flared once—soft blue flames dancing across the surface—and then fell still.
Lysander backed away from the entrance, panting, his shirt torn. Aria leaned against the stone wall, clutching a gash in her side. The air inside the tower was thick with the scent of old smoke, musty wood, and magic—ancient and thrumming.
"You okay?" he asked, eyeing her wound.
"I've had worse," she muttered, but her pallor betrayed the lie.
Without a word, Lysander reached into his coat and pulled out a small crystal vial filled with silver liquid. He uncorked it and handed it to her. "Drink."
She hesitated, her dark eyes flicking between his face and the vial. "What is this?"
"Healing elixir. Mild, but fast."
"Fancy." She took it, sipping cautiously. A glow spread beneath her skin, and the wound began to close. "Didn't peg you for the alchemy type."
"I'm full of surprises," he said dryly.
The silence that followed was thick with questions neither wanted to ask. Lysander studied her now that the chaos had passed. She was too calm, too practiced in danger. That wasn't just fear in her eyes back at the gala—it was knowledge. And fear rooted in knowledge was far more dangerous than ignorance.
Aria caught him staring and sighed. "You want answers. I get it."
He crossed his arms. "Start with the Shades. Why were they after you?"
"They weren't after me," she said. "They were after you."
Lysander's expression didn't change, but his shoulders tensed. "Try again."
"Seriously speaking I have no time for jokes," Aria said. "They're hunting anyone who's connected to Martin. You just happen to be the biggest prize."
That name hit him like a blade to the ribs. He didn't flinch, but a flicker of pain passed through his eyes. "My brother's been dead for fifteen years. There's nothing left to hunt."
Aria shook her head. "That's what you think. Martin died protecting something. Something powerful. A map."
"A map?" Lysander echoed.
"To the Source," she said softly. "The origin of Ashwood's magic. The place where the ley lines converge beneath the city. If someone controlled it... they could bend reality."
Lysander stared at her, processing the weight of those words. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because you're the key, Lysander." Her voice trembled. "Martin passed it to you without you knowing. That map—it's bound to blood. Only someone of his bloodline can find it."
A chill crept down Lysander's spine. He turned away, pacing. The shadows cast by the candlelight in the tower danced like specters on the walls.
"I don't want anything to do with that," he muttered.
"You don't have a choice," Aria said. "They'll keep coming. Shades don't stop. Not unless they're destroyed or—"
"Or what?"
"Or the Source is claimed by someone powerful enough to protect it."
Lysander gave a humorless laugh. "So I'm supposed to just... what? Pick up where Martin left off? Chase down some mythical source while creatures from the underworld try to eat me alive?"
"That's the idea," she said grimly.
He rubbed his hands over his face and leaned back against the stone wall. Outside, the howls had faded into the distance, but the threat hadn't. The city wasn't safe. And neither was he.
Aria reached into her coat and pulled out a worn, leather-bound journal. She handed it to him. The handwriting inside was unmistakable—bold strokes, neat margins. Martin's.
Lysander's breath hitched.
There was a sketch of a symbol—an eye within a triangle, surrounded by roots. Beneath it were coordinates. A location within Ashwood. Somewhere deep beneath the Temple District. Some writings was included that Lysander couldn't decipher.
"He left this for me?" Lysander asked, voice barely audible.
"For you. And for Ashwood," Aria said. "Because if the wrong person finds the Source first... this city burns."
Lysander closed the journal slowly. He looked up at her, eyes guarded and determined.
The silence in the tower pressed down on them like a weight. Outside, the shrieks of Shades had faded into the distance. Lysander stood near the window, staring out into the mist-shrouded trees, every muscle in his body still taut.
Behind him, Aria paced.
"You handled yourself well back there," Lysander said, not turning around.
She snorted softly. "I've had practice."
That caught his attention. He turned, eyes narrowing. "You're not just some lost traveler, are you?"
Aria didn't answer immediately. Her fingers ran along the carved wood of the watchtower's walls, tracing old ward symbols as if they were familiar. Too familiar.
Lysander stepped closer. "Where did you learn to fight like that? The way you moved… it reminded me of someone."
Her gaze snapped to his. "Who?"
He didn't answer. His mind had flashed to another night, another battle—when Martin had vanished. One of the rogue shifters who had taken him moved just like she had. Quick, precise, lethal.
The similarity was too sharp to ignore.
"You were one of them, weren't you?" he asked, voice low and dangerous. "The rogues."
Aria stiffened. A shadow crossed her face, but she didn't look away.
"I was," she said quietly. "But I left. A long time ago."
Lysander's heart pounded. Rage and betrayal surged through him—but beneath it, confusion. She had helped him. Risked her life to do so. Why?
"Why should I trust you?" he growled.
"Because I had nothing to do with Martin's death," she said. "I didn't know what they were planning. And when I found out... I ran."
She stepped forward slowly, hands raised in surrender. "I can't change the past, Lysander. But I can help you uncover the truth."
His jaw clenched. Everything in him screamed to push her away—but part of him, the part that had always chased shadows for answers, held him back.
"Meet me at the old house tomorrow," she said softly. "I'll tell you everything I know."
Lysander's breath caught.
The old house.
No one knew about that place—not anymore. It had been their hideout, his and Martin's. A sanctuary tucked deep within the woods on the city's edge, built with broken bricks and wild dreams. Hidden behind overgrown vines and a crumbling fence, it was the one place untouched by Ashwood's chaos. Untouched by time.
For her to know about it meant one thing.
She had been close. Too close.
He didn't speak, didn't trust himself to. But his silence said enough.
Then after a pause, her voice lower—almost afraid, "But what I tell you tomorrow... it might change everything you thought you knew about Martin."
Aria held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and vanished into the shadows beyond the watchtower door—leaving Lysander alone with the journal, the past, and the unraveling storm that was only just beginning.