Penny was eleven again.
The sun blazed over golden grasslands, the heat shimmering in waves across the endless savannah. The air hung thick with the scent of dry earth, distant rain, and something more primal—wild musk, crushed leaves, old sun-bleached bones. Cicadas screamed from the trees like broken clocks. Penny crouched beside her father behind a wall of brush, heart beating in sync with the land.
Her small hands were steady, cradling a bulky handheld camcorder, the shoulder strap twisted around her wrist for security. Sweat trickled down the side of her neck. She didn't notice. Her eyes—wide, violet-blue, unnervingly still—tracked movement through the tall grass.
Harry Voss lay beside her, camera lens peeking between branches, his breathing slow, controlled. His khaki shirt clung to his back, dusty and sweat-stained, and the glint of his pendant—etched with the ancient Two Rivers design—caught the fire of the setting sun.
"There," he whispered, barely audible. "East line. See the tail flick?"
Penny nodded, not blinking.
Shadows moved—sleek, graceful, silent. A trio of panthers drifted into view like living ghosts, their bodies liquid in motion, carved from dusk itself. They padded through the grass without disturbing a single blade, as if the land belonged to them and welcomed every step.
"Don't breathe too loud," Harry murmured, that familiar thrill in his voice. "You'll spook them."
But Penny wasn't afraid. She wasn't even nervous.
She felt them.
Not just in her ears or her eyes—but in her bones. Something inside her resonated with them, like a tuning fork struck by an unseen hand. It hummed through her chest, low and steady, a vibration not of fear but connection.
A presence brushed her mind.
It was not human. Not verbal. Not rational. But it was aware.
A pulse beneath the earth. Something old. Watching. Not words—not quite—but something deeper than language.
Her gaze shifted, pulled by instinct.
One panther had stopped.
It stood apart from the others, tall and dark and regal, framed by the firelit sky. Its yellow eyes locked on hers. Not with threat. Not with curiosity.
With knowing.
It stared.
And Penny felt the world still.
The wind ceased. The heat flattened. The cicadas silenced.
In her chest, something stirred. Opened.
And then—clear as breath, as memory, as dream—came a word that wasn't spoken aloud.
Penumbra.
She gasped.
"Dad?" she whispered, tugging his sleeve. "That one… it knows my name."
Harry didn't look up. He was lost in the lens, the moment, the rhythm of a thousand perfect shots.
He didn't hear her.
He never did when she felt things.
But she remembered. She would always remember.
That was the first time she'd heard it—Penumbra. The name her mother had given her. The name buried in birth records and whispered in dreams. The shadow cast by light. The one who walks between.
--- Penny jerked awake, heart pounding.
A hiss of static broke through the fog in her mind—the intercom crackling overhead.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our final descent into Seattle-Tacoma International Airport…"
The cabin lights flickered to life. Rain streaked the airplane window beside her, the clouds outside parting in silvery swirls to reveal snow-dusted peaks and endless forests below.
Her hand flew to her throat.
The pendant was warm—almost hot—its silver edges buzzing faintly against her skin. The etched amethyst eyes glowed violet in the low light, mirroring her own reflection in the window. Wide, startled, shimmering.
She held the pendant in her palm and closed her eyes.
Breathe.
The wild will guide you.
Amara's voice echoed like a lullaby across the years.
Penny exhaled and opened her eyes.
The clouds had thinned completely now, revealing the jagged emerald spine of the Pacific Northwest stretching to the horizon. Glacial rivers snaked through the land like veins of silver. Mist curled around mountaintops like breath from sleeping giants. Pines cloaked the world in an ancient hush.
Somewhere down there, Harry had once stood—camera slung over one shoulder, eyes turned to the horizon.
And somewhere down there, something was waiting for her.
Something that already knew her name. ---
The airport was a blur of motion.
Voices echoed off tiled floors. Suitcases rumbled. Coffee steamed from paper cups. Penny shouldered her backpack, adjusted the strap of her camera bag, and stepped into the current of people flowing toward baggage claim.
Her boots thudded quietly on the floor, worn soles gripping slick tile. Her pendant brushed her collarbone, its presence grounding, familiar, watchful.
She scanned the crowd.
Then she saw him.
A man stepped forward from the far wall, tall and lean, dressed in a black windbreaker with the CASCADE logo on the shoulder. His dark hair was swept back with effortless precision, and his smile was polite—maybe too polite. The kind of smile that had been practiced in a mirror. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Penny Voss?" he asked, his voice smooth and slightly accented—faint Eastern European tones, like polished glass.
"Yes," she said, a beat too fast. "You're Guy?"
He nodded and extended a hand. "Guy Marek. Dr. Fallon's research assistant. Welcome to Washington."
His grip was firm, his gaze unwavering.
Then, subtly, his eyes flicked to the pendant at her neck.
She felt it.
That look—sharp, almost hungry, like recognition edged with calculation. It was gone in a blink.
"You're easy to spot," he said with a smile, motioning toward the door. "Your video made quite the impression."
Her cheeks warmed. "Thanks. I'm just… grateful for the chance."
As they stepped outside, the damp air hit her like a baptism—pine and rain and cold. She inhaled deeply, letting it fill her lungs, rinsing away jet lag and nerves. The city lights glowed behind them, but the trees loomed ahead.
The SUV waiting at the curb was dark and gleaming, windows tinted, tires wet with rain.
She hesitated for just a second before climbing in.
As they pulled onto the freeway, Seattle began to fall away—skyscrapers shrinking behind the mist, the road curling toward wilderness. The rain grew heavier, rhythmic on the windshield. Trees closed in like sentries, ancient and solemn. Penny felt the shift like a pressure drop, her ears popping.
"You've got a knack for wildlife photography," Guy said, eyes fixed on the road. "Your photos—they feel alive. Like the animals are telling you their stories."
She paused. "I… I guess I just listen."
"To what?"
"The rhythm," she said softly. "Every species moves with its own music. You just have to be quiet long enough to hear it."
Guy nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Fallon will like you."
She glanced sideways. "Have you worked with him long?"
"A while," Guy said. "He's brilliant. Demanding. Focused. But always fair."
They drove in silence for a time.
Penny stared out the window as the Cascades rose higher around them—sharp, wild, immense. Moss draped from trees like veils. Ferns unfurled beside the road, and the river appeared beside them—a great, roaring vein of silver-gray.
"The Skagit," Guy said, as if reading her thoughts. "You'll get used to the sound. It never stops. It lives."
She nodded, feeling her pulse beat in time with the water.
They turned onto a gravel road, tires crunching beneath them, and the forest swallowed them whole.
At the end of the road, modular cabins stood nestled against the trees, simple and clean-lined. The CASCADE emblem shimmered on .