Page 117 of Claiming Pretty

I was left reeling.

I had no idea what he meant by his parting words—a riddle—echoing in my mind.

“Chase the raven with the Gardener’s gift, across the dark moors to where the winter sun stands still.”

AVA

The tension in our dorm apartment was suffocating. Ciaran paced the living room like a restless predator, his agitation palpable. His boots scuffed against the floorboards, back and forth, back and forth, until I thought I might scream just to make it stop.

I didn’t blame him—not really.

We had twenty-four hours to decipher the High Lord’s riddle, twenty-four hours to prove he was worthy of initiation.

Twenty-four hours or our chance to infiltrate the Sochai was gone.

And we were running out of time.

“What do they want from me?” Ciaran growled, his voice cracking under the weight of his frustration. “What kind of sick test is this?”

I clenched my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palms as I tried to steady myself.

“What did the riddle say again?” I asked, trying to sound calm, as if my own heart wasn’t hammering in my chest.

He stopped pacing, his eyes locking on mine like a lifeline. Then, with a deep breath, he recited it.

“Chase the raven with the Gardener’s gift, across the dark moors to where the winter sun stands still.”

The words sent a chill skittering down my spine. They were cryptic, almost poetic, but the meaning eluded me.

“Twenty-four hours,” Ty muttered from the couch, his voice low and measured. “If we don’t figure this out, they’ll—”

He cut himself off, shaking his head, but I knew what he meant.

The Sochai didn’t forgive failure.

“They’ll kill me,” Ciaran finished bluntly, his fists clenching at his sides. “Or worse.”

The thought of what “worse” might mean sent nausea roiling through my stomach, but I pushed it down.

“It’s another test,” I said, trying to inject some steadiness into my voice. “They want to see if you’re really one of them—if your father groomed you well enough to understand their twisted codes.”

“Then let’s start where our father left off,” Ty said, standing with a quiet determination that contrasted sharply with Ciaran’s fraying edges.

He returned with the chest of journals and notes we’d salvaged from the professor’s secret lab, dumping them onto the table.

I stared at the messy pile, dread curling in my chest. Those journals held horrors, memories I’d tried desperately to lock away.

Ciaran must have seen the hesitation in my eyes as I reached for the closest journal because he caught my hand.

“You don’t have to read them. Ty and I can handle it. But,” he added softly, the edge in his voice gone for the moment, “it’s your choice.”

For a moment, his vulnerability softened the edges of my fear. A flicker of something new in his tone made my chest tighten—was he changing, for me?

I offered him a small, reassuring smile. “I can do it. I can help.”

His grip on my hand tightened briefly before he let go, a small gesture of trust that made my chest ache.

I perched on the edge of the couch, a thick journal in my lap, while Ty sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping methodically through another.

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