The scent of blood came first.
Not the wild, metallic sting of fresh battle—this was older, soaked into the earth, meant to be found. The wolves guarding the Flameborn border had caught it at dawn. Within the hour, Rafe had brought Lina to the edge of the territory, where the pine trees thinned and the river cut like a silver scar between the lands.
The message was carved into a dead tree.
Rough. Jagged.
Primitive.
The bark had been peeled away in long, clawed streaks, and in the stripped center, smeared in blood—fresh and dark—were five words:
"THE GIRL BELONGS TO ME."
Lina stared at it in silence, her breath fogging in the cold morning air. The trees whispered around her, wind curling like fingers through her hair. Behind her, the guards waited, tense. Ready.
Rafe didn't speak for a long time. When he finally did, his voice was quiet. Cold.
"That's a rogue message."
Lina swallowed, her throat dry. "To me."
He nodded once.
"They marked the tree," one of the guards said. "Left claw prints around it. Same symbols the rogue packs used during the last war."
Lina touched the base of her neck where her mark burned faintly under her sweater. It hadn't stopped glowing since the test.
The psychic scream had changed everything.
"I don't understand," she said. "Why now? Why this?"
"Because you showed power," Rafe said, jaw clenched. "Because they think you're ready. Or... almost."
She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "You think it's my father."
"I don't know," he said. "But rogues don't just leave messages for sport. Whoever wrote this—whoever claimed you—they mean it."
He stepped closer, voice lower. "This wasn't a threat."
Lina's pulse skipped. "Then what was it?"
"A promise."
They burned the message before nightfall.
Ash drifted on the breeze like black snow. Rafe stayed with her the whole time, his expression unreadable. She could tell he wanted to protect her—keep her away from whatever came next—but the truth was, she was already caught in the middle.
And the dreams weren't helping.
The first one came that night.
She stood smack dab in the middle of a freaking fire circle, flames thumping and flickering like some wild, oversized heartbeat. Heat licked her skin but didn't burn her. In the center of the inferno was a man—chained at the wrists, hunched and silent. His hair was wild, streaked with gray and ash. Muscles cut through his back like stone, scarred and tense.
And he was glowing.
Not like her mark.
Something deeper. Something darker. Magic wrapped around him like smoke.
She stepped closer.
The man looked up.
Eyes like hers.
Not gold. Not a wolf.
Storm-born.
Her heart cracked.
"Dad?" she whispered.
But before he could answer, the fire surged, and she woke with a scream.
She told Rafe the next morning.
They sat by the stream that cut near the eastern ridge, far from the others, where the water drowned out eavesdropping ears. She watched him closely as she spoke—his reactions, his silence. He didn't interrupt.
"You think it's a memory?" he asked after a long pause.
"No. It didn't feel like a memory. It felt like a… tether. Like I was being pulled toward him."
"A vision."
She nodded. "It keeps happening. It started the night after the council. Every time I close my eyes, he's there. Same fire. Same chains."
Rafe looked down at the stream, his jaw working. "If it's your father… he's not dead."
"That's what I'm afraid of," she said.
Rafe glanced at her sharply.
But she shook her head. "Not afraid he's alive. Afraid of what he was. What he still might be."
Rafe reached out, brushed his fingers along the edge of her hand. "You're not him."
"I am part of him," she said. "Same blood. Same magic."
He didn't argue.
Because they both knew it was true.
By the third night, the dreams deepened.
She could hear the man's voice now—rough, low, distorted by pain and fire. He didn't call her by name. He called her daughter. He asked if she could hear him. If the bond had reached her. If she felt it too.
Each time, the chains looked weaker. The flames closer.
And each time, she woke up with her mark burning hotter.
Like it was answering.
The pack grew restless.
News of the message had spread fast, despite the elders' best efforts. Lina could feel it when she passed through the village—side-eyes, lowered heads, half-bows paired with whispered warnings.
Some wolves saw her as an omen.
Others, as a time bomb.
No one was neutral anymore.
Even Selene hadn't reached out since the council. Lina didn't know if that hurt more than the message. But she didn't have time to dwell.
Because the next message came two days later.
This time, it wasn't carved into a tree.
It was delivered.
A Flameborn scout, barely seventeen, stumbled into the village clearing at dawn—bloodied, shaking, half-conscious.
They were w You were never going to stay hidden forever. You were meant to burn. And maybe that scares the hell out of me, but it doesn't make it wrong."
Her throat tightened.
"You sound like you believe in me."
"I do."
She wanted to kiss him.
Instead, she said: "Then help me find him."
Rafe didn't blink. "You sure?"
"No," she said. "But I don't think I get to wait for sure anymore."
The next time the dream came, she didn't run.
She stepped into the fire willingly.
The man was there, as always—chained, scarred, glowing faintly. But this time, he turned fully toward her. His face was clearer. Older than she remembered. But there, in his jawline, his brow, the shape of his mouth—hers.
He smiled.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly.
Just… knowingly.
"You found me," he said.
Lina's hands trembled.
"Are you real?"
"I'm what's left," he said. "Until the chains break."
"Why now?" she asked. "Why come for me?"
"Because you called it, little moon. When you screamed, the bond woke. And the others heard it too."
She froze. "What others?"
"Those who want what's left of our line. Of our fire. Some want to use you. Others want to kill you. But only I want you whole."
Her stomach dropped. "Who are you?"
His chains cracked slightly. Fire swirled. He stepped closer.
"I am the fire your mother tried to bury. I am the storm that sleeps in your blood."
The flames surged.
"And I am coming home."