Page 86 of Shadowkissed

I walk barefoot to the center of the compound. Let the wet grass cool my fever-hot skin. The soil here still holds the scars of what I did, even if it wasn’t in this place, the cratered edge of power that nearly tore the world.

I kneel\ and sink my fingers into the earth. It feels different this time. Not scorched.Ready.It waits beneath me like something ancient and alive. Like it knows what’s coming. Like it’s listening.

So I call.

Not in English. Not in Fae. But in somethingolder.

I call to the magic buried under the bones of this realm. To the bloodlines that remember war. To the threads of light and shadow still knotted into the fabric of the Veil.

I speak in the tongues my ancestors gave me—starborn and spellforged—and I say:

Come.

They arrive within hours.

First the witches—storm-wreathed and solemn. A coven from the Northern Blight, their faces streaked with windburn, their tattoos glowing blue like phosphorescence. Some wear furs. Others bear blades. All carry ancient power that smells like salt and snow and lightning on the skin.

Then come the shifters—two packs, one lean and dark-clawed, the other gray-furred and sun-eyed. They greet Dante like a brother long lost, bowing their heads with guilt and resolve. They circle the perimeter, reestablishing ground lines and protective wards with snarls low in their throats.

Then the rogue fae arrive—silent and ethereal, barely brushing the edges of the physical world. They wear glamour like second skin and shadows like armor. Their eyes gleam silver and violet and starlit gold, and when they look at me, theybow.

Because they recognize what I am.

And finally, the elders.

A fae lord with hollow eyes who hasn’t walked among mortals in centuries, his voice like wind across tombstones. A vampire queen wrapped in silk and smoke, silver braiding her dark hair and blood drying in the corners of her mouth like warpaint. A warlock whose shadow arrives before he does, stitched together by oaths no one dares name.

They do not kneel. But they stay. That’s enough. Because they all comefor me.Not because of what I mightunmake. But because of what I mightprotect.And It steadies me instead of terrifies me.

At dusk, the circle is ready.

A ritual ward near the edge of the compound—half protection, half declaration. A line drawn in magic and blood and truth.

I step inside it.

The whispers start immediately, brushing against the air like moth wings:

“She’s the one…”

“The balance-breaker…”

“Starborn shadow…”

They echo like lullabies turned threats. But I don’t flinch.

Dante stands just on the other side of the circle, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes locked on me like I’m both salvation and a cliff’s edge.

I don’t blame him. Neither of us knows what I’m becoming.

But for once, I’m not afraid to find out and I want to accept it.

Mara steps forward, hood down, braid coiled tight behind her shoulder. “Are you sure?” she asks, quiet.

“No,” I say honestly. “But I will be.”

She nods, then gestures to the tall figure beside her—one of the rogue fae who arrived at dawn, a male with coal-black eyes and a golden mark etched down the center of his throat. His name is Cael. He hasn’t spoken all day. But now, as he steps into the circle opposite Mara, he murmurs in Old Fae, “Begin.”

Mara slices her palm first, blood dripping to the sigils carved into the stone ring. They flare blue, licking up around the circle in a shimmering, protective blaze. Cael follows, his blood glowing faintly silver.

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