The moonflowers

Kelly Thompson's POV

The moonflowers were a mistake.

I planted them where the cabin once stood, their silver petals unfolding under the bruised twilight. Kael warned me—*roots remember*—but I buried the seeds anyway, fingers raw from digging. Now they pulse like tiny hearts, their rhythm syncing with the scar where my storm used to live. A hollow ache, phantom lightning.

Eden visits at dawn, his footsteps too quiet for a boy raised in a pack. The Crown’s scar curls around his throat, violet and dormant, but his eyes are older. He brings wolfberry tea, the scent sharpening memories of campfires and his laughter, unburdened.

“Jason’s rallying the eastern clans,” he says, avoiding my gaze. “They’re saying the Veil’s thinning again. That the Stormrender’s breath is cracking the sky.”

I sip the tea. It tastes of nothing. “You didn’t come here to talk about Jason.”