Birds chirping and rustling leaves pull me from sleep. I stretch, rising from our makeshift camp, and spot Christa at the lake's edge. She sits cross-legged on a flat rock, popping berries into her mouth while gazing across the water. I settle beside her, breathing in the crisp mountain air that fills my lungs like cool silk.

The sky stretches clear above us, promising perfect travel weather. We set off as the sun climbs higher, walking side by side in easy silence, alert to the rustling and chirping that follows our path. Hours into our journey, I glance back—the lake has shrunk to a mere glimmer between the trees. Towering pines close in around us now, their trunks spotted with bright shelf mushrooms and carpeted with emerald moss. "Let's catch our breath," I suggest, nodding toward a ribbon of water cutting through the forest floor. "That stream looks perfect for a quick drink and a cool-down."

Water drips from my fingertips as we rise from the stream's edge, refreshed. I lead Christa along a narrow path that winds toward the ridge, the same one we'd circled on maps during those late nights that we sat around planning our First adventure. The familiar route feels bittersweet now; not the carefree journey we'd imagined. I remember Mom's voice, patient but insistent, making me trace our intended path again and again until I could recite every landmark in my sleep. Strange how those lessons serve us now, though not in the way she intended.

Mom's map-tracing obsession pays off now—at least we're not lost. The sun hangs lower than I'd like, casting long shadows between the trees. Our planned shelter waits just beyond the ridge ahead, and I'm desperate to reach it before nightfall. Whatever lurks in these woods after dark isn't something I'm eager to meet. We pick up our pace, jogging toward the hilltop when a lone howl splits the silence. My steps falter as more howls answers the calls of the first howl through the trees, sounding closer than I thought.

Our feet pound against the forest floor as we sprint uphill, the howls growing louder with each ragged breath. Mid-stride, we freeze, scanning the trees. A massive brown wolf launches from behind a pine tree, landing with a heavy thud before us. Its lips curl back, revealing long fangs. When we pivot to flee, the wolf lunges forward, its growl vibrating through my chest. We spin around only to face a second wolf—larger than the first—emerging from the shadows, cutting off our escape.

We freeze, trying to control our breathing as the silver wolf approaches. It lunges suddenly, knocking me backward onto the forest floor. I've never seen a wolf with such a lustrous silver coat—not in books, not in the nature documentaries Mom made us watch. A low growl echoes through the trees, and the brown wolf retreats into the shadows, leaving its silver companion to circle me. This is where I die, I think to myself, as the predator lowers its massive head toward my exposed throat. But instead of tearing into my flesh, it inhales deeply, nose tracing along my hairline and down my neck. It continues this inspection, circling and sniffing, and then makes a sound I never imagined possible from a wolf, something between a rumble and a purr. “Wolves don't purr," I whisper to myself, wondering if fear has made me hallucinate. Despite everything I know about wild animals, my fingers itch to touch it’s silver coat. I glance at Christa, who gives a sharp, warning shake of her head. Ignoring her, I raised my hand slowly toward the creature. The wolf's throat vibrates with a sudden growl—not the purr-like sound from before—making us both flinch backward. In a flash of silver, it disappears after the brown wolf. "Did you see its eyes?" I ask Christa, still staring at the spot where it vanished. "One blue, one black." She shrugs, already trudging uphill toward our shelter. "I was too busy thinking we were about to die," she calls over her shoulder.

At the hilltop, Christa collects firewood while I trace a protective circle around our camp, whispering the incantations Mom drilled into me since childhood. The scent of roasting fish mingles with smoke as we settle by the flames, passing berries between us. Stars pierce the darkening sky above, countless as my worries.

"Do you think they're okay?" I ask, turning the skewered fish over the fire. "Back home, I mean. In all these years, I never actually believed we'd be attacked. Even with all that training."

Christa props herself up on her elbows, firelight dancing across her face. "If something truly terrible happened, they would've found a way to contact us," she says, though uncertainty edges her voice. "I always thought of the coven as untouchable. Our sanctuary."

We finish our meal in silence, then curl up beneath the stars, each pretending to sleep while listening for wolves in the darkness.

Sleep evades me throughout the night, my recurring dream now haunted by that same voice: "Remember," it whispers, though what I'm meant to recall remains a mystery. I jolt awake before dawn, my skin slick with sweat, heart hammering against my ribs. The pale light filtering through the trees tells me morning has arrived, but any hope of further rest has vanished. I stoke the dying embers of our fire and wait for Christa to stir.

When she finally rises, we gather our few belongings and set off along a narrow dirt path that promises to lead us to sanctuary. Despite our circumstances, I can't help but appreciate the beauty surrounding us—clusters of purple and yellow wildflowers nodding in the breeze, medicinal herbs I recognize from Mom's teachings, woodland creatures darting between sunlit patches.

By midday, a familiar pain begins to radiate through my limbs, more intense than I've felt in months. The pain shoots through my muscles like it did during those first brutal weeks of training—my body rebelling against every new demand. Probably just the stress catching up to me, I tell myself. Through a gap in the trees, I spot the familiar slope that leads to our house. Christa sees it too. Without a word, we break into a sprint, our exhaustion forgotten as we race toward home. As we cross the invisible boundary line, I feel Raven's protection spells wash over me like a warm current. Her magic, woven months ago, still stands guard, keeping our sanctuary hidden from prying eyes and malicious intent.

We caught our breath at last, standing before our refuge. The cottage rose from the mountainside like it had grown there—clay walls nearly swallowed by vines, wild shrubs clustering around its base like protective sentinels. My fingers found the rough texture of the exterior, tracing its contours as we made our way around the structure. Despite reaching two stories, it seemed to bow humbly before the towering landscape surrounding it. Peering through windows filmed with dust, I glimpsed furniture shapes waiting in the stillness.

"Raven designed it perfectly," I whispered, nodding toward where the structure disappeared into the mountain face. "That's where I'll practice."

Inside, cedar chests yielded clean clothes. After scrubbing away days of dirt and sweat, we reunited in the kitchen where bare cupboards mocked our hunger—until I spotted a shelf of neatly arranged tea tins.

"Of course," I laughed, inhaling the familiar herbal scent.

I pressed a tin into Christa's hands. "Start brewing. I'll check the garden and send another message from the fire pit."

Outside, a wicker basket waited beside rows of greenery. My heart lifted at the sight of carrots poking through dark soil, potatoes nestled beneath their mounds, and beans climbing their trellises. Raven must have tended them during her visit months ago. Tonight, at least, we would eat well.

Basket in hand, I push through the cottage door, already planning our meal. "We'll have stew tonight!" I call, filling the sink with water for the vegetables. The knife finds its rhythm against the cutting board when Christa's footsteps sound on the stairs. She appears with something clutched to her chest, then places a leather-bound book on the counter with reverence.

"Your mother left this for you," she says softly. "Your Book of Shadows."

My hands freeze mid-slice. The dark leather cover gleams in the kitchen light, embossed with intricate constellations and twin wolves howling at a silver moon. My throat tightens as I trace the design with my fingertip.

A folded parchment slips from between the pages when I open the cover. Raven's wax seal unmistakable. I can only stare at it, this message from a mother who isn't here.

"Come," Christa whispers, guiding me to the front room. We settle on the couch, her presence steady beside me as I break the seal with trembling fingers.

My darling Jadon, the time has come for you to receive your own Book of Shadows. Every mother in our lineage has crafted one for her daughter, filling its pages with essential protections, healing remedies, and yes—even a few enchantments purely for joy. I had hoped to present this to you myself, to watch your face as you turned each page, to explain the stories behind certain spells that saved me in my darkest hours.

If you're reading these words alone, know that only the gravest circumstances could have kept me from witnessing this moment. Whatever forces have separated us, I trust in your strength to face them. The book now belongs to you, as does the power within it.

Receiving your Book of Shadows marks your passage into womanhood, my gifted girl. May these ancient words guide your hands when mine cannot. I've left countless blank pages awaiting your discoveries—your unique magic deserves space to flourish. Before you read further, know this: every choice I've made, every secret I've kept, served only to protect you. Though not of my blood, you have become my daughter, and I would face any darkness to keep your light burning.

I know the fog that shrouds your early childhood must frustrate you. The truth is this: when you were ten, war consumed our lands. Your parents—beloved leaders among all supernatural kind—fell defending what they cherished most. With her final breath, your mother placed your small hand in mine and whispered words that have guided me since: "Keep her safe, whatever the cost."

Do you recall that first birthday in our coven? The bracelet I fastened around your wrist—silver-flecked stone bound in leather—and how I made you swear never to remove it? That bracelet has been your shield, my child. Its enchantment has kept your wolf nature dormant, invisible to those who would harm you for being both Lycan and witch. Such hybrids inspire terror in those who fear what they cannot control. I had hoped to reveal this truth while holding your hands in mine. For delivering it through ink instead, I am deeply sorry.

My darling, at sixteen, most Lycans feel their wolf spirits stir to life within them—but your bracelet has kept yours in slumber. You must understand you are the last of your bloodline. Should our enemies discover your survival, they would hunt you relentlessly. When you remove the bracelet, your wolf will awaken, demanding release. I won't lie to you—that first transformation will test your strength in ways I wish you didn't have to endure.

If I am not beside you when you read this, then it's time. Meet your wolf but guard this truth carefully. Even after shifting, the bracelet will shield your dual nature from detection without forcing your wolf back into dormancy. Trust only those who have earned complete confidence with this knowledge. There remains so much left unsaid between us, questions I long to answer when we're reunited. Never doubt that every choice I've made, however difficult, was born of my love for you and my promise to keep you safe.

With all my heart,

Mom

The letter blurs before me as I stare at it, my mind refusing to make sense of the words. My fingers trace the bracelet at my wrist—this simple band that has apparently caged part of me for years. Heat rises to my face.

"All this time," I whisper, my voice catching. "She knew all this time."

Christa's hand covers mine, cool and steady. I blink back tears that feel more like fire than water, pushing myself up from the couch. The walls of the cottage suddenly feel too close.

"I need air," I mutter, moving toward the door.

"Wait." Christa catches my wrist, her eyes searching for mine. "If it were me, I'd want to know everything. To understand what's been sleeping inside me."

I paused, looking back at the leather-bound book on the table. The twin wolves on its cover seem to watch me, waiting.

"Tomorrow," I decide, exhaling slowly. "On my birthday. If I really have a wolf to meet... that seems like the right time to introduce ourselves."