Page 6 of Full Moon
Chapter 3
Feray
Now that Khalis free from his old skin, I look back toward the old farmhouse.
"Do you want to go back? Maybe look for anything else you can salvage?" Torben offers as Diaval walks up.
I keep staring in the direction I know the house is in. "I do, but I know we need to think about heading toward Dunnum." My fingers find the edge of my shirt, and I twist the hem.
"Khal is almost dry, so if you can wait a few more moments, I would feel better if you took him and Easton with you." Diaval looks back toward the fire pit where Khal is coiled up.
"I'll wait for him. Especially since we don't know what we may find." I can only hope Fi is safe wherever she is. As far as I can figure out on my own, I'm the focus of the attacks.
"Thank you, my eternal. You've made me very happy." Diaval smiles, then hands me a bag of jerky and a bottle of water. I look at him puzzled, then over at Torben. Now he's shoving bottles of water at me too.
Shaking my head, I move toward the fire and look Khal over. The sheen his scales had earlier is gone, and the dull rough appearance has returned. "Almost done." I smile as he turns his head to face me.
Slowly, I walk around his body, examining his scales. He's almost completely dry. Khal moves his coils, exposing the damp section to the fire. Thirty minutes later, lunch over, we finally depart on our salvage mission. I sling a backpack over my shoulder as we follow Khal into the woods.
As we venture through the dense woods, Khal shifts to his basilisk form to ensure our safety. His sleek obsidian scales shimmer in the faint light filtering through the canopy, his sinuous body gliding effortlessly over the forest floor—a silent guardian cloaked in shadows.
Around us, the trees stand like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches casting ominous shadows upon the ground below. The abandoned cemetery looms ahead, a dark reminder of the past, its crumbling headstones bearing silent witness to the secrets buried within.
Beside me, Easton's grip tightens on my hand. His gaze is soft as he presses his lips to my temple. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, his voice a whisper against the forest's eerie silence.
I exhale slowly. "I want to see if there are any photo albums, anything that tells me about the family I come from." As we cross the boundary line marking the edge of what should be my parents' farm, a sense of unease settles over me. The low slate wall, weathered and worn with time, stands as a silent sentinel guarding the secrets of the past. Not far beyond the boundary,we come across a disturbing sight: a pile of deer bones, remnants of kills my parents once made.
"It looks like they were expert hunters," Easton remarks, his gaze lingering on the scattered remains.
"Most wolves are," I reply softly.
"Torben tells me you're a skilled hunter. It must be in the blood." Easton's smile is warm and reassuring.
"He would know best." I force a smile in return. Beneath the surface, the weight of my newfound identity presses down on me—a burden I'm only beginning to comprehend. As we approach the farmhouse, Khal shifts back to his human form. I offer him his clothes, and we wait for him to dress before continuing.
"If it wasn't so spooky here, I would almost say let's rebuild and settle here," Khal remarks with a smile. His words send a shiver down my spine. The thought of making this place our home—if indeed I am who they say I am—feels like an impossible dream.
Ignoring his comment, I make my way toward a weathered shed off to the side of the farmhouse. With silent determination, I shift my hands into claws and tear the door off its hinges.
"Easton?" I motion to the inside of the shed, cupping my hand with an upward gesture, mimicking the way I've seen him summon fire. He nods in understanding, a small flame dancing in his palm as he leads us inside. The shed is filled with the scent of sawdust and old wood.
"It looks to be a woodworker's shop. That was your father's vocation, besides being alpha of his pack," Easton explains.
"It makes sense. Diaval said he was a master woodworker," I murmur, my eyes fixed on a half-finished child's rocking horsethat sits on the bench to my right. The worn wood bears the marks of my father's craftsmanship.
For a fleeting moment, I can almost imagine him working on it with skilled hands and a heart full of love. "Easton? Can you show me what it would have looked like if my father was working on it? Like you did with the attack?"
"Of course, my flame. Look deep into my eyes and relax." I blink and allow myself to sink into the warmth of his gaze, feeling the tension melt away as the scene unfolds before me.
In my mind's eye, my father appears—a stout figure with hands weathered from years of hard labor. With each movement, each stroke of the carving tools, I feel the love and dedication he pours into the rocking horse, his pride evident in every detail.
It's a bittersweet moment, watching him work with such care and precision. He didn't know he would never see the joy on my face when I finally laid eyes on his creation. But for a few precious moments, I feel closer to him than ever before. As the vision fades, I blink my eyes, the memory of my father's love lingering like a warm embrace. Passing the rocking horse off to Khal, I turn and leave the shed behind.
The farmhouse looms before us. Despite my reluctance, I know I must press forward—there are answers waiting to be uncovered within its crumbling walls. With a trembling hand, I push open the back door. The wood groans in protest as it swings on its half-broken hinges. The sight that greets me is one of decay and neglect, the remnants of a life once lived scattered across the mudroom floor.
Old boots lie forgotten in a corner, their leather cracked and weathered. Tattered cloth hangs from a nail. And there, on adusty shelf, sits an old metal lunchbox, its surface tarnished with rust.
"It's Dad's," I murmur, reaching out to touch the weathered metal. The initialsCJare etched into the side—a silent reminder of the man who once called this place home.
