CHAPTER 102: WHAT IF THEY ARE ONE?

The farther we went from the festival square, the thinner the sounds of laughter became. The warm glow of lanterns dimmed behind us, swallowed by the crooked archways and shadow-choked paths.

The stone beneath my boots grew damp, slick with moss and mud, and the scattered footsteps of those who had passed before us marked the alley floor in uneven tracks.

The air changed too. Heavier. Staler.

And then—something sharp cut through the night.

I froze. My breath caught when my wolf stirred, ears pricked to the faint, copper-tinged note. The scent of blood.

It was faint at first, brushed thin by the wind, but unmistakable. Each step farther drew it clearer, like walking into a painted scene that darkened with every stroke.

But then... something else hit me.

My pulse stuttered when I caught another scent beneath the blood. Familiar. Distinct. Jeron’s scent!

I stiffened, my nails biting into my palms. I had been with him minutes ago, laughing, waving goodbye with a muffin. That scent still clung faintly to my memory—and here it was, ahead of me, heavier, sharper, mingled with the blood.

My stomach twisted. No. Surely not.

Thoughts tumbled in a wild rush. Had something happened to him? Was he the one bleeding here in the dark after being attacked by someone? What happened? Was there a fight? He had seemed kind. Harmless. A man with gentle eyes and music in his hands, not the type to be caught in something violent. He wasn’t supposed to be—

"You heartbeat is like a drum in my ears."

I startled, snapping my gaze to Rion. His voice was low, but against the silence surrounding us, it seemed to echo.

"Are you that worried something happened to your friend?" His silver-lit eyes flickered toward me, sharp, unreadable. "You barely know the man."

My brows furrowed. I couldn’t even call Jeron my friend, but how couldn’t any decent person be worried in this situation?

"I didn’t realize a few minutes together was enough to stir such devotion," he murmured, voice laced with quiet amusement. "Should I be concerned you grow this attached so easily, little wolf?"

I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to rise to it, though my chest burned. He was teasing me—he always did. Yet there was something subtle in it tonight, a tension I couldn’t name. His words brushed a little too close to something else, though I couldn’t put a name to it.

When he stopped abruptly, I did too.

We stood before a building crouched in the dark, isolated at the edge of the alley. Its roof sagged, beams bent inward like broken ribs. Windows gaped wide without glass, black hollows that watched like dead eyes. The door hung crooked on its hinges, as if it had been forced open too many times.

An ominous weight pressed against my chest.

Leika grumbled within me.

The scent here was stronger. Much stronger. Blood. Jeron. Both tangled thick in the air.

My nose wrinkled, my stomach knotting tighter. I wanted to turn away, but my feet carried me forward when Rion pushed the warped door. It creaked, groaning, and to my surprise—it swung open easily. Unlocked.

And then my heart stuttered to a stop.

"Jeron!"

He lay on the floor. His shirt was torn and bloodied, his body twisted awkwardly, one arm flung at an angle that made my throat tighten. His eyes were closed. His chest barely moved.

Shock seized me, stealing air from my lungs. I staggered forward.

"I’m calling someone over," Rion said, his voice flat, as though the scene before us was nothing more than an inconvenience. "He’s still breathing. Stay with him. I’ll check the area."

Before I could respond, the shadows swallowed him whole. He dissolved into them, gone in a blink.

"Rion—" But I was speaking to emptiness.

My knees hit the cold floor as I knelt beside Jeron. My hands hovered, trembling. I didn’t know where to touch him, how to help without making it worse. His blood seeped into the dirt, the metallic scent thick and suffocating.

The images of my father, mother, Stella, bloodied in front of me came rushing back.

"Jeron," I whispered, my voice breaking. "How..."

He didn’t stir.

Fear clawed at me. My hands shook so violently I had to curl them into fists against my thighs. My wolf whined deep inside, restless, helpless. I had no healer’s knowledge, no skill with wounds. All I had was the terror that I was too late.

I was always helpless when people around me got hurt.

The sound of boots cut through my haze.

"Vivien!"

Ares appeared first, tall and grim, his shadow blotting out the pale shaft of moonlight. He crouched, checked Jeron’s body before scooping him into his arms as if he weighed nothing, his broad shoulders shifting with the effort.

Behind him, Raye swept in, her sharp eyes cutting over me. She dropped to my side, her hand brushing my arm in a firm, grounding touch.

"Breathe," she said softly, though her tone carried the steel of command. "He’s still alive. We’ll get him out."

My throat worked as I nodded, though tears burned behind my eyes.

"Rion and Diaval are scouring the area," she added, her gaze flicking toward the shadows that licked along the building’s edges. "Whoever did this won’t slip far."

I stumbled to my feet, following as they carried Jeron toward the door. My legs felt heavy, as though the ground itself wanted to keep me in that place.

But just as we stepped past the threshold, a sound struck me.

Music.

Strings plucked in a soft, haunting line, weaving through my chest. Just like the music I heard from Jeron’s harp.

I froze, my eyes darting. The air was thick with silence, broken only by Jeron’s faint breathing and the creak of Ares’s boots.

"Did you hear that?" I asked sharply, turning to Raye.

Her brows drew together. "Hear what?"

"The music—" I stopped when I saw her shake her head.

"What music?" She asked, confused. "There’s nothing, Vivien."

She moved forward, guiding me with her hand at my elbow, but I lingered.

The sound still clung to me, thin and ghostlike, tugging at a memory I couldn’t dismiss. And then, as we passed the broken doorframe, realization struck like lightning.

The harp.

One of the keys Rion had shown me in that worn, cryptic book... was a harp. Not Jeron’s harp. A different kind.

But what if they are one?