Chapter Eight: The Moon Beneath Her Skin
Kael didn't knock.
He stood in the mist just beyond the porch, like he belonged to it.
Aria stepped outside slowly, the letter from her mother folded tightly in her palm. Her pulse beat against it—loud, restless.
"You found it," he said quietly, not looking at her. "The letter."
Aria narrowed her eyes. "So you knew she left something behind."
"I hoped she had," he said. "Your mother was... wiser than most. Brave, too. She almost rewrote the pact."
"Almost?"
"She died trying."
Aria swallowed hard. "Because of me?"
"Because of them." He turned to face her. "The ones who made the original pact. The ones who never wanted you born."
She shook her head. "You keep talking in pieces, Kael. I need full truths. No more riddles. What am I?"
Kael's gaze searched hers for a long time. Then he said something she wasn't ready for:
"You're the moon's answer to betrayal."
---
They walked in silence again, this time not to the forest, but toward the Veil Line—a long, stone wall near the cliffs that marked the edge of Velshade. Beyond it, the world was normal. Uncursed. Sunlit. Kael had once told her the magic couldn't pass through it.
But tonight, it shimmered.
The veil was thinning.
And so was Aria's control.
Her wrist ached. The mark had darkened into something deeper, more intricate. The crescents now spiraled into sharp curves—like claws.
She winced.
Kael saw it. "It's progressing."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the moon is starting to remember you."
She turned to him, startled. "Remember me?"
"You were never supposed to live," Kael said. "Not with that bloodline. Not with the twin-moon mark. But your mother tricked the pact, and the moon forgot you for a while. But now…"
He glanced up. The moon had turned a shade darker—almost red.
"It knows," he whispered.
---
That night, Aria dreamed again.
This time, she was standing in the middle of the forest, barefoot, in a gown made of light.
Around her were thousands of ghost-like figures—hooded, voiceless, watching.
And in front of her: a mirror. Not glass. Water.
She looked down and saw not herself—but two versions of her.
One with silver eyes. Glowing hands. A face full of sorrow.
The other—burning with red light. Smiling with a cruel kind of grace.
Which one are you? a voice echoed.
She couldn't answer.
---
She woke gasping.
The mark on her wrist glowed faintly, even in the dark.
And on the floor by her bed—
A feather.
Not white.
But midnight black, tipped in silver.
---