We didn't speak much on the way to the mountains.
The path was treacherous—steep ridges, jagged trails, and rogue markers carved into the rocks like warnings. But I remembered it. Every twist. Every shadow.
Because I ran this path once before.
Years ago.
When I left the man who gave me my name.
Rowan stirred weakly in the sling across my chest, wrapped in furs and held close to my heartbeat. His fever hadn't broken. His skin still shimmered in pulses, light crawling beneath his veins like moonlit blood.
Jace walked beside me, eyes scanning the terrain, jaw clenched with unspoken tension.
"You're sure your father's still here?" he asked.
I nodded. "He doesn't run. He waits."
The cave mouth appeared just after dusk—half-covered in vines, a natural arch carved into the cliffside. It pulsed with old energy. Magic.
Jace sniffed the air. "Wolf."
I stepped forward, brushing the vines aside.
A deep voice echoed from within.
"I told you not to return, Quinn."
I froze.
Then stepped into the cave.
The interior was wide, cavernous, lit by a central fire pit that burned low and blue. Herbs hung from the ceiling. Sigils were etched into the stone floor, some of them familiar, others lost to time.
And at the center sat Thorne Vale.
My father.
Still broad-shouldered despite his age. Silver streaks in his dark beard. Eyes the same piercing gray as mine, but colder. Harder.
"You brought him," he said flatly, nodding at Jace. "How poetic."
"We didn't come for poetry," I said. "We came for help."
He stood slowly, towering as he approached.
Then his gaze dropped to Rowan.
And something inside him shifted.
"…Yours?"
I nodded.
"And his?" he asked, glancing at Jace.
"Yes."
He exhaled slowly. "Then I suppose we're already out of time."
We sat by the fire while Rowan rested on a thick fur pelt nearby, his breathing shallow. My father moved around us with a kind of quiet efficiency, grinding herbs, murmuring spells under his breath.
"You're glowing," he said to me without turning. "The bond's reactivating."
"It never died."
"It was suppressed," he corrected. "But not severed. That's rare."
He paused, then looked at Jace.
"Do you remember marking my son?"
Jace stiffened. "Only in pieces."
My father's lip curled. "Typical Thorn arrogance. Take what you want, forget what doesn't suit you."
I stood. "That's not fair."
"No," he said. "But it's true."
"I need to know," I said. "Can you stop what's happening to Rowan?"
He turned slowly.
"No."
My chest tightened.
"But I can teach you how to help him survive it."
I stepped forward. "Tell me what to do."
"It won't be easy," he said. "And it won't be safe."
"I don't care."
He eyed Jace. "What about him?"
"I'll do whatever it takes," Jace said.
My father grunted. "Even bleed for the child you almost forgot?"
"Especially for him," Jace growled.
Something passed between them. Not forgiveness. Not understanding.
But respect.
Barely.
We began the ritual at moonrise.
My father traced old symbols into the earth using crushed bone and ash. He placed Rowan at the center, surrounded by binding runes and lunar amplifiers.
"This will call the primal instincts to the surface," he said. "Force them to reveal themselves. But it could also… break him."
I swallowed. "We don't have a choice."
He handed me a blade. "You'll need to give your blood. From the palm. The old way."
I nodded.
Cut.
Let it drip.
The symbols flared.
Rowan arched.
He screamed.
And the cave trembled.
His eyes snapped open—pure black.
The fire turned blue.
Wind tore through the cavern though there was no opening.
Jace held me back as Rowan rose slowly, his body no longer a child's but something in between—shifting between pup and wolf, light and shadow.
My father stepped forward.
"Rowan Vale. Son of two bloodlines. Awakened child of the Echo."
Rowan's voice echoed—deeper, older, layered.
"Who calls me from my sleep?"
"I am Thorne Vale," he said. "Blood of your line. Guardian of instinct. I seek your truth."
Rowan's eyes flashed.
Then, he said:
"The truth was stolen. Sealed beneath fire. Hidden in bone."
The runes cracked.
My father paled.
"He's not just a child," he whispered. "He's a vessel."
"A what?" I asked.
He turned to me, eyes wide. "He's carrying another memory inside him. One that's not his own."
Jace stepped forward. "You mean like… possession?"
"No," my father said grimly. "Inheritance. Someone placed an ancestral soul inside him. Probably from the Old Line."
"Can you remove it?"
"I can try."
Rowan screamed again.
The earth split beneath the altar.
And something stepped through.