SOMEWHERE IN ELARIS – XAREN'S POV
The air was cold, but the wind that blew through the sprawling meadows of Elaris carried a strange warmth like a memory trying to comfort the present. Above, the green-tinged sky shimmered beneath a sun that burned with a soft-er, golden intensity. It bathed the land in a glow that seemed to dance along the leaves of the ancient talking trees and glisten off the glassy surface of the Float-ing Lakes.
Overhead, wings sliced through the air, graceful and fierce. Birds, radiant with crystal-feathered plumage, circled in synchronized spirals. Among them flew Amarons born with the gift of flight, their wings glinting with bioluminescent patterns unique to their bloodlines. Higher still, Firegons soared like living comets, their half-dragon, half-human forms casting long shadows as they ex-haled short bursts of flame in celebration. The crowd below erupted in cheers every time a Firegon performed an aerial somersault or conjured fire into beau-tiful, shifting sigils that lingered in the air.
It was the day they had all been waiting for: the Grand Festival of Ascension.
In Elaris, the Festival marked a sacred convergence of magic, ancestry, and power. A new Triad had been appointed, this time, a Firegon named Xyral, chosen for his mastery in elemental forges. The announcement had rippled across the five Realms, summoning shifters, spellcasters, clairvoyants, and all creatures bound to the realm's ancient order.
The streets had transformed into an explosion of color and song. Floating lan-terns carried glowing incantations, and stalls brimmed with enchanted delica-cies, like stardust cakes that shimmered with every bite, and ever-warm cider brewed with lullaby herbs. Amarons of all kinds adorned themselves in cere-monial robes and armor, each garment tailored to reflect the wearer's origin, wings, tails, sXarenes, or otherwise.
Xaren walked among them.
He didn't belong, not truly. His feet sank slightly into the silver-dusted cobble-stones, unlike the others who glided with familiarity. No wings. No sXarenes. No shift in form. He bore no elemental mark nor magiXaren scent. And yet, he walked head high, cloak drawn tight as if the crowd didn't feel the strangeness of his presence.
They did.
Eyes followed him, discreet but sharp, not out of hatred but out of knowing. They knew who he was.
Not shaped by magic.
A doubleganger. There are others like him. But, he isn't just a doubleganger, he's an echo of someone else.
Of someone from the other world.
Of Steve Howard.
"Xaren!" a voice cut through the revelry. Familiar. Bright. Laced with the same mischief it always carried.
He didn't need to turn. He would recognize that voice anywhere.
Alyssa.
He turned just as she burst from the crowd, her silver-laced braid bouncing be-hind her, her golden werewolf eyes wide with delight. She wore a half-shifted form, humanoid, but with soft fur lining her arms and elongated canines peek-ing through her grin. Her robe was of a deep midnight blue, stitched with pro-tective runes and the emblem of her lineage: a crescent moon cupped in a claw.
Without waiting, she pulled him into a hug, the scent of pine and fresh rain clinging to her cloak.
"Where in the Shadow's Wake have you been?" she asked, half-laughing, half-accusing.
Xaren returned the embrace awkwardly. "Here and there," he muttered.
"Ryker said he saw you at Shadowbrook Lake… with the Seer," she said, stepping back, her eyes scanning him with quiet curiosity. "That was, what, four moons ago? During his late night swims."
Ryker is Alyssa's cousin, a Waterborn.
Xaren's breath caught, just slightly. Ryker. Always nosy. Always watching.
"He must be mistaken," Xaren replied, forcing a casual shrug. "Why would I be with the Seer at that hour?"
Alyssa tilted her head. "You tell me."
Her tone was light, but he felt the thread of warning beneath it. She wasn't just asking. She was checking.
Whatever you're up to, don't break any rules, her voice said without saying.
"I won't," Xaren promised, too quickly. "You know me."
Alyssa narrowed her eyes but let it go. "You're a terrible liar, Xaren."
She smirked, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Just... be careful. The Triads are on edge. There's talk of something stirring beneath the Balance."
Xaren nodded, his gaze drifting toward the Sky Pillars where the Triads would soon address the crowd. Firegons circled the topmost spire, trailing embers like streamers in the wind. All this glory. All this magic. All this celebration…
And none of it for him.
"I'll let you know if I need help," he added, quieter now.
Alyssa reached out, squeezing his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. Her presence left behind a whisper of warmth in the cold. But it wasn't enough to thaw the doubt forming ice in his chest.
The celebration roared on, music, magic, laughter.
But in the shadow of the festival, Xaren watched.
And wondered.
Who gave the order to kill Darren Hill?
And what if they were watching him now?
*****
BESS' POV
The moment the judge gaveled for a recess, the tension in my shoulders didn't dissolve, it shifted. Hardened. Like concrete setting under my skin.
I walked out of the courtroom with the same tight-lipped composure I'd worn when I walked in. It was my armor. But inside, everything was spinning.
I had delivered my opening statement. Carefully rehearsed, measured, firm. I'd spoken to the jury with conviction, casting doubt on the footage, asking the right questions. But that footage, the lookalike version of Steve caught just be-fore Darren Hill's death still clung to the back of my mind like static.
I didn't dare look at Steve until we were out of sight.
When I finally met his eyes in the hallway, he looked lost. He didn't thank me. He didn't need to. I wasn't doing this for gratitude. I was doing it because something in my gut refused to let go of the truth I hadn't yet reached.
"Get some rest," I told him quietly.
I stepped outside the courthouse, the spring air unusually sharp against my cheeks. The city moved around me. Car horns, footsteps, clipped conversa-tions, the crackle of a food vendor's grill nearby, but it all felt... distant. Like I was underwater.
My phone buzzed in my hand. I looked down.
Mum: "Sweetheart, praying for you. I know you'll do your best. That's all you ever need to do. Love you always."
I swallowed hard. My mother didn't say a lot, but when she did, it stuck. Her faith in me wasn't loud, it was rooted, like an old oak refusing to fall.
I leaned against a bench and texted back a simple heart emoji. Anything more, and I'd probably cry.
Then another message came through.
Jeremy: "How'd it go?"
I typed, erased, typed again. Finally settled on: "Tense. But I got through it. Ju-ry's listening, I think."
He replied almost instantly. "That's because you're brilliant. Trust your gut, Bess. You always knew how to read people."
I smiled, for real this time. Between my mother's quiet prayers and Jeremy's fierce belief in me, maybe I could find a way through this. I wasn't alone. Not really.
Still… something gnawed at me. Something I couldn't name yet.
Two weeks ago, I had found that strange flickering mark outside my apartment door. It had pulsed like it was alive, faint, ethereal, unlike anything I'd seen before. It vanished before I could make sense of it, but it left a residue in my thoughts, like a phantom bruise.
And since then, I'd felt… watched.
Not in a paranoid way. Not by Steve, or the press, or anyone visible. It was different. Subtle. Like the air near my skin sometimes buzzed too sharply. Like my dreams bent in directions I couldn't explain. Like someone or something was one step ahead of me.
What if that symbol wasn't just a warning?
What if it was an answer I didn't yet understand?
I gathered myself, pulling my coat tighter around me. My heels clicked against the sidewalk as I made my way back to APEX. I needed to review Darren Hill's financial records again. Look deeper into the strange inconsistencies around the time of his death.
If Steve didn't kill him, and I was becoming more convinced he didn't, then the real killer had gone to a lot of trouble to make him look guilty.
That kind of manipulation didn't come cheap.
Or without purpose.
I reached for my notepad as I walked, flipping back to my bullet list of strange leads. One thing caught my eye again: David Howard – Untraceable assets. Former affiliations unknown.
Steve's father.
Every thread kept looping back to him.
And now, deep down, I was beginning to believe that this case wasn't just about murder.
It was about something much older.
And far more dangerous.