Faylan doesn’t remember falling asleep.
Only the moment she stopped reading.
The journal still open in her lap. The attic quiet around her. The circle just behind her like something watching without eyes.
And then—
nothing.
Now, morning presses in through her room in thin, pale light.
Too bright.
Too sharp.
Faylan’s moss green eyes open slowly, her body already tense before she fully wakes, like something inside her never actually rested.
For a second—
everything feels wrong.
Not just the weight in her chest.
Not just the ache behind her eyes.
Everything.
The room feels louder.
Closer.
The soft hum of the house—the pipes, the floor, the distant shift of something downstairs—feels amplified, like someone turned the volume up on things she used to ignore.
She lies there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
Listening.
There’s movement downstairs.
Two sets of footsteps.
No—
four.
Her brow furrows slightly.
She can hear them clearly.
Too clearly.
The weight of each step.
The difference between them.
Heavier. Slower.
Lighter. Faster.
A chair scraping faintly.
A cabinet opening.
The quiet clink of dishes.
Faylan sits up abruptly.
Her breath catches.
“…what?”
The word comes out under her breath, more confused than afraid.
Because this—
this isn’t normal.
It’s not subtle.
It’s not something she has to focus on.
It’s just—
there.
Her hand presses lightly against her chest, like she can feel whatever changed inside her, like she can find the source of it if she just presses hard enough.
Her pulse answers.
Stronger than usual.
Faster.
Not panicked.
Active.
The journal.
The circle.
The words.
If the Veil weakens, the firstborn will be the first to surface.
Faylan exhales slowly.
“…of course it’s starting now,” she mutters.
Because why wouldn’t it.
Why wouldn’t everything hit at once.
Her legs swing over the side of the bed, her feet hitting the floor as she stands, the world tilting just slightly before settling again—not from dizziness, but from adjustment, like her body is recalibrating to something new.
She moves toward the window, pushing the curtain aside.
The street outside looks the same.
Quiet.
Normal.
A car passes slowly.
A dog barks somewhere down the block.
But even that—
she hears it.
Too clearly.
Too far.
Her jaw tightens.
“This is going to get annoying,” she murmurs.
But there’s no real frustration behind it.
Not the kind she would’ve had yesterday.
Because now she understands what this is.
Not fully.
But enough.
It’s not random.
It’s not just her losing control.
It’s her becoming what she already was.
Her grip tightens slightly on the edge of the curtain.
And the thought comes back.
Clearer now.
Quieter.
If I’m already running out of time…
Her breath steadies.
Then I don’t get to waste it being afraid.
The words don’t feel dramatic.
They don’t feel brave.
They feel—
practical.
That’s what makes them dangerous.
Faylan lets the curtain fall back into place and turns away from the window, running a hand through her dark hair as she moves toward her door.
Her chest still aches.
The grief is still there.
The anger too.
None of that is gone.
It’s just—
not stopping her anymore.
She pauses at the door for a second, her hand resting against the handle.
The sounds downstairs shift again.
Voices now.
Muted.
Familiar.
Safe.
Her father.
That realization lands differently.
Softer.
He doesn’t know.
Not about the circle.
Not about the journal.
Not about the number sitting quietly in her head now like a deadline she never agreed to.
Faylan exhales slowly.
Because for a second—
just one—
she considers telling him.
Telling him everything.
Breaking it open and letting him carry some of it.
And immediately—
she sees it.
The way his face would fall.
The way he’d try to fix something that can’t be fixed.
The way it would break him in a quiet, permanent way he’d never admit out loud.
Her jaw tightens.
“No,” she murmurs.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Her grip shifts on the handle.
Because this—
this part—
she can carry.
She has to.
Faylan pulls the door open.
And steps into the hallway.
This time—
she doesn’t hesitate.
Faylan moves down the hallway, her steps quieter than usual without her trying, her awareness stretching ahead of her before she even reaches the stairs.
The sounds downstairs sharpen as she gets closer.
Voices.
Plates.
A chair scraping lightly against the floor.
Her father’s voice—warm, familiar, completely unchanged.
It hits her in a way she isn’t prepared for.
Because everything else has shifted.
But he hasn’t.
Faylan pauses at the top of the stairs for half a second, her hand brushing the railing as she looks down.
The kitchen looks the same.
Sunlight coming in through the window.
Coffee on the counter.
Breakfast half put together in the slightly chaotic way Daniel always does it when he’s trying to make something “normal” out of a morning that isn’t.
And him—
standing at the stove like nothing in the world has cracked open just above his head.
Like yesterday didn’t happen.
Like no one walked into his house and took something from his daughters.
Like everything is still—
safe.
Faylan swallows.
Then starts down the stairs.
“Morning,” Daniel says the second he hears her, glancing over his shoulder with an easy smile that doesn’t belong in this house anymore.
Faylan steps into the kitchen.
“Morning,” she replies.
Her voice sounds normal.
Too normal.
Across the table, Seina looks up immediately.
Their eyes meet.
And in that one second—
everything from last night is there.
Seina’s expression shifts slightly, like she’s about to say something—
but doesn’t.
Faylan gives the smallest shake of her head.
Not obvious.
Not something Daniel would catch.
But enough.
Not here.
Seina understands immediately.
She looks down again, her fingers folding quietly in her lap.
At the counter, Emerson stands with his usual stillness, a cup in his hand, his attention flicking once toward Faylan as she enters.
Observing.
Assessing.
He notices the difference.
Faylan knows he does.
She doesn’t react to it.
Not yet.
Rowan leans back slightly against the far counter, arms crossed, his posture more relaxed than it was last night but still carrying that underlying tension he hasn’t figured out what to do with.
His gaze lands on Faylan briefly.
Lingers.
Something in it tightens.
He sees it too.
The shift.
Faylan ignores that as well.
Because if she starts acknowledging everything people are noticing about her, she’s going to lose control of the one thing she’s barely holding together.
Herself.
Daniel turns back to the stove, flipping something in the pan.
“So,” he says casually, like this is just another morning, “anyone want to tell me why it feels like I walked into a silent movie in here?”
The words land lightly.
But they hit harder than they should.
Because he’s right.
The air in the room is off.
Too still.
Too careful.
Faylan reaches for the back of a chair and pulls it out, sitting down before answering.
“You didn’t,” she says. “You just got up earlier than the rest of us.”
Daniel glances back again, one brow lifting slightly.
“That’s never a good sign.”
A small pause.
Then, softer—
“Everything okay?”
There it is.
The question.
Simple.
Honest.
And completely impossible to answer.
Faylan feels Seina’s attention shift toward her again.
Feels it before she even looks.
Because she knows—
Seina is about to say something.
Something honest.
Something dangerous.
Faylan cuts it off before it can happen.
“Yeah,” she says quickly.
Too quickly.
She forces her tone to steady.
“Just tired.”
Daniel studies her for a second.
Long enough to notice something is off.
Not long enough to understand what.
“…you sure?” he asks.
Faylan nods once.
“Yeah.”
A beat.
Then she adds, lighter—
“Unless you’ve secretly figured out how to make mornings less awful, in which case I take everything back.”
That gets a small breath of amusement from him.
Not much.
But enough to ease the edge.
“Working on it,” he says. “No promises.”
He turns back to the stove, letting it go.
Because that’s what he does.
He trusts them.
Even when he shouldn’t.
Even when they’re clearly not telling him everything.
Faylan looks down at the table.
Her jaw tightens slightly.
Because that trust—
that’s what makes this worse.
Breakfast moves forward.
Quietly.
Too quietly.
The usual rhythm is there—plates, food, small movements—but the conversation never quite fills in the gaps the way it normally would.
Everyone is careful.
Even Daniel, though he doesn’t know why.
Eventually, he sets the pan aside and wipes his hands on a towel.
“Well,” he says, glancing toward the clock, “I’ve got to head out soon.”
He looks between them.
“Figured I could drop you two off on my way. Save everyone a trip.”
Seina looks up.
Emerson glances toward Faylan.
And before either of them can answer—
Rowan pushes off the counter.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
The words are easy.
Casual.
But there’s something under them.
Firm.
Decided.
Daniel looks at him, mildly surprised.
“You sure?”
Rowan nods.
“Yeah. I’m heading that way anyway.”
A pause.
Then, lighter—
“Plus I drive better.”
That earns him a look.
Daniel huffs a quiet laugh.
“Debatable.”
But he doesn’t argue.
Because it’s practical.
Because it makes sense.
Because there’s no reason for it not to.
“Alright,” he says. “Just don’t get them killed.”
The joke lands wrong.
Not loudly.
Not obviously.
But Faylan feels it.
So does Rowan.
So does Emerson.
Seina’s gaze drops slightly.
Daniel doesn’t notice.
He grabs his keys from the counter, glancing back at them one last time.
“Lock up when you leave,” he adds. “And try to look less… haunted by the time I get home, yeah?”
Faylan forces a small smile.
“No promises.”
He smiles back.
Easy.
Unaware.
Then he’s gone.
The front door closes.
And just like that—
the house changes again.
The moment he leaves, the air shifts.
Drops.
Whatever softness was there disappears with him.
Faylan exhales slowly.
Her posture loosening just slightly.
Not relaxed.
Just no longer pretending.
Across the table, Seina looks at her again.
This time—
she doesn’t hold back.
“…we can’t keep this from him forever,” she says quietly.
Faylan’s gaze lifts.
Sharp.
“Yeah,” she replies. “We can.”
The certainty in her voice settles hard.
Not emotional.
Not defensive.
Just—
decided.
Seina frowns slightly.
“Fay—”
“He doesn’t need to know,” Faylan cuts in.
Her tone is still calm.
But there’s something new under it.
Something colder.
“If we tell him, he tries to fix it,” she continues. “And he can’t. So all that does is make it worse.”
Silence.
Rowan watches her carefully now.
Emerson too.
Because this—
this is different.
Not the panic from yesterday.
Not the anger.
Something else.
Faylan leans back slightly in her chair.
Her fingers tap once against the table.
Controlled.
Measured.
Then she looks between them.
“All of us already know what the problem is,” she says.
“So we stop acting like we don’t.”
The words land.
Clean.
Final.
And just like that—
something shifts.
Because this isn’t reaction anymore.
It’s something else.
The silence that follows doesn’t stretch awkwardly—it settles, like the room itself is adjusting to a new balance none of them agreed to but all of them feel.
Faylan doesn’t look away.
She holds their attention for a second longer, just enough to make sure they understand she meant what she said.
Then she stands.
The chair scrapes lightly against the floor.
No hesitation.
No second-guessing.
“I’m not waiting for them to come back,” she says.
Her voice is steady.
Too steady.
Seina’s head lifts slightly. “Fay—”
“We know what this is now,” Faylan continues, already moving past the table, her thoughts lining up faster than they should. “We know what I am. We know what they want. And we know this doesn’t stop unless we do something about it.”
Rowan straightens slightly, watching her.
“And what exactly do you think ‘something’ is?” he asks.
Faylan doesn’t slow.
She stops near the counter, turning just enough to face them again.
“We figure out how to control it,” she says.
A pause.
Then, more pointed—
“Before they decide how it gets used.”
Emerson’s gaze sharpens.
That—he agrees with.
You can see it immediately.
“That’s not a bad direction,” he says.
Rowan exhales sharply.
“That’s not a direction, that’s a vague plan with a high chance of getting you killed.”
Faylan looks at him.
Really looks this time.
And there’s something different in her expression now.
Not defiance.
Not recklessness in the loud, obvious way.
Something quieter.
Something that doesn’t bend.
“That part doesn’t change anything,” she says.
Rowan’s jaw tightens.
“It changes everything,” he replies.
“No,” Faylan says, just as calm. “It doesn’t.”
A beat.
Then—
“It just makes it sooner.”
The room stills.
Seina’s breath catches softly beside her.
Emerson doesn’t move.
Rowan stares at her like he’s trying to decide if she actually believes what she just said or if she’s spiraling into something he can’t pull her out of.
The truth is—
it’s both.
Faylan feels it.
The shift inside her.
The way the fear from yesterday hasn’t disappeared—
it’s just… changed shape.
Sharpened.
Focused.
Turned into something usable.
“I’m not saying I want that,” she adds, quieter now.
More honest.
“But pretending I have time doesn’t help me.”
Seina stands slowly.
“That’s not what this is,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “You’re not out of time.”
Faylan’s gaze flicks to her.
Something tightens in her chest.
Because she wants to believe that.
She really does.
But wanting doesn’t make it true.
“That’s not what the journal said,” she replies.
Seina takes a step closer.
“It also said there were options,” she says. “Outlets. Ways to stabilize it. We don’t even know what all of that means yet.”
Faylan’s fingers curl slightly at her sides.
She does know that part.
It’s been sitting in the back of her mind since she read it.
Ritual discharge.
Bonded channeling.
External anchoring through transformation.
She doesn’t understand them.
But she understands what they are.
Paths.
And paths mean choices.
And choices mean—
she doesn’t have to sit still and wait.
“That’s exactly the point,” she says.
Her voice sharpens just slightly.
“We don’t know what it means.”
She looks between them again.
“We don’t know how any of this works, and they do.”
Caspian knew.
Cassius knew.
They didn’t hesitate.
They didn’t guess.
They acted.
Emerson shifts slightly.
“Which means we need information,” he says.
Faylan nods once.
“Exactly.”
Rowan pushes off the counter, stepping closer now.
“And where do you think we get that?” he asks. “Because the last time we dealt with ‘people who know more than us,’ they walked into this house and took blood like it was nothing.”
Faylan doesn’t flinch.
“Yeah,” she says. “And they did it without asking.”
A pause.
Then—
“I’m done waiting for them to do it again.”
Rowan’s expression hardens.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” she says.
And now—
now there’s no softness left in it.
“We go to them.”
Silence.
Immediate.
Seina’s eyes widen slightly.
“Fay—”
“No,” Rowan cuts in, sharper now. “Absolutely not.”
Faylan turns toward him fully.
“Why not.”
“Because that’s exactly what they want.”
“And?” she challenges.
Rowan stares at her.
“And that’s how people get controlled.”
Faylan tilts her head slightly.
“Or,” she says, quieter now, “that’s how people stop being in the dark.”
it isn’t impulsive.
It isn’t reckless in the way he expected.
It’s calculated.
And that’s worse.
Rowan exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.
“You don’t even know what you’re walking into.”
“No,” Faylan agrees.
“And that’s exactly why I need to.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Emerson watches her carefully.
Seina looks between them, her concern growing with every second.
Because she can feel it too.
The shift.
Faylan isn’t reacting anymore.
Because she’s choosing.
And once she decides something—
she doesn’t let go.
Faylan’s gaze flicks briefly toward the window.
Toward the outside.
Toward everything waiting beyond the house.
Then back.
“We need an outlet,” she says.
Quieter now.
More deliberate.
“I’m not going to sit here and let this build until it decides for me.”
The room holds still around her.
Rowan watches her carefully.
Seina looks uneasy now, that soft, instinctive worry settling deeper in her expression.
Emerson—
Emerson is thinking.
Already five steps ahead.
Faylan exhales slowly.
Then—
she shifts.
Not in emotion.
In direction.
“Rowan,” she says.
His attention sharpens immediately.
“What.”
“Take them to school.”
Silence.
Immediate.
Hard.
Rowan’s expression changes instantly.
“No.”
Faylan doesn’t react to the tone.
“I’m serious,” she continues. “Take Seina. Take Emerson. Get them out of the house for a few hours.”
Seina steps forward.
“Faylan—no.”
Faylan turns to her.
And this time—
there’s something softer there.
Just for a second.
“I need to do this,” she says quietly.
Seina shakes her head.
“You don’t have to do it alone.”
Faylan’s jaw tightens slightly.
“I’m not doing it alone.”
A beat.
Then—
“I’m just not doing it with you.”
Seina’s expression falters.
Rowan steps in immediately.
“No,” he says again, firmer now. “Not happening.”
Faylan looks at him.
Really looks.
And there’s no give in her expression now.
“You can’t protect all of us at once,” she says.
Rowan’s jaw tightens.
“I don’t need to—”
“Yes, you do,” she cuts in.
Still calm.
Still controlled.
“And if something happens while we’re all standing here arguing about it, then what?”
Silence.
Because that—
that’s the part no one wants to answer.
Faylan steps closer.
Not aggressive.
Just certain.
“They’re safer at school than they are sitting here waiting for something to come back,” she says.
Her gaze flicks briefly to Seina.
Softening again.
“Especially her.”
Seina’s fingers curl slightly at her sides.
“Fay—”
“I’m not asking,” Faylan says.
And that’s new.
Not louder.
Not harsher.
Just final.
Rowan stares at her.
Longer this time.
Like he’s trying to find a way around it.
Like he’s trying to figure out if this is something he can stop.
But he sees it.
The difference.
The shift.
She’s not reacting anymore.
She’s decided.
“…where are you going,” he asks.
Faylan doesn’t answer right away.
Because the truth is—
she doesn’t fully know yet.
Just the direction.
Just the pull.
Just the understanding that staying here isn’t an option anymore.
“To get answers,” she says finally.
Rowan exhales sharply.
“That’s not a plan.”
“It’s enough.”
Another pause.
Tighter.
Seina looks between them, her worry deepening.
“You’re going to find them,” she says quietly.
Not a question.
Faylan doesn’t deny it.
That’s answer enough.
Seina’s chest tightens.
“That’s dangerous.”
Faylan gives a small, humorless breath.
“Yeah.”
The word doesn’t carry fear anymore.
That’s what makes it worse.
Rowan runs a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through now.
“This is a bad idea.”
Faylan shrugs slightly.
“Probably.”
“Then why—”
“Because waiting is worse,” she cuts in.
And there’s no hesitation in that.
No doubt.
Just truth.
The room stills again.
Because they can feel it.
All of them.
This isn’t something they can talk her out of.
Not right now.
Not like this.
Rowan closes his eyes for a second.
Then exhales slowly.
“…fine,” he mutters.
The word sounds forced.
Pulled out of him.
“But this isn’t over.”
Faylan nods once.
“I know.”
Seina hesitates.
Then steps forward quickly, pulling Faylan into a brief, tight hug before she can stop her.
It catches her off guard.
For a second—
Faylan almost softens.
Almost lets herself lean into it.
Then she pulls back.
Gently.
“Go,” she says.
Quieter now.
“Before he changes his mind.”
Rowan gives her one last look.
Sharp.
Warning.
Then turns toward the door.
Seina lingers for half a second longer—
then follows.
Emerson pauses near the doorway, his gaze settling on Faylan.
“…don’t do anything irreversible,” he says.
Faylan meets his eyes.
“…no promises.”
That earns the faintest shift in his expression.
Not approval.
Understanding.
Then he leaves.
The door closes.
And just like that—
the house is quiet again.
Faylan stands there for a second.
Alone.
The silence settles around her.
Different now.
Not heavy.
Not suffocating.
Clear.
Her gaze shifts toward the window.
Toward the world outside.
Toward everything waiting for her to stop hesitating.
She exhales slowly.
Then moves.
Because now—
There’s nothing left holding her here.
The thought follows Faylan all the way upstairs, not loud, not dramatic, just steady enough to sit beneath every other thought like something already decided. The house is quieter now that they’re gone, but it isn’t empty the way it used to feel when she was alone. It feels watchful. Full of old air and older choices. The floorboards know her steps. The walls know her family’s voices. Somewhere above all of it, the attic still waits with her mother’s handwriting folded into leather and ink and years nobody thought to question hard enough.
Faylan steps into her room and closes the door behind her, though not all the way. Just enough to make the space feel contained. The morning light has shifted while they were downstairs; it comes through the window at a lower angle now, washing the room in a pale, diluted brightness that softens nothing. Her bed is still unmade. The curtain hangs crooked where she pushed it aside earlier. On the desk, a glass with half an inch of water catches the light and throws it back in a thin silver line across the wood.
For a second she just stands there.
Not because she’s unsure.
Because now that the moment has finally arrived—now that no one is here to stop her, argue with her, soften her, or look at her with that awful mix of worry and helplessness—she can feel the truth of what she’s doing settle properly into her chest.
She is leaving to chase something she does not understand with only instinct, anger, and half a map built out of old words and dangerous men.
And somehow, that feels cleaner than staying.
Faylan moves toward her dresser and pulls open the top drawer harder than she means to. Wood scrapes softly. Fabric shifts. She reaches for practical things without really thinking about them—dark jeans, a fitted long-sleeved shirt, her boots. Clothes she can move in. Clothes that make her feel less like someone waiting for something to happen to her and more like someone choosing where she steps next. She changes quickly, the motions sharp and familiar, tugging her shirt down at the waist and lacing her boots tighter than necessary as if control can be found in small, exact things.
At the edge of the dresser mirror her reflection catches her attention again. She looks tired. Not weak. Not fragile. Just sharpened in a way she wasn’t a few days ago. The bruised feeling under her eyes isn’t really about sleep. It’s the look of someone who learned too much too quickly and hasn’t figured out where to put it yet. Her gaze drops, almost involuntarily, toward the line of her collarbone where the crescent birthmark lies beneath fabric and skin like a secret made visible only in pieces.
The crescent in the circle.
The line in the journal.
The firstborn.
The one who gathers.
Her jaw tightens, and she reaches for the brush on her dresser with more force than she needs, dragging it through her hair in quick strokes before tossing it back down. The sound is sharper than it should be in the quiet room.
“Fine,” she mutters to no one. “Then I gather.”
The words come out flat, but something in them feels dangerous the second they’re spoken. Not because they’re wrong. Because they fit too well.
She turns away from the mirror before she can look at herself long enough to start thinking instead of moving. Her jacket is where she left it on the chair, dark and worn at the cuffs, one sleeve twisted over itself like it had been dropped in a hurry last night. She shrugs it on and reaches into the inside pocket automatically, checking for her keys, then her phone, then the small folding knife she’s carried on and off for years mostly because Greythorne had always felt like the kind of town where being unprepared was an insult to common sense.
Now it feels laughably small.
Not useless. Just smaller than the things waiting for her outside.
She moves toward the door, then stops halfway there, her attention snagging not on something she forgot—but on something she now understands she shouldn’t leave behind.
The journal.
It’s still upstairs in the attic.
For one second she considers leaving it there. Keeping it hidden. Pretending the house is still a safe place for it. But the thought dies almost immediately. Safe no longer means what it used to. Safe apparently meant Veils and sealed chests and mothers lying out of love. Safe meant delay. Safe meant eventually losing anyway.
Faylan turns and heads back into the hallway without another second wasted, her steps faster now as she climbs the narrow stretch toward the attic access. The pull-string hangs where she left it, bead still and harmless-looking in the soft light. Nothing about it suggests a threshold. Nothing about it says everything changes above this line. She reaches up, pulls, and waits while the ladder unfolds again with that same stiff complaint of old wood and metal.
This time she climbs faster.
The attic greets her in the same dim hush as before, cooler than the rest of the house and faintly scented with dust, cedar, and old lavender. The circle still marks the floor. The chest still waits open. Nothing has changed in the room except her. Faylan crosses to where she left the journal near the edge of the circle and crouches to pick it up, her fingers brushing the worn leather cover once before she slides it under her arm.
As she straightens, her gaze drifts across the attic again—over the dress form, the shawl, the boxes in her father’s handwriting, the chest with her mother’s full name burned into the wood. Elara Vance Hart. There is something almost unbearable in that now, in the reminder that her mother was not just the woman who made tea and folded sweaters and smiled gently in the kitchen. She had been someone else too. Older. Deeper. Someone with a line before them and knowledge she never put into ordinary words because ordinary words would have broken the illusion of family life before Faylan and Seina were old enough to survive the truth of it.
“You really left me a mess,” Faylan says quietly into the stillness.
The attic, of course, says nothing back.
She climbs down with the journal pressed against her side, closes the hatch behind her, and heads back to her room just long enough to grab her bag. She doesn’t pack much. She doesn’t know where she’s going yet in any exact, sane sense, so there’s no point pretending this is a normal trip that can be prepared for neatly. She shoves the journal into the bag first. Then a pen. Her phone charger. A bottle of water from her nightstand. The motion becomes easier as she goes, less about planning and more about momentum.
Only when the bag is slung over her shoulder does she stop again.
Because the question she’s been avoiding since the moment she told Rowan to leave finally catches up to her in full.
Where exactly is she going.
Not “answers.” Not “them.” Not some dramatic version of the truth that sounds cleaner than it is. Actual direction. Actual place. Actual next step.
Cassius.
The name lands in her mind with uncomfortable ease.
Not Caspian. Not Vespera. Not the broad shapeless concept of the vampire world she’s only just started seeing the outline of.
Cassius.
Because he explained when she forced him to. Because he didn’t lie in the soft ways everyone else keeps lying. Because when he looked at her, it never felt like he was pretending not to know what she was becoming. And because the word outlet had sat between them with too much meaning to ignore.
Her fingers tighten slightly on the strap of her bag.
This is a bad idea.
She knows that.
Knows it in the same clear, practical way she knows winter roads freeze first on bridges and that old clocks keep bad time when the humidity shifts. It does not matter. Some bad ideas are still the straightest road between not knowing and finding out. The fact that he is dangerous no longer feels like a reason to avoid him. It feels like part of why he might actually tell the truth if pushed hard enough.
Faylan heads downstairs.
The house feels larger now that she has decided to leave it, every room opening off another with a familiarity so ordinary it almost hurts. The hallway table still holds Daniel’s keys receipt pile and the ceramic bowl for change. The kitchen still smells faintly of coffee and toast and the breakfast that never really happened properly because too much was sitting at the table with them. At the front door she pauses just long enough to grab her jacket properly around herself, tuck the loose edge of the bag strap more securely onto her shoulder, and glance once toward the staircase.
The attic is above her again.
Quiet.
Hidden.
Changed.
So is she.
She opens the front door and steps out into the morning.
The air is colder than she expected, thin with that clean after-breath of early day before traffic and sunlight have warmed everything into something softer. Greythorne stretches out around her in pale gray-blue light, ordinary on the surface in the same infuriating way it always has been—lawns, parked cars, someone dragging a trash can back toward a garage farther down the street. Nothing about it looks like a place where ancient bloodlines, Veils, and High Houses reach their hands into family kitchens.
But now she can feel the seam in it.
The hidden tension just under the town’s skin.
She locks the door behind her, slides the key into her jacket pocket, and stands still for one slow breath at the bottom of the steps. The world feels wider and more legible than it did yesterday. Not safer. Just clearer in the worst way. Somewhere in that clarity is the path she needs. Somewhere in it is the shape of Cassius’s presence, the same way she’d begun to feel the twins before she saw them, the same way last night’s blood collection changed the air in the room before anyone touched anything.
Faylan closes her eyes briefly.
Not to think.
To feel.
There.
Faint.
Not a location exactly, but a direction that fits in her body with uncomfortable certainty.
When she opens her eyes again, she’s already turning toward the street.
No speech to herself. No dramatic promise. No final doubt strong enough to root her in place.
She just starts walking.
Because if she’s going to get answers, she’s done waiting for them to come to her.