Chapter 6: The Ghost of Eight
The rhythm of his breath was the only thing keeping the terror from consuming me whole.
I was no longer asleep. I was suspended in that half-light state between consciousness and nightmare, nestled against Aric Varyn's side. He hadn't left the bed since the attack. His powerful body, still radiating the residual heat of the silver wound, was a solid wall between me and the silent hostility of the castle outside.
He wasn't holding me possessively; he was holding me protectively, his arms resting lightly around my shoulders, his chin brushing the crown of my head. I could feel the stiff, healing gauze beneath the linen of his shirt, covering the spot where the assassin's silver dart had struck. The metallic scent of the lingering poison mixed with the deep, reassuring cedar-and-snow scent of his wolf, creating a confusing cocktail of danger and desperate safety.
He was my sanctuary, but he was also my jailer, and the man who, by his very claim, had awakened the monster inside me.
"He is a fool," The Echo hissed, thin and calculating, enjoying the forced proximity. "He thinks his scent can smother us. It only nourishes our cunning. Watch him. Listen to the things he does not say."
I obeyed the internal command, not out of loyalty to The Echo, but out of self-preservation. I listened to the steady, deep drumming of Aric's heart, a sound so constant it should have been soothing, yet it only amplified my sense of being trapped.
After the attack, Aric's gaze had never been far from me. His court was buzzing with suspicion, Draven was coordinating a hunt for the assassin's masters, and Solene, the Moon Priestess, had been hovering with her strange, pitying eyes, speaking only in riddles about bloodlines and shadows.
But Aric's world had narrowed to this room, to me. He had canceled all engagements, placing the entire kingdom on hold to guard his terrified, half-mute mate. This devotion was more frightening than his indifference would have been.
I slipped out of his light embrace, maneuvering carefully so as not to wake him. My muscles screamed a protest, but the need for space was overwhelming. I reached the edge of the bed and sat, wrapped tightly in the borrowed tunic, staring into the flickering light of the hearth.
My attention caught on the scars on my forearms. They were thin, silvery-white against the fragile skin. They were numerous. Eleven years of silent wounds, and I could recall none of the incidents that caused them.
Why? The question burned a hole in my mind. Why was I locked away? Why were the scars old and faded, not fresh? I hadn't been starved for my wolf—wolves thrive on challenge. I had been starved for light and connection. It was a kind of psychological warfare.
As I gazed at the scars, the air in the room suddenly grew heavy, thick with the scent of fear and something else: cologne and stale sweat. Not Aric's scent. This was foreign, a scent memory dragged up from the deep.
The room began to dissolve around the edges. The opulent wood paneling grew dim, replaced by the damp, uneven rock of the underground. The controlled heat of the hearth vanished, replaced by a sudden, bone-aching chill.
I was standing, but I was eight years old.
The memory hit me with the force of a physical blow. It was a fragmented, terrifying return to the last moments of my life above ground.
I saw flashes: a flickering gas lantern, the frantic energy of running, the sound of muffled shouts, and the overpowering, cloying scent of that cologne. I was holding a familiar, large hand—a hand I trusted.
"Hurry, Kaira! We can't let them find you!"
The voice was familiar, masculine, and panicked. It was the voice of a protector.
We were in the tunnel system—not my specific, small prison, but a main artery of the Underlands. The air was thick with panic. I remembered running, my small legs pumping to keep up with the long strides of the man pulling me.
Then, we stopped abruptly. He swung the gas lantern toward a hidden entryway, a vertical cut in the rock wall.
"In here, little bird. It's just for a minute. Wait for me."
I looked up at his face. It was blurred by the memory's static, obscured by the low angle of the light, but the shape was distinct: strong jaw, concerned eyes, and a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. He wasn't a shadow. He was family. He was the one I trusted implicitly.
"What about Lyra?" I asked in the memory, my eight-year-old voice small and high. "I can't shift. Lyra won't come out."
He knelt down, his hand gripping my shoulder with a painful intensity.
"Lyra is sleeping, Kaira. She needs to sleep for a long, long time. And you must never, ever call her. If you call her, they will find you."
He was lying. I knew it even then. But I was eight, and he was my rock.
"They?"
His face contorted in a brief flash of something terrible—not fear for me, but fear of me. It was a look of cold, desperate resolve.
"The ones who want to hurt the King. They want your magic. They want Lyra. You must be silent, Kaira. For all of us."
He pushed me through the small, dark opening. I fell onto the dirt, the air instantly colder.
"Wait for me!" I called out, scrambling back to the opening, my heart pounding with sudden betrayal.
He stood over me, his shadow falling across my face. He wasn't panicked anymore. He was resolved. He was closing the entrance—not a gentle pull, but a ruthless, mechanical shove of a massive stone slab.
"No! Please!" I screamed in the memory, reaching out, my small fingers scraping uselessly against the cold rock.
"Forgive me, Kaira."
The sound of the final lock—the heavy, sickening CLANG that had reverberated through my world for eleven years—was the sound of the metal bolt sliding home. And I was left in the crushing, absolute darkness.
The memory dissolved. I was back in the warm, opulent room, my heart threatening to burst out of my chest. My hands were pressed against the mattress, trembling violently.
Forgive me, Kaira.
The words echoed, and the cold, smooth voice of The Echo was suddenly furious.
"Forgive him? He sentenced us to oblivion! He used your trust to cage your power!" The Echo was shaking my internal foundation, raging at the violation.
The panic of the memory was so acute I started hyperventilating again. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force the terrifying image away.
But the face, still blurry in the memory, was beginning to crystallize under the pressure of Aric's nearby presence.
The strong jaw. The dark, determined eyes. The distinct line of his mouth. He wasn't some anonymous Beta guard. He was family.
My mind, terrified of this final, shattering truth, fought against the recognition. I tried to look away, to hide in the silence, to call for Lyra.
Lyra! Please! I need you!
Still nothing. Only the cold fury of The Echo waiting for the moment I broke.
I forced my eyes open and looked again at the man who had abandoned me. The memory of his face, the features now snapping into terrifying clarity, finally registered.
He was older, of course. Eight years older than me. The boy who had been told to keep me safe had been tasked with burying me instead. The brother who had been presumed to be grieving my death.
Rowan.
The Lunar King's Beta, Draven, had mentioned him in a casual conversation yesterday—my older brother, presumed dead in the same attack that killed my parents. But he wasn't dead. He had been the one to lock me into the deep Underlands.
The realization didn't come with tears; it came with an icy, devastating calm. It was the first true memory I had recovered, and it was a memory of absolute betrayal by the only protector I had left.
A gasp tore from my lungs. The movement woke Aric instantly.
He shifted, his massive hand immediately resting on the small of my back, his senses on high alert for danger.
"Kaira? What is it? What's wrong?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep but snapping quickly to command. "Did you have a nightmare?"
I turned my head slowly, meeting his concerned, predatory blue gaze. I didn't answer his question. I couldn't. My jaw was locked, my tongue heavy with the unbearable weight of the truth.
The monster inside me didn't hiss or shriek this time. It settled into the core of my being, a cold, quiet realization of power and revenge. It had found its origin.
"Your bloodline saved him, Kaira. He returned the favor by burying you," The Echo said, its voice now softer than Lyra's had ever been, deceptively gentle. "He is the first chain. We will find him, and we will break him. Then, we take the King."
I was no longer terrified of the dark. I was terrified of the cold, lethal resolve that had just replaced my fear.
I looked at the Lunar King, Aric Varyn, my mate, the man who had bled silver to protect me. And for the first time, I felt a terrible, crushing sense of clarity.
The person who betrayed me was a ghost of my past. But the weapon I was about to become belonged entirely to the present.
I reached out a trembling hand and gripped Aric's arm, not seeking comfort, but seeking purchase—a tool to anchor me to the world I was now determined to conquer.
I had to find Rowan. I had to know why. And the King, with his power and his love, was going to be my bridge.