She ignored her parents’ disapproval of her bold defiance. Determined to unravel the mystery, she decided that no more time would be wasted. She would find Cillian, even if it meant venturing into the darkness herself.
Part Two
Moonbound
Chapter 19
Evelyne followed Marcel through the drenched clearing in the back of the manor, out past the stone patio. The rain from last night’s storm had left the world sodden and the ground soft beneath her boots. Drops of water still clung to the bare branches of the trees ahead, glistening in the late-morning light before falling in slow, deliberate drips. In the distance, a crow called out, its cry stark against the hush that had settled over the woods.
Her father padded beside her, his posture rigid. The barefoot prints found in the mud were barely visible as they headed toward the stone.
Marcel paced quickly through the mud and grass, careful not to splatter any on the lord and young lady behind him. “There,” he said as he gestured toward the large stone.
A sigil was carved deep into the rock’s face—freshly etched, yet ancient in design. A twisting lattice of interwoven symbols, its lines cut unnaturally smooth, as if scorched into the stone rather than chiseled. Darkened grooves, edged with the faintest shimmer, like dying embers beneath ash. A central rune dominated the pattern, jagged and angular, its shape reminiscent of an eye split down the center or a blade driven into the earth. Even with the daylight spilling over the rock, the markings seemed untouched by the world around them, resisting moisture, resisting decay.
Evelyne felt drawn to them. Her feet carried her forward before she could think better of it. Slowly, she knelt, reaching out. And as her fingertips brushed the stone, the air shifted.
A pulse.
Not a sound; not a movement. It was a feeling. A deep, rhythmic thrum vibrated beneath her touch, slow and steady like a distant heartbeat. The sensation was neither warm nor cold, but wholly different—almost alien. It was as if a presence coiled beneath her skin, creeping tendrils of inky smoke. The pressure climbed her arm, an insidious whisper of something ominous. Then came the chill. The same eerie coldness she had felt the night before and again in Cillian’s chambers.
A powerful surge raced through her veins and wrapped around her bones. A soft murmur—more a distant caress than an actual voice—brushed the edges of her mind, a subtle warning not to delve any further.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips, and she jerked her hand away.
In an instant, her father was by her side. “Evelyne, are you all right?”
She turned toward him, her fingers tingling from the phantom pulse beneath her skin. “Did you feel that?” she whispered.
Her father’s eyes darkened as he regarded the symbol seared into the rock. He made no move to touch it.
“It’s a warning,” he stated firmly.
Marcel shifted uneasily. “My lord, this wasn’t here yesterday. And there’s no evidence of fire, tool, or man capable of carving this so deeply in a single night.”
Aron Duskwood exhaled slowly. “A man did not do this.”
“Then who? Or what?” Evelyne asked.
Her father ignored the question. “We’re returning to the manor. I’ll send word to the scholars.”
Evelyne’s gaze lingered on the sigil, its dark lines stark against the stone. She had never seen anything like it, and she couldn’t decide which unnerved her more: its mysterious overnight appearance, or the sensation that it pulsed with life when she touched it.
Swallowing hard, she declared, “I’m going to find Cillian.”
Lord Duskwood’s jaw tightened, but he did not argue. Instead, he placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “We proceed with caution, Evelyne. We must not blindly follow whatever force left this behind.”
Though she said nothing, her intention was clear. She wouldn’t wait for the scholars or follow her father’s directives—she was determined to uncover the truth alone.
***
Evelyne stood in the quiet gloom of Cillian’s room. Every surface was dusted with memories, and her heart pounded as she carefully searched through his scattered books and meticulously drawn sketches. Guilt washed over her as she glanced at his empty bed and the chair where he once sat. She berated herself—she should have been there for him, sitting with him to learn about his fears and experiences instead of indulging in a fleeting engagement with Alaric. Her anger at her own neglect of him stung deeply.
She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to set aside the emotions curling hot in her veins. Regret would not bring him back.
With renewed determination, Evelyne began rifling through his belongings, gathering every page, every scrap of writing that could hold the key to his disappearance. She pulled books from his shelves, recognizing familiar titles from the family library—History of the Southern Territories,Heraldry and Sacred Signs—but the more obscure ones caught herattention. She paused as she ran her fingers over an aged tome, its spine cracked, the title barely legible beneath the wear of time.
The Concord of Shadows: A Forgotten Rite.
