Page 138 of The Moonborn's Curse

Hagan's voice. His warmth. The scent of pine and fire that clung to his skin.

The memory of Veyr's quiet loyalty, the way he always stood just far enough to let her breathe.

The Oracle's bittersweet guidance.

And her bear-man—wild and wordless, his sorrow always echoing beneath his strength. Back from the Forgotten. Should she tell someone what happened? Because it had never happened before.

They came to her in moments of stillness—in the hush before sleep, in the scent of something familiar, in the back of her throat when the wind shifted.

The bond felt like it never was. Perhaps Hagan had taken her advice and surrendered to his love for Lia. It hadn't taken him long. With her side of the bond muted, at least she would be spared the pain of knowing when it happened.

But somehow... it didn't feel like freedom.

It felt like a missing piece she hadn't realized she'd come to treasure.

A phantom limb.

A whisper that once curled around her ribs, now just... gone.

She didn't ache for the bond.

But she didn't feel whole without it either.

And no matter how loud the city got, some part of her still listened—for a voice she wasn't sure she'd ever hear again.

By the third day, she was restless. Stir crazy.

"I need to work," she told Talis over reheated noodles. "Can you help?"

He gave her a long look. "You're sure? I make enough to support us both."

Seren did not want that. She needed to stand on her own two feet.

Talis sighed. He worked in cybersecurity—coding and shadow networks—for a shifter-run firm based out of the city's edge. But their social arm had connections to local businesses.

That's how she ended up at a pub hidden in the basement of a building that once served as a morgue.

It sat tucked beneath a crumbling building like a secret only the brave—or foolish—dared to find. A faded brass plate above the stairwell read The Hollow Moon, its edges worn smooth by time and smoke.

Seren stepped down into the darkness.

Inside, the scent hit her first—whiskey, cloves, and faint magic. Then came the glow: low amber lights, mirrored shelves behind a long bar, and a heavy sound system thrumming like a distant heartbeat. The walls were stone, old and cool to the touch, etched with claw marks that went too deep.

The office was behind the bar, through an ornate door made of ironwood.

That's where she met Griff.

The owner was a grizzled wolf-shifter with a growl for a voice and a nose that had clearly been broken one too many times. His hair was salt-and-pepper, pulled into a messy half-knot, and he had a scar that ran from the edge of his temple down to his collarbone. He looked like someone who'd survived the Feral wars and still walked into bar fights for fun.

"Experience?" he asked, squinting at her.

Seren hesitated. "I've worked in kitchens. And I'm a quick learner."

He nodded absently—distracted.

Through the narrow glass window behind her, he could see the head bartender wiping down the counter with lazy, practised ease. She was a witch , clearly. Gorgeous and aloof. Her thick curls bounced as she moved, hips swaying like she knew who was watching.

And Seren heard it.

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