The walk home is slow, wet, and quiet. The rain clings to my hair, soaking through the sleeves of my jacket, and trickling down my spine. I could've asked Mom to pick me up. I could've waited out the storm. But I needed the time. The silence.
And even now, with every step squelching against the pavement, I don't feel alone.
The pendant in my pocket hums faintly—no longer comforting. It's agitated. Like it's trying to tell me something I'm not ready to hear.
Justin's house feels like it's still clinging to me. The way his parents looked at me. The photographs. The way the air shifted when I walked through the front door, like the house itself knew something I didn't. I try to shake the feeling, but it burrows deeper with each step.
I pass familiar street corners, lampposts, mailboxes. None of it feels familiar. Just fragments of a life I'm no longer sure is mine.
When I turn the corner onto my street, a sharp chill runs through me—instinctive and wrong. I glance over my shoulder.
Nothing.
But I pick up my pace anyway.
I'm practically running by the time I reach the front door.
*******
Mom's in the living room when I walk in, pretending to read. Her posture is too still, her book held upside down. She looks up without surprise.
"You're late," she says. Not accusatory—just….prepared.
"I was with Justin," I murmur, pushing my hood back. Water dripping onto the floor.
Her gaze flicks to my jacket—and I know she sees it. The faint glow of the pendant. Even through layers, it's noticeable now. Brighter.
She stands slowly. "You're soaked. Go change before you get sick."
There's something in her voice—tight, rehearsed. Like she wants to ask a hundred things but doesn't know where to start.
I nod and move past her without another word. My clothes stick to my skin, and the pendant buzzes low against my ribs. The air feels heavier here now too. Even this house isn't safe from the tension that's begun to unravel everything I thought I knew.
I change. Dry my clothes. Dim lighting. Blanket wrapped tight. But comfort doesn't come.
I sit at my desk and open my laptop. I don't even know what I'm looking for until I start typing:
"Fae crescent pendant meaning."
A few vague myths. Jewelry sellers. Nothing useful.
Next search:
"Fae sigils crescent teardrop."
Then:
"The Court. Fae bloodlines. Lightborn."
Lightborn. The word jolts something in me. Like I've heard it before in a dream I can't fully remember.
There's a link. Old. Barely readable. A thread buried in some forgotten forum titled.
"The Court of the Lightborn: Myths or Warning?"
My cursor hovers over the headline.
Click.
The page is slow to load—text crawling across the screen like it's being stitched together by hand. But what I can read makes my stomach clench.
Mentions of bloodlines. Guardians. Beacons. A pendant—just like mine—described in perfect detail.
But before I can finish the paragraph, the screen blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then the image shatters into static.
My laptop whines, the fan kicking into overdrive. The glow from the screen slickers wildly, casting harsh shadows against the walls. The buzz—the one from my dreams, from the shimmer events—-fills the room like a vibration in my bones.
And then: black.
The screen goes dark,
I try restarting it.
The login screen reappears. Everything looks normal—-until I check the browser.
No tabs.
No history.
No trace of the thread.
Like it was never there.
I stare at my own reflection. My breath catches. For a moment, my eyes….they're glowing. Faint, but unmistakable.
I blink—and it's gone.
The pendant flares hot in my pocket. I clutch it, heart pounding.
Something doesn't want me to know the truth.
I get up, barely aware of the blanket falling to the floor. I cross the room, drawn to the window before I even realize I've noticed.
And there he is.
Under the streetlamp.
The figure.
Cloaked, still, watching.
My breath fogs the glass. I press my fingers to the windowsill, unmoving.
This time, he raises a hand.
Not threatening.
Beckoning.
The pendant flares again—hotter this time. Like a warning. Or a response.
And then, just as quickly as he appeared—-
He's gone.
Like mist burning off in the morning sun.
But the feeling remains.
Not just fear.
Not just questions.
Certainty.
They don't want me to know the truth. But part of me already does.