Page 71 of Shadows of Change

Aspen nods. "And if I had to bet, I'd say Thorne or Darian had something to do with it. Whatever was on those pages, it was important enough to hide. If they’ve been studying this for years, they might already know more than we realize. We’re playing catch-up."

The necklace at my throat flares hot, sending a wave of searing warmth through my chest. My shadows respond instantly, surging upward like a living tide, their movements fluid yet deliberate. They spiral and weave through the air, formingintricate patterns that pulse with energy, each twist and ripple resonating with the heavy hum of magic that thickens the room. Patterns form in the air—wings, stars, and something else—something that feels important but stays just out of reach. The energy makes my skin tingle, the air thick with potential.

"Kaia?" Aspen asks cautiously, clearly sensing the shift in the room even if he can't see it. "Your necklace is glowing."

"You're doing that thing again," Torric adds, stepping closer. "Where the air gets all weird."

"It's not me," I whisper. "It's them."

My shadows ripple and twist, their movements deliberate and purposeful. Finn stands, his usual humor replaced by a rare seriousness. "Looks like they're trying to tell us something now."

Bob detaches from the rest and moves toward the center of the room. The others follow, forming a swirling mass that grows brighter as the necklace pulses. The light and shadows merge, creating a shape so vivid it takes my breath away.

Wings. Starlit and massive, filling the room with their ethereal glow. A gasp escapes me, unbidden, as the sheer power of the sight presses against my chest. Finn mutters, "Now that's a statement," while Malrik watches in silent awe, his usual composure faltering for just a moment.

"That's what I saw in my dreams," I say, my voice trembling. "But now... it feels different. Like they're mine, but not."

A strange mix of awe and fear rushes through me. They feel familiar, like a long-lost memory, but there’s a weight to them—a power that doesn’t just belong to me. It’s overwhelming, but also... right. Like they’ve always been there, waiting for me to see them.

"They're not just yours," Malrik says, stepping closer. "They're part of something bigger."

The wings shift, their patterns changing until they resemble constellations. Aspen moves closer. "The texts mentioned artifacts of power responding to their wielders. But they’re supposed to be long gone."

"Clearly not," Finn says, gesturing at the wings. "And I’m guessing that’s why everyone’s so interested in Kaia."

"Good luck to them," Torric mutters, his hand finding my shoulder. "She’s got us now."

The room falls silent again as the wings dissolve into faint starlight, leaving behind an almost tangible stillness. My shadows return to their usual restless state, but something feels different. They’re not just mine anymore—they’re something more.

"We need to be ready," Malrik says quietly. "Whatever's coming, it's bigger than Thorne. Someone doesn’t want Kaia to discover what she really is."

"Let them try," Torric says with a sharp grin. "We’ll be ready."

I clutch the necklace, its steady warmth grounding me as the room buzzes with quiet determination. Whatever’s coming, I’ll be ready. And for the first time, I know I won’t face it alone.

46. Finn

The corridors of the academy stretch ahead, dimly lit and eerily quiet for this hour. The faint drip of water echoes somewhere unseen, and the air carries a chill that raises goosebumps along my arms. My footsteps echo against the stone floor, a rhythm that usually settles my nerves but tonight only amplifies them.

"This is a terrible idea," I mutter, even as I keep moving. "Why did I let Malrik talk me into this?" The truth is, I hate feeling useless. Kaia's shadows, the wings, the necklace—it's all connected to something bigger, something I can't joke away. I've spent too long being the guy who lightens the mood with a well-timed quip, safe behind my humor. But when Kaia looks at me, she sees past the wisecracks. Like she's glimpsing someone worth counting on. And that terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.

I pause at an intersection, trying to remember Malrik's hastily sketched map. The restricted section should be just ahead. As I turn the corner, a flicker of movement catches my eye—just a tapestry stirring in a draft, but enough to make my heart jump.

The door to the restricted section looms ahead, its heavy iron handle gleaming faintly. "Don't think about the wards," I tell myself. "They're probably deactivated at this hour. Probably."

Taking a deep breath, I push the door open. The air inside carries the scent of old parchment and dust. Shelves stretch toward the high ceiling, crammed with books that practically vibrate with forbidden knowledge. Their spines shimmer faintly, some embossed with symbols that seem to shift when viewed too long.

I scan the shelves quickly, searching for anything related to stellar magic or artifacts of power. Most titles are written in languages I can't read, their faded lettering making me squint. Then I spot it—a thin, leather-bound volume tucked between larger tomes. Its cover bears no title, only a faint, embossed design that looks like a constellation.

I run my fingers over the design, feeling the grooves warm under my touch, almost alive. The air grows heavy with possibility. I pull the book free, its pages crackling as I open it. Diagrams of constellations fill the first few pages, accompanied by notes in a spidery hand. One sketch catches my eye—a swirling cluster of stars arranged in the shape of a phoenix, its wings outstretched. Beneath it, the notes describe the "Rebirth Constellation," linked to cycles of destruction and renewal, though the text grows fragmented, hinting at something intentionally erased.

My heart jumps when I spot a passage describing "living constellations" and their connection to wielders of ancient power. But before I can read further, footsteps echo down the corridor outside. I clutch the book to my chest, scanning for cover. The shelves are too narrow, the tables too exposed. Finally, I spot a shadowy alcove near the far wall and dart toward it.

A figure steps inside—Professor Thorne, his sharp features made sharper by the dim light. He moves with the precision of someone who knows exactly where they're going, selecting a book from a shelf near the center of the room. Its dark cover bears an intricate silver design.

"Not yet," he mutters, barely audible. "But soon."

I press deeper into the shadows as he turns, his gaze sweeping the room one last time before departing. The door closes with a soft click that seems to echo in my bones.

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