Page 3 of A Sunwoven Ascent

Tonight marked the third night in a row she’d been woken by nightmares that were not hers. She wished Alaric would speak of them. Perhaps in the morning she could gently draw the truth from him. Talking might help, if only a little. But whenever it surfaced, he only brushed it aside with a tight smile and some vague mention of stress or lingering trauma.

Fair enough. She knew all too well what nightmares could do. Even with Vaelora gone and her brother safe, they still came, but hers included visions of Kaldrek, his eyes turning black, his hands tightening around her throat until everything faded. As though his mother’s blood magic had seeped into him, warping him into one of the creatures that had killed her father.

If she couldn’t tell Kaldrek about her own night terrors, then perhaps she wasn’t the right person for Alaric to confide in after all. They were just dreams.

Alaric’s cries rose sharply, echoing off the rock walls, and sweat slicked his brow despite the biting cold.

“Alaric—wake up!” Evelyne shook him more forcefully, and finally, his eyes snapped open, wide with fear. “It was another nightmare. You’re safe. We all are.”

He didn’t answer, just nodded once, then again, over and over, until his ragged breathing began to ease and he exhaled a long, shaky breath.

“You will talk to me about this in the morning,” she said firmly, though her hands were gentle as she pulled a cloth from a nearby bag and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. She may have been a hypocrite, but she couldn’t stand to see her friend like this.

Evelyne didn’t let herself fall back asleep until his eyes had finally closed again and his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. She could have sworn the blue of his eyes looked darker, but it was probably just the night’s shadow.

Chapter 2

The first few nights after the attack, the Noskari were nowhere to be found in the northern lands. It was like they had fled from Nerathar without wanting to ever look back. At least that gave everyone time to breathe after the hell they’d endured. Because that was what it had been. Hell. The absolute worst night of Cillian’s life.

It was the night he learned his father was dead, and that the woman who had twisted him into loving her was to blame. It was the night he took a life—not just any life, but that of one of Kaldrek’s packmates, Nathan’s brother, and Reyna’s mate. Cillian had since learned that such a bond ran deeper than love, woven through soul and heart alike. And he had shattered it.

The guilt sat heavy, and he knew it wouldn’t lift easily. If ever. Because he had not just murdered an innocent male, but nearly killed Evelyne too—his sister, his closest friend, his own blood. His hands had come dangerously close to ending her life, and still… she forgave him. She insisted it wasn’t truly him. Maybe she was right, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should have fought harder before it all slipped beyond his control.

And of all nights—it had been his birthday.

He would never say that aloud. Evelyne loved that day too much. Every summer, their father kept the gathering small, just the way Cillian preferred it, and Evelyne would take it upon herself to bake the cake. She was never very good at it and the cooks always found a way to fix it before it reached the table. But none of that mattered to him. What stayed with him was the way she tried.

There had only been one other year without a celebration: the year the darkness first crept into his mind. Now he understood that had been Vaelora’s first attempt to corrupt him, though he had not yet been ready to be tempted by her beauty and deceit. And this year? His birthday had become something far darker.

Now they made the long journey back to Caltheris, where he would face his mother and sister and deliver the terrible news of his father. With each passing day, his worry for Aurelia deepened. What if she had shifted too? He knew the pain of it all too well—the relentless snapping of bone, the body reshaping into something unfamiliar. The thought of Aurelia, so poised and graceful, made for gowns and piano keys and quiet tea gatherings, enduring that kind of transformation tightened his chest. Though she was older, he could not imagine her surviving it without breaking. It pained him to watch Evelyne endure it too, even knowing how strong she was, how much stronger she’d become during her relentless search to find him.

His sister. She had found him… and saved him. And for that, he would be forever grateful. But this life was made for her. The wildness, the freedom to run untethered beneath the open sky. It suited Evelyne in a way that courtship and charming noble suitors never had. This was who she was at her core. She embraced the transformation, found power and beauty in becoming something more.

But he couldn’t and hadn’t since the first time. Since the prophecy had ripped through his body and dragged the wolf out of him like a blade pulled from flesh. There had been no wonder in it, only blood and memory. Because Vaelora had turned his strength into a tool for killing, and now the idea of shifting again felt like reopening a wound with unwashed hands.

Yet it was not only what he had endured that restrained him. It was what he now longed for.

The light within him did not waver; it pressed outward, aching to ignite, to fill every part of him until there was nothing left untouched. And at first, it was beautiful, like joy given form, like a voice long silenced finally set free. But he had no control over it, no understanding of how to use it without unleashing it entirely. It felt glorious—until it didn’t. Until the warmth sharpened into something harsher, something that burned beneath his skin, hotter even than the effort it once took to resist the darkness in his mind. And that terrified him. He would not give either force room again. So he remained as he was: human, grounded, Cillian. And as long as he held himself steady, he would not let himself change.

So far, it was working, keeping his natural urge to shift under control. Holden had taken a particular interest in teaching him how to ease his emotions, control his heightened senses, and handle everything that came with the life of a wolf. For someone who seemed so arrogant and vain, Holden was actually… kind. Perhaps he was simply a family man. Cillian had seen how fiercely Holden protected his sister and Evelyne, which he suspected was now because she was the alpha’s mate. Holden got on his nerves at times, but it was better than getting torn apart by the male.

The bitter wind gnawed at his stubbled face as he walked with the Ironwolf and Glaciermaw packs, but he hardly felt it. His mind was elsewhere, fixed on his mother. Was she safe? Had anyone hurt her? Had she known all along what their father carried in his blood, the curse or the gift of the wolf? He didn’t know if word had reached Caltheris yet, or if whispers of their disappearance had started to spread.

Unlikely. His mother excelled at concealing her children’s… inconveniences. But were his father’s men still searching for them? How many of them had Vaelora murdered? There were too many questions and no time to pursue them. Not with the Noskari still out there. The journey home would take weeks, perhaps months, depending on how the blood-sucking demons chose to move and how unforgiving the climate became.

Since Vaelora’s death, the Noskari had scarcely crossed their path, until now. The first encounter had been brief, shadows watching from the edges rather than hunters in pursuit. But the second lingered with him. It hadn’t felt like a hunt, or a mission. It felt accidental, as though they had wandered into the group without intent. Yet when they struck, it was with urgency. They fed quickly, almost frantically, before retreating into darkness. And in that moment, Cillian realized the truth—they were not hunting to kill. They were surviving, gathering what little strength they could for something yet to come. Something far greater.

Kaldrek, Holden, and a few of Obren’s men had brought down four of them while moving ahead of the group, the rest scattering into the shadows. Kaldrek must have sensed them before they could do real damage, but not quickly enough. One had already sunk its fangs into a Glaciermaw male, draining him with terrifying speed. The wolf hadn’t even managed a scream. He simply stood there, dazed and unmoving, until Kaldrek ended it. Cillian had watched as the alpha tore the creature’s head from its gray-skinned shoulders without hesitation.

The image clung to him, refusing to fade, and Cillian could not silence the thought—what if the man within that creature was not entirely gone? What if he was still there, still fighting… just as Cillian once had? The idea sent a cold shiver through him.

His hand lifted to his neck, brushing over the scar where Vaelora’s sigil had once been carved into his skin, now a mark of the moment he ceased to be who he once was. He remembered the pain too well, the way it burned each time he tried to push back against the darkness. Too much remained unresolved, too many wounds left open.

He could only hope that one day, he might reclaim what had been lost.

***

Damn it. The dream again. The same one where he got close to Heidara, but this time, it had felt so real Alaric struggled to break free, even with Evelyne’s voice cutting through the haze, calling his name. And this time, he’d kissed her. Not just a fleeting brush of lips, but an intimate, lingering kiss, full of longing that clung to him long after waking. In his real mind—the part still truly his, not the shadowed one that moved and spoke without his will. At least the dreams still started as his own. They always did… until the darkness crept in, twisting them into nightmares. And lately, they were worsening, like the thing inside him wanted to remind him he was no longer in control.