Nyx's POV
The walk to the Hatchery felt eternal and far too short all at once.
Dew soaked into my shoes as I cut through the fields instead of taking the main road. I wasn't ready to face people yet. I wasn't ready for the stares, the whispers, the pitying looks or cruel smirks.
The dress clung to my legs where the wet grass brushed it. I'd have to clean the hem later. If I came home able to care about something as small as a dirty dress.
When. When you come home.
The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning mist. In the distance, I could see the Hatchery—massive stone walls rising from the earth like ancient bones. The gates stood open. Waiting.
That pull in my chest strengthened. Not painful, exactly. More like a compass needle swinging toward true north, insistent and sure.
Something there is waiting for me.
The thought should have sounded crazy.
It didn't.
I touched the silver chain at my throat. Grandmother's necklace. Grandmother's hope. Grandmother's silence.
Please, I thought, not sure who I was praying to. Please let this mean something. Let me not break the way she did.
But even as I thought it, I knew—if I did break, at least I'd have tried.
At least I'd know.
I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and walked toward the Hatchery gates.
Toward destiny, or destruction.
Possibly both.
Laughter spilled through the gates—high and nervous and bright. I could hear dozens of voices overlapping, candidates greeting each other, families offering last-minute advice. Music played somewhere, something traditional and ceremonial. The air practically hummed with anticipation.
Then I stepped through.
The laughter nearest me cut off mid-breath.
Heads turned. A boy's hand froze halfway through an encouraging pat on his friend's shoulder. A girl stopped mid-sentence, mouth still open. The silence spread outward like ripples on water—one conversation stopping, then another, then another, until a pocket of quiet surrounded me.
I kept walking. I kept my eyes forward and pretended not to notice the way people tracked my movement.
The crowd parted.
No one touched me. No one spoke to me. They just… moved like I was carrying something contagious. Plague. Misfortune. Failure.
A mother pulled her young daughter closer, whispering something that made the girl's eyes go wide. An older candidate deliberately turned his back, continuing his conversation in a voice that was just a little too loud, a little too forced.
"Pretend she's not here. The curse can't get to you if you don't acknowledge her."
My face burned, but I kept my chin up. Keep walking.
The Hatchery grounds stretched wide—ancient stone walls enclosing what looked like a cultivated forest. Massive trees provided shade over a carpet of soft grass. Wooden benches lined the perimeter where candidates and their families clustered in nervous, excited groups.
Every bench was occupied.
Every bench except one, isolated at the far edge near the eastern wall.
Of course.
I walked toward it, acutely aware of eyes following my progress. My wet shoes squelched slightly with each step. The hem of my dress dragged through the grass, picking up bits of leaves and dirt.
Behind me, conversations resumed—quieter now, but definitely about me.
"—can't believe she actually came—"
"—the curse of the Norths—"
"—twelve generations, not a single—"
"—grandmother went completely mad after her ceremony—"
"—embarrassing herself, poor thing—"
I sat down on the empty bench, wood rough and cool beneath my palms. From here, I could see everything.
Families embracing their candidates, whispering encouragement. Friends taking photos together, arms slung around shoulders. A girl with flowers braided into her auburn hair laughing at something her twin brother said. A boy being fussed over by what looked like three generations of relatives.
Normal. Happy. Hopeful.
Everything I wasn't.
A group of candidates my age clustered near the center—the confident ones, probably from prominent families. They stood with the ease of people who knew they belonged, who'd never questioned their place in the world. One of them, a tall boy with golden hair, caught my eye.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he smiled—not cruel, exactly. Pitying. Like I was a wounded animal he felt sorry for but wouldn't help.
Then he turned back to his friends.
I dug my nails into the wood of the bench.
You chose this. You wanted to come. You wanted to know.
The pull in my chest was still there. Still insistent. Still promising that something waited for me beyond those iron gates that led deeper into the Hatchery, to the wolf enclosures.
But sitting here, surrounded by people who believed they had a future while I was the punchline to a twelve-generation joke—
My hands were shaking.
When had they started shaking?
I pressed them flat against my thighs, trying to steady them, but it didn't help. The silver chain at my throat felt too tight. The dress—Grandmother's dress, sewn with hope that had curdled into madness felt wrong.
I felt wrong.
What was I thinking? That I'd be different? Special? That the universe would suddenly decide the North family curse had run its course and I, Nyx North, would be the one to break it?
Arrogant. Stupid. Childish.
Finn was right.
I should leave. Right now, before the ceremony started. I could slip out through the gates, run home through the fields, tell my family I'd changed my mind. Spare us all the humiliation of watching me stand there, alone and unchosen, while wolves bonded with everyone around me.
My legs tensed, ready to stand.
Just go. No one will stop you. They'll probably be relieved.
I gripped the edge of the bench, preparing to push myself up—
And then every head in the Hatchery turned toward the main gates.
The conversations didn't just quiet. They stopped completely.
A white limousine pulled up outside, so pristine it almost glowed in the morning sun. The crest on the door was visible even from here: a wolf silhouetted against a lightning strike.
Stormborn.
Oh.
I sank back onto the bench, my escape forgotten. There was no way I could leave now without disrupting the ceremony.
The chosen one had arrived.