The city of Ashwood lay cloaked in a heavy veil of midnight mist, its cobblestone streets gleaming with the aftermath of an earlier drizzle. High above, the moon was a crescent of silver watching over the city like an ancient eye, half-lidded, ever-judging. Its glow bathed the rooftops and towering spires in a ghostly light, rendering the world in shades of pale blue and ink-black shadow.
Lysander Grey moved through the empty streets with the silent grace of a predator, his long coat sweeping behind him like a second shadow. Each step echoed through the alleyways, soft but certain, announcing his presence to the night.
He didn't mind the quiet. In fact, he preferred it. The hush of the sleeping city dulled the noise in his head.
As he turned down a familiar alleyway, the melodic chimes of the Ashwood Clock Tower tolled in the distance—twelve low, solemn notes that rolled through the air like ripples through water. Lysander paused, glancing up. The tower rose above the city like a sentinel, its runed stonework glowing faintly where ancient wards were etched into the surface. Magic shimmered there—pure, old, and unyielding.
Ashwood was more than just stone and streets. It breathed magic. It pulsed beneath one's feet, hummed through the alleyways, and whispered secrets into the ears of those attuned to it.
Lysander was one of the few who could hear it clearly.
As he moved deeper into the city's heart, the runes carved into the buildings began to stir. They glowed with an ethereal, blue-green light, the color of sea glass and starlight. They flared briefly in his presence, as if recognizing him. A reminder of what he was. Of the power that ran in his blood.
He paused before an old well tucked in a narrow courtyard, brushing his fingers across the glowing sigils etched into the stone rim. They pulsed beneath his touch—alive. Ashwood remembered its own. And Lysander Grey had left too deep a mark to be forgotten.
The ley lines beneath the city, hidden but powerful, hummed through the soles of his boots like a living current. He could feel them pulling at something deep inside him—something raw and restless.
The city was divided into quarters, each more enigmatic than the last. The Arcane Quarter, full of towering spires and twisting staircases, housed the elite mages and the Council of Magic. The Shifter's Enclave was more chaotic, alive with the pulse of animal instincts and primal power. The Merchant's Guildhall was gilded and greedy, humming with deals struck in whispers. And the Temple District held silence and mystery, where time itself felt slower and the divine pressed against the veil of reality.
Ashwood was a city of contradictions. And so was he.
Lysander paused before the towering façade of the Great Library. It stood like a fortress of stone and silence, guarded not by sentries but by spells old enough to remember the city's founding. A thin shimmer of light wrapped around the entire structure—a magical barrier humming like a plucked string. Its runes glowed brighter as he passed, as if sensing the ghosts he carried.
He did not stop. The library held too many memories.
Memories of him.
Martin Grey.
Lysander's footsteps slowed as the memory tugged harder. Martin had loved the library. He had loved Ashwood's secrets, had thrived in the political circles Lysander had avoided. Martin had been the golden boy—charming, brilliant, destined.
Lysander had been the shadow trailing behind him.
He swallowed, the weight of guilt settling on his shoulders like an old, familiar cloak. His brother's laugh haunted these streets. It echoed through these towers. Sometimes, he swore he could still hear it on the wind.
Fifteen years. And the wound was still raw.
Martin's death had shattered him—taken the last of Lysander's innocence and replaced it with cold purpose. A rogue faction of female shifters had stolen his brother away, and Lysander had been too weak, too slow to stop them. He'd arrived too late, seen too much, done too little.
The blood had been warm. The screams still rang in his ears.
And yet... no one had been punished. No answers had ever come.
The truth was buried somewhere in the heart of this city, tangled in its politics and magic. And Lysander would tear it all down if he had to, stone by stone, spell by spell.
As he continued down the winding street, a sudden tingle danced along the back of his neck. Instinct kicked in. Someone was watching him.
He didn't stop, didn't turn. Instead, he veered into a side alley and moved like water through the shadows. Whoever followed would think they had the upper hand.
They were wrong.
Ashwood's night was thick with secrets. And Lysander Grey was ready to uncover every last one.
Even if it destroyed him.