Chapter 9: Echoes of the Past

Layla didn't stop running until she reached the dorm, her lungs burning and her legs trembling. She fumbled with the key, her vision still blurred with tears, and stumbled into the room, slamming the door behind her. Mira wasn't there—probably at the library or raiding the vending machines—and for once, Layla was grateful for the solitude. She collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow, but the sobs wouldn't come. Instead, a hollow ache settled in her chest, heavy and unrelenting.

The hum in her head had dulled to a faint buzz, as if it, too, was exhausted. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, her mind replaying Julian's words on a loop: "Kael's pack killed your parents." It couldn't be true. It couldn't. But the look on Kael's face—the guilt, the hesitation—had said more than his words ever could.

She sat up, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, and pulled the pendant from under her hoodie. The silver glinted in the dim light, the word Guardian etched into its surface like a promise—or a curse. Rowan had known. She'd hidden the truth, raised Layla as a normal girl, but why? To protect her from Kael's pack? From Julian's coven? From herself?

Layla's fingers tightened around the pendant, the metal warming in her grip. She needed answers, and there was only one place she might find them. She slid off the bed, grabbed her backpack, and stuffed the pendant inside along with a flashlight and her phone. If Rowan had left any clues, they'd be in the old house—the one Layla had inherited but hadn't visited since her grandmother's funeral.

The drive to Rowan's house took twenty minutes, the roads slick with rain and the forest pressing close on either side. Layla's hands gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white, her thoughts a tangled mess. She didn't know what she was looking for—letters, diaries, maybe a hidden room full of secrets—but she had to try. The truth was out there, buried in the past, and she was done waiting for others to decide what she deserved to know.

The house loomed at the end of a gravel driveway, its Victorian frame weathered and dark against the night sky. Layla parked and stepped out, the wind tugging at her hair as she approached the front door. The key was under the mat, just like always, and she let herself in, the familiar creak of the hinges sending a shiver down her spine.

Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust and memories. She flicked on the flashlight, its beam cutting through the gloom, illuminating the cluttered living room—bookshelves crammed with old volumes, a faded rug, and Rowan's favorite armchair, still draped with a crochet blanket. Layla's throat tightened. She hadn't been here in years, hadn't wanted to face the ghosts of her childhood, but now, those ghosts might hold the answers she needed.

She started in the study, rifling through drawers and shelves, finding nothing but bills, recipes, and yellowed newspapers. Frustration gnawed at her, and she moved to the bedroom, pulling open the closet and shoving aside moth-eaten coats. There, tucked behind a stack of shoeboxes, was a small wooden chest, its lid carved with the same crescent moon as her pendant.

Layla's heart skipped. She dragged the chest out, her fingers trembling as she pried it open. Inside were letters—dozens of them, bound with twine—and a leather-bound journal, its pages brittle with age. She untied the letters first, scanning the envelopes. Most were addressed to Rowan, the handwriting elegant and old-fashioned, the postmarks spanning decades.

One caught her eye, the envelope unsealed, the paper crisp as if it had been handled recently. She pulled out the letter, her breath catching at the date—two weeks before Rowan's death. The message was short, written in a hurried scrawl:

R,—

The coven's stirring. They sense her awakening. If she's found, it'll be war. Keep her hidden, for all our sakes.

—D

Layla's blood ran cold. D—Damien? Julian's mentor, the coven elder Kael had warned her about? She shoved the letter back and grabbed the journal, flipping through its pages. Rowan's handwriting filled the margins, detailing pack disputes, coven politics, and the delicate balance she'd maintained as a mediator. But one entry, dated the year Layla was born, made her stop:

The child is here. A girl, healthy, but the mark is already on her. They'll come for her, both sides. I've bound her power with the pendant, but it won't hold forever. Her parents' sacrifice can't be in vain. I'll raise her as human, keep her ignorant. It's the only way.

Layla's hands shook, the journal slipping from her grasp. Bound her power. So Rowan had deliberately hidden her heritage, suppressed her abilities. But why? To protect her, or to control her?

A floorboard creaked behind her, and she spun around, the flashlight beam landing on a familiar figure in the doorway. Kael stood there, his expression unreadable, his gray eyes shadowed.

"You shouldn't be here alone," he said, his voice rough.

Layla's anger flared, hot and immediate. "Why? So you can keep lying to me?"

He winced, stepping into the room. "I didn't lie. I just… didn't know how to tell you."

"Tell me what?" she snapped, rising to her feet. "That your pack murdered my parents? That I'm just a pawn in some ancient feud?"

Kael's jaw tightened. "It's not that simple, Layla. Your parents—they were trying to broker peace, but it backfired. The pack thought they were traitors, and the coven saw them as a threat. It was a mistake, a terrible one, but I wasn't part of it. I was a kid, same as you."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" Her voice cracked, the hurt spilling over. "You knew who I was from the start, didn't you?"

He looked away, his silence damning.

Layla laughed bitterly, wiping her eyes. "Of course you did. And Julian—does he know too?"

"Julian knows enough to use it against you," Kael said, his tone hardening. "He's playing you, Layla. He wants your power for his own ends."

"And you don't?" she shot back. "You want to train me, to control me, just like everyone else."

Kael's eyes flashed, a hint of the wolf beneath the surface. "I want to keep you alive. That's all I've ever wanted."

Layla's chest heaved, the weight of his words pressing down on her. She wanted to believe him—God, she did—but the lies, the secrets, they were too much. "I don't know who to trust anymore," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Kael stepped closer, his hand reaching for hers, but she pulled away. "Then trust yourself," he said quietly. "You're stronger than you think, Layla. You don't need me or Julian to figure this out. But you're not alone, either. Not if you don't want to be."

She stared at him, torn between the urge to push him away and the desperate need for something—someone—to hold onto. Before she could decide, a cold laugh echoed from the hallway, and Julian stepped into the room, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Touching," he said, clapping slowly. "But the girl's right to question you, wolf. After all, your pack's hands are far from clean."

Kael snarled, his body tensing, but Layla held up a hand, her gaze fixed on Julian. "What do you want, Julian? Why are you here?"

Julian's smile was sharp as a blade. "To offer you the truth, free of charge. No strings, no training regimens—just the facts. But I suspect you're not ready to hear them yet."

Layla's stomach twisted. "Try me."

Julian's gaze flicked to Kael, then back to her. "Your parents weren't just casualties of war, Layla. They were sacrifices. Rowan knew it, and she let it happen. Ask yourself why."

With that, he vanished into the shadows, leaving Layla reeling. Kael cursed under his breath, but Layla barely heard him. The journal lay open at her feet, its pages fluttering in the draft, and the pendant burned against her skin. The truth was a maze, and every path led to more questions, more pain.

But she wouldn't stop now. She couldn't. Whatever Rowan had hidden, whatever lay ahead, she'd face it—on her terms.