Aurora did not sleep again.
Every time her eyelids fluttered shut, her veins began to hum—low, restless, insistent—like something beneath her skin was pacing in a locked room, waiting for permission to break free.
She lay rigid atop the covers, staring at the ceiling as moonlight leaked through the narrow gap in her curtains. The glow was dimmer now, restrained, as though the night itself were holding back.
But she could still feel it.
Not on her skin.
Inside her.
Her chest ached where the heat had flared earlier, just beneath her sternum. When she pressed her palm there, her heartbeat responded instantly—harder, faster—like it recognized her touch as a challenge.
You're awake, something inside her seemed to murmur.
Aurora squeezed her eyes shut, jaw tightening.
"No," she whispered into the dark. "I'm not listening."
The house creaked softly, wood settling and shifting like an old body trying to find comfort. Somewhere down the hall, a single floorboard groaned.
Aurora inhaled sharply.
Her aunt was still awake.
She didn't know how she knew. The certainty simply arrived, sliding into place as naturally as breath, as though awareness itself had expanded and now occupied spaces it never had before.
The realization sent a cold shiver down her spine.
This was new.
Everything was new.
Aurora swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The instant her bare feet touched the floor, a sharp pulse shot up her calves—like static snapping through exposed wire. She gasped, fingers digging into the bedframe until the sensation ebbed.
Her skin tingled long after.
"Okay," she muttered grimly. "Definitely not normal."
She padded into the hallway, moving slowly, carefully, as if sudden motion might wake something inside her that hadn't fully settled yet.
Aunt Mara stood at the far end, arms folded tightly across her chest.
She looked as though she hadn't moved since ordering Aurora back to her room hours earlier.
The dim hallway light cast sharp shadows across Mara's face, carving lines of exhaustion and fear Aurora had never noticed before. They stared at each other in silence, the air between them taut and vibrating.
"You felt it again," Mara said quietly.
Aurora swallowed. "I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to."
That did not help.
Aurora walked toward her, every step deliberate. "You said you'd tell me the truth."
Mara's mouth tightened. "I said we'd talk."
"That's not the same thing," Aurora snapped. "You lied to me. About my mother. About that book. About—" She gestured sharply at her own chest. "—this."
Mara flinched.
They moved into the kitchen without speaking, drawn by some unspoken gravity neither of them dared resist. The leather-bound book still sat on the table where Mara had left it, its presence heavy, oppressive, as though it were aware of Aurora now.
Aurora stopped just short of touching it.
"It's calling me," she said hoarsely.
Mara nodded. "It will."
Aurora looked up sharply. "Will?"
Mara exhaled slowly, as though bracing herself before stepping off a cliff. "Your mother begged me to burn it."
Aurora's chest tightened painfully. "You didn't."
"No." Mara met her gaze. "Because she also begged me to protect you. And I didn't know which promise mattered more."
Aurora's fingers curled into fists. "Start talking. Now."
Mara hesitated, then reached out and turned the book so it faced Aurora fully.
"Your mother wasn't killed in an accident," she said quietly. "She was hunted."
The word struck deep, vibrating somewhere in Aurora's bones.
"Hunted," she repeated. "By who?"
Mara's voice dropped. "By people who believed she shouldn't exist."
Aurora's pulse roared in her ears. "Why?"
"Because she carried the Moon Shade."
The air seemed to thicken, pressing against Aurora's lungs.
"That's what you called it earlier," she whispered. "The Moon Shade."
Mara nodded. "A bloodline. An origin strain. Older than the Covenant. Older than the rules that keep our world… contained."
Aurora let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "You're saying my mother was some kind of monster."
"No," Mara said fiercely. "She was human. She loved fiercely. She was kind. And she was dangerous—not because of what she did, but because of what she could become."
Something clicked.
Aurora felt the words settle inside her like a key sliding home.
"And me?" she asked.
Mara closed her eyes. "You're worse."
Silence fell, absolute and suffocating.
Aurora stared at her. "That's supposed to comfort me?"
Mara opened her eyes again. They were wet. "It's supposed to keep you alive."
Before Aurora could respond, pressure rolled through the room.
Not from the book.
From outside.
Aurora stiffened. "He's still here."
Mara cursed softly. "I was hoping he'd leave."
"He didn't," Aurora said. "He can't."
Mara's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"
Aurora hesitated, then the truth spilled out—raw and terrifying.
"When I saw him… it felt like recognition. Like my body knew his before my mind did."
Mara went very still.
"Oh no," she whispered.
"What?" Aurora demanded.
"That wasn't just a scout," Mara said. "That was an anchor."
A chill slid down Aurora's spine. "Anchor for what?"
"For you."
The lights flickered violently. The windows rattled, glass shuddering in their frames.
Outside, something moved.
Not a step. Not a sound.
A presence.
Heat surged through Aurora again—stronger this time—coiling up her spine, igniting behind her eyes. She gasped, clutching the edge of the table as silver flashed across her vision.
"I—I can feel everything," she choked. "The street. The air. The—" She froze. "People."
Mara's face drained of color. "You're sensing beyond yourself."
"I don't want to," Aurora whispered as her knees buckled.
"You don't get to choose the awakening," Mara said softly, catching her. "Only what you do with it."
A knock echoed through the house.
Slow. Deliberate.
Mara swore under her breath. "Stay back."
Aurora shook her head. "He's not here to hurt me."
"You don't know that."
"I do," Aurora said—and realized she meant it.
The knock came again.
Then a voice—low, calm, unmistakably certain.
"Aurora."
Her name wrapped around her like a thread pulled tight.
Mara stared at her in horror. "He knows you."
Aurora straightened, heart racing, skin burning. "I think… he always has."
She moved toward the door before Mara could stop her.
The moment her hand closed around the knob, the pain in her chest eased—replaced by something else.
Clarity.
The door swung open.
Dante stood on the porch, moonlight carving him into silver and shadow. Up close, the weight of him was undeniable—not just physical, but territorial, as though the night itself deferred to his presence.
His gaze locked onto hers.
There was no smile this time.
Only recognition.
"You shouldn't be here," Aurora said, voice unsteady.
Dante's eyes flicked briefly to the glow pulsing beneath her sweater—then back to her face.
"Neither should you," he replied. "And yet… here we are."
Something in his tone made her blood respond.
Behind her, Mara whispered, "Aurora, step back."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"It's already too late," he said quietly. "They felt her wake."
Aurora's heart pounded. "Who is they?"
Dante looked at her like the answer would fracture her world.
"The ones who will not let you choose."
The moon brightened overhead.
And deep inside Aurora's chest, something ancient stirred—
fully awake now.