Page 1 of Moonveil and Magic

Ivy

The cave reeked of damp stone and mould. Somewhere in the deep, yawning distance ahead, the rhythmic plip-plop of water echoed like a slow, distorted countdown, its hollow ring making the silence feel heavy and suffocating.

I crouched low, knees pressed into slick rock, my red curls plastered to my temples with sweat. I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead, leaving a streak of dirt that made my eyes sting in the lantern light.

Almost there.

The shard pulsed faintly in the crevice before me.

I whispered a protective charm, my fingers trembling. This was it—a fragment of the Primordial Tide. Legend says the Tides were the lifeblood of the world’s wild magic before the High Circle shackled it. Touching it felt like a lightning strike I was forced to hold onto, a violent tether that made my vision blur with static.

The shock of power knocked me backward. Fire and ice collided in my veins, a jagged, electric buzz that surged up my arm and spiralled like a living thing in my belly. The skin of my palm prickled and turned red. I could feel the fine bones of my hand vibrating and thought they might shatter under the weight of the shard’s hum. My fingers locked around the crystal in a phantom cramp, the raw energy pinning my hand to the surface. A pebble skittered somewhere in the darkness behind me.

I froze, breath held, every muscle tense.

I waited, listening. There was nothing but the slow drip of water falling from the ceiling somewhere off to my left. No footsteps. No voices.

“Goddess, help me…”

My breath hitched as I finally forced my fingers to uncurl, the sudden release leaving my hand tingling and dangerously numb. I shoved the shard into the canvas satchel slung across my shoulder and yanked the flap tight, fumbling with the buckle. I sagged against the damp wall, my knees buckling as the physical toll of the contact finally hit me.

I felt a moment of physical relief, but the satchel now felt like it held a live wire. Even through the heavy canvas, I could feel the shard’s presence thrumming against my hip, a low, rhythmic pulse that vibrated against my ribs like a second, unwanted heartbeat, whispering words I couldn't quite catch.

With a final glance into the cave’s yawning dark, I turned and picked my way toward the thin slice of moonlight at the entrance. Every step echoed, too loud. I expected a hand to snatch at my ankle or a spell to flare across my back.

When I emerged into the night air, the cool breeze kissed my flushed skin, and for one blessed moment I allowed myself to breathe.

But deep down, I knew this wasn’t the end. It was just the signal for the hunt to begin.

Lucien

Glass towers glittered against the dusky sky as Lucien adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit. His reflection in the window looked every inch the broker—the predator in human skin.

“Sell high. Buy low. Never lose control,” he murmured, his lips quirking at his own mantra.

He turned from the view and stepped out into the hallway, heading for the elevators. His assistant trailed behind, prattling on about a charity sponsorship for a local little league team. Lucien didn't care about the sport, only the tax break and the pristine image it brought his firm. He stepped inside the lift just as a courier scrambled around the corner, his face pale with desperation as he saw the doors beginning to close.

"Wait! Please!" the man gasped, his hand reaching out.

Lucien, his finger hovering over the control panel, met the man's eyes, offered a slow, thin smile that promised no mercy, and deliberately pressed the Close Door button. He watched the gap narrow until the courier’s panicked expression vanished behind the brushed steel.

The silence of the descent was a relief. Lucien leaned back against the mahogany interior, his pupils elongating for a flicker of a second. Golden light flashed in the dark before fading to human brown. He closed his eyes, pushing down the restless energy prowling just beneath his skin. The city was his hunting ground, the glass and steel a maze he navigated with cold, predatory ease.

But tonight, a discordant note vibrated through the steel cables. He felt a disturbance thrumming deep in the city’s marrow, a jagged pull against his senses that did not belong to the mundane world. Something had shifted in the magical atmosphere—a rip in the fabric of the night that only a predator of his calibre could detect. He would not wait for the threat to emerge. No, he would track the scent until he cornered it.

Kael

The clang of metal, the roar of laughter, and the growl of an engine revving too hard—Kael Blackwood’s mechanics shop was alive tonight.

He leaned against the scarred workbench, grease streaking his bare forearms, while two of his men brawled playfully over a spilled pint in the corner. The sharp tang of oil and petrol mixed with the earthy, heavy scent of pack magic, thick enough to taste. As alpha, the shop was more than a business—it was a sanctuary. Every laugh and every shoved shoulder was a pulse he monitored, a constant demand on his focus to ensure the peace held.

Kael lifted his bottle in salute and took a long pull, the cold liquid barely dulling the heat in his blood. His jaw ached with the relentless need to shift, to let the wolf stretch and tear through the night air, but he stayed human. He stayed the anchor. His men relied on his control. If he let the beast take the lead, the pack’s discipline would shatter like glass. He was the barrier between their wilder instincts and the world outside the garage doors. Always alpha.

A whisper of energy prickled at the back of his neck. It wasn't the familiar hum of the city or the steady thrum of his own kind. It was foreign. Wrong.

The air in the shop suddenly felt stripped and brittle, replaced by a cold, metallic static that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. It was a high-frequency vibration that set his marrow on edge, a jagged rip in the magical atmosphere that felt like a physical weight pressing against his lungs. Something ancient had just been unearthed, and it was screaming through the ley lines.

His smile faded, the glass of his beer bottle creaking under the sudden, unconscious pressure of his grip. “We’re about to get hit. And it’s gonna be a shitshow.”