Aurora Vale woke up screaming.
The sound tore out of her chest—raw, feral, unrecognizable—slamming into the narrow walls of her bedroom before she could stop it. Her body jerked upright as though yanked by invisible hands, lungs burning, fingers clawing at the tangled sheets like she'd been dragged from deep water instead of sleep.
Her heart thundered against her ribs.
Too fast.
Too loud.
As if it were trying to escape her altogether.
For several long seconds, she couldn't move. Couldn't even convince herself how to breathe properly. The scream echoed in her ears, ringing, fading, returning. Her skin was slick with sweat, the cold kind that clung instead of cooling.
The dream refused to loosen its grip.
She had been running.
No—fleeing.
Not from something behind her.
From something inside her.
In the dream, she tore through a forest drowned in silver light, the ground slick beneath her feet, roots clawing at her ankles like hands begging her to fall. Branches ripped at her arms. Thorns bit deep, drawing blood she barely noticed. Pain didn't slow her. Fear didn't guide her.
The moon did.
It hung impossibly low above the trees—huge, swollen, pulsing like a living heart. Each beat sent a shockwave through her body. Each pulse tightened something deep in her chest, something ancient and aching.
And no matter how fast she ran, no matter how desperately she fought it, she knew the truth with a certainty that hollowed her bones.
It wasn't chasing her.
It was calling her back.
Aurora pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Her pulse stuttered beneath her palm, wild and uneven, as if her body hadn't yet realized she was awake. Her throat burned like she'd been screaming for hours instead of seconds.
"It was just a dream," she whispered into the dark.
The words sounded thin. Fragile. Like a lie that knew it wouldn't survive the night.
Moonlight spilled through the uncovered window, brighter than it had any right to be. It didn't soften the room. It cut it—sharp bands of silver slicing across the walls, the dresser, the floor.
It wasn't gentle.
It didn't comfort.
It invaded.
Aurora swung her legs off the bed and stood, knees wobbling beneath her weight. The wooden floor was unnaturally cold against her bare feet, sending a shiver straight up her spine. The air felt wrong—thick, charged, heavy with a pressure she couldn't name. Like the breathless pause before lightning split the sky.
Her gaze drifted, helplessly, toward the mirror across the room.
She froze.
For half a heartbeat, she didn't recognize the girl staring back at her.
Dark curls clung damply to her cheeks, framing a face that looked sharper somehow—edges too defined, skin almost luminous beneath the moonlight, as though it were reflecting something buried far deeper than bone.
But it was her eyes that stole the breath from her lungs.
They weren't glowing.
They were becoming.
A thin ring of silver circled her pupils, flickering faintly—there and not there—like a reflection that shouldn't exist. Like moonlight trapped beneath glass.
Aurora staggered back, heart slamming so hard it hurt.
"No," she breathed. "No, this isn't happening."
She squeezed her eyes shut. Counted to five. Forced air into her lungs.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
When she opened them again, the silver was gone.
But the relief didn't come.
Because the heat remained.
It simmered beneath her skin, coiled deep in her veins, spreading slowly—deliberately—as though something ancient had been disturbed. Something that had slept for a very long time and did not appreciate being woken gently.
A sharp knock thundered against her bedroom door.
Aurora spun, pulse spiking.
"Aurora?" Her aunt's voice followed, tight with worry. "Are you awake?"
"Yes," Aurora answered too quickly. "I'm fine."
The lie tasted bitter.
Silence pressed against the door. Heavy. Listening.
"You were screaming," Aunt Mara said softly. "Just like before."
Aurora swallowed. Her throat felt scraped raw. "It was just a nightmare."
The door handle shifted slightly, then stilled.
"Get dressed," Mara said after a pause. Her voice had changed—stripped of warmth, weighed down by something grim. "We need to talk. Now."
The kitchen light flickered as Aurora entered, tugging her sweater tighter around herself even though the room wasn't cold. The house felt wrong tonight—too quiet, too alert, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Aunt Mara sat at the small wooden table, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She looked older somehow. Smaller. The lines around her eyes were carved deep—not by age, but by fear.
A mug of tea steamed between them. Neither touched it.
"You're late," Mara said quietly.
Aurora frowned. "Late for what?"
Mara lifted her gaze.
Something in her eyes made Aurora's stomach drop.
"For the moment I can no longer protect you with silence."
The words slid under Aurora's skin like ice.
"I don't understand."
"You will," Mara said. "That's what terrifies me."
Aurora's fingers curled into her sleeves. "You're acting like I'm dying."
Mara's jaw tightened. "No. I'm acting like you're changing."
The overhead light flickered again.
Aurora's pulse quickened. "Changing into what?"
Instead of answering, Mara crossed to the counter and knelt, unlocking a drawer Aurora had never seen opened before. The click of the key echoed too loudly in the quiet kitchen.
She withdrew a small leather-bound book and placed it on the table.
The instant it touched the wood, Aurora felt it.
A pull. Subtle. Unavoidable.
Like gravity shifting—only for her.
The book looked ancient. Its edges were worn smooth, the spine cracked with age. Crescent-shaped symbols were burned into the cover, dark and uneven, as if carved by fire rather than ink.
"What is that?" Aurora whispered.
Mara didn't look at her. "A mistake."
Aurora reached for it, then stopped. Her palm tingled, heat blooming beneath her skin.
"I was told never to let you see this," Mara said. "Unless the signs appeared."
Aurora's throat tightened. "What signs?"
Mara finally met her eyes.
"The moon answering you."
Aurora let out a shaky laugh. "That doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't need to," Mara replied. "It's older than sense."
She opened the book.
The first page held a single sentence, written in ink so dark it looked disturbingly fresh.
When the Moon Shade stirs, blood remembers what the mind forgets.
Aurora recoiled. "You wrote that."
Mara shook her head slowly. "This book hasn't been touched since the night your mother died."
The words struck like a blow.
"My mother died in a car accident," Aurora said sharply.
Mara said nothing.
The kitchen tilted. "You lied to me?"
"I spared you," Mara said hoarsely. "There's a difference."
Aurora shoved back from the table, breath coming fast. "Then tell me the truth."
Mara hesitated.
Outside, something shifted.
Not a sound—pressure.
Like weight settling where it didn't belong.
Mara's head snapped toward the window.
Aurora felt it instantly.
A surge of awareness—sharp, instinctive, undeniable.
Someone was there.
Watching.
Moonlight surged, flooding the kitchen in silver. A shadow slid across the glass—tall, broad, unmistakably male.
Aurora's breath caught.
The stranger stepped fully into view.
His features were carved from darkness and moonlight. His presence bent the night around him, as though the world made space without being asked. Silver eyes locked onto hers through the glass.
He didn't knock.
He smiled.
And in that impossible, terrifying moment, Aurora knew him.
Not from memory.
From blood.
Her veins ignited, heat racing through her body like a long-forgotten signal finally answered.
Aunt Mara moved fast. "Go to your room. Lock the door. Do not come out."
"Who is that?" Aurora whispered.
Mara's voice broke. "Someone who should never have found you."
The front door handle turned—slowly.
Aurora gasped as pain exploded beneath her skin, sharp and searing, centered over her heart. Something ancient pressed outward, demanding release.
Outside, the moon pulsed—once, twice—brighter than ever before.
The stranger's voice drifted through the door, low and certain.
"She's awake."
Mara stared at Aurora in horror.
Because beneath Aurora's sweater, something was glowing.
And the moon outside answered—
as if it had been waiting for this moment all along.