Page 170 of Moonlit Fate

There was only silence, a void where his presence used to linger in the corners of my mind. I was truly alone.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then snapped them open again. Nothing changed. The darkness remained absolute.

“Got to get out,” I muttered, pushing against the cold floor with trembling hands. I rose unsteadily to my feet, the stones beneath me slick with unseen moisture. I reached out, trailing my fingers along the wet walls. The runes there hummed with an energy that made my skin crawl.

“Atticus?” My voice sounded so small and frail in the suffocating silence. No answer came. No comforting brush of his thoughts against mine.“Atticus, can you hear me?”

I waited, straining to catch any hint of him. There was nothing but the echo of my own desperation.

I was alone.

A chill ran down my spine, but I quashed it, refusing to let the fear take hold. I had to find a way out.

Feeling my way along the wall, I searched for a door, a window, anything that could get me out of this hell hole.

Tears leaked from my eyes as a gaping chasm opened in my heart. Atticus had always been there, a constant presence in the back of my mind. Now, in this place of ancient malice, even that had been stolen from me.

41

ATTICUS

Istepped into the same clearing I’d seen in my dream, my boots sinking slightly into the underbrush. The distance between here and my den meant shadow walking wasn’t possible. I’d opted to run on four paws along the boundaries of the Crimson Fang. To explore and see what I could discover before reaching the old pack grounds, but it ended up taking longer than I had expected.

The sight of the old dens, now just piles of wood and stone covered with vines, nearly tore my heart apart. I tried to keep all emotion off my face, but it was a losing battle.

I scanned the territory where my pack—my father’s pack—had once thrived. It was too quiet here. No howling, no pups running around and playing. Just silence and the weight of abandonment.

I kept walking, catching glimpses of the past in every corner. Memories danced around like ghosts. The boulder I used to climb as a kid was now just another part of the wild landscape, moss-covered and forgotten.

As I approached my childhood home, a lump formed in my throat. It looked nothing like I remembered, just dilapidatedwalls and the flattened earth where my mother’s garden used to bloom. I could almost hear her soft, soothing voice, a lullaby against the harshness of this place. Among the wreckage, a handful of roses had defied the odds and were still flourishing, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to their surroundings.

Her face appeared in my mind, and I knew what she’d tell me in this moment. I heard her voice as if she were standing right beside me.

“Atticus, be brave, my love.”

The cold edge of my father’s ambition seeped from the ground, but it was no match for the love that surged through me at the thought of her. I saw her hanging clothes on the line, intercepting my father when his temper flared, and her hands, always gentle, showing me the shifter ways.

I stepped over a fallen log, the rotting wood disintegrating when the toe of my boot nudged it. I could feel Aria in my mind, her presence a steady pulse against the backdrop of loss. She was working on her shields. When she had them up, it was much harder to feel her, to sense her.

A gust of wind swept through the trees, carrying whispers of what used to be. I shook them off, focusing instead on the mental image of Aria’s face, never far from the front of my thoughts. It was a shield that guarded me from the ghosts of my past.

Aria would tell me I was stronger than I believed myself to be. I clung to those words, let them sink into the marrow of my bones. They replaced the echo of my mother’s lullabies, filled the void the absence of the pack had left.

“Nothing will stop me,” I shouted defiantly into the wind. I was no longer just a shifter bound by blood and pain. I was Aria’s protector, her warrior. My magic stirred, responding to the truth of my vow.

The glen had changed drastically since my last visit. Fallen trees lay scattered around, new saplings had sprouted, and theunderbrush had taken on a different appearance. I closed my eyes, focusing on the dream, on what had been near the spot my mother had taken me to. A weathered oak had stood proudly in the center. I checked my surroundings and let out a bitter laugh. I was in a fucking forest. There were any number of oak trees nearby.

Dejected, I wandered around, searching around the base of each oak tree I came across. Frustrated by yet another failed attempt at scrabbling in the dirt, I was on the verge of giving up when I felt a sudden heat envelop my left hand, jolting me. I shook it off, thinking I’d brushed up against some wolfsbane, but the sensation persisted, growing warmer and more distinct.

It was oddly comforting.

“Mama?” I asked skeptically.

The heat pulsed twice in reply.

A vivid memory of my mom and me in the garden burst forth. We used to play a game where I would cover my face and count to ten, and she would hide a treat. I would search the garden, and she would give me clues, calling ‘colder’ when I was moving away from the sweet surprise and ‘hotter’ as I got closer.

With nothing but that recollection and hope, I turned left and took slow, deliberate steps forward. Five steps later, my right hand radiated with the same heat, and I pivoted in that direction. I slowly walked around the forest, playing a ghostly game of follow-my-lead.

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