In the weeks after returning to her hometown, Lucien moved like a shadow—present, but never quite belonging. The streets felt smaller than she remembered. The people older. The town, quieter. But her soul… louder.
She didn't speak much of where she'd been.
Instead, she smiled politely, offered small talk, helped at the market, and treated the sick with herbs no one could name. The townspeople whispered.
"She's changed."
"She walks like someone who's seen death."
"She never blinks."
But they liked her. Trusted her, even. Because behind her eyes was warmth. Behind her silence, a gentle strength.
Lucien repaired homes, comforted children, warded off bad harvests with prayers that were never really just prayers. But never once did she use her power openly. She couldn't. The shaman's warning echoed in her chest like a heartbeat:
Not everyone who fears the dark will thank the one who holds the light.
So she stayed hidden. Her rituals—small and subtle. Her spells—cloaked as folk remedies. Her book—sealed in cloth and buried beneath a floorboard in her room, marked only with a single, carved symbol: ☽
Still, the power inside it was never truly silent.
⸻
The first whisper came at midnight.
She was dreaming—or thought she was. A voice, deep and female, brushed her thoughts like a breeze slipping through a crack in the wall.
"Lucien… it's time."
She bolted upright. The room was cold. The candle she left burning had gone out.
She knelt beside the floorboard, her fingers hesitating over the carved crescent.
When she lifted the book, its cover felt warm. And heavy. Like it knew something she didn't.
She opened it.
And for the first time, the pages were not empty.
Symbols moved. Languages long dead unfolded before her eyes. Drawings she hadn't seen before—a shadow with no face, a man with many, a woman standing in a circle of fire—flickered to life beneath her touch.
The words glowed.
"The seal is weakening."
Lucien swallowed hard.
Was this what the shaman meant? Was this the moment she had been prepared for?
She didn't know. Not yet.
But she felt it—down in her bones. A storm was coming.
And she was the only one holding the umbrella.