STARPATH

Manhattan, NY

Six Months Later. . .

The apartment smelled like burnt toast and artificial maple syrup.

Lyra Duskbane opened the window above the sink, letting the noise of the city pour in— honking taxis, chattering pedestrians, the rhythmic thrum of music from a nearby café.

It was nothing like Ashmoor. Nothing like the whispering trees of Everbrook or the starlit stillness of Dorm 13B. Her heart ached every time she thought of her friends, who she had never gotten to say goodbye to. If she focused hard enough, she could still hear Kass laughing, Mira making some sharp remark, Thalia not understanding anything that was going on and saying something wildly inappropriate at exactly the wrong moment.

She pushed the thoughts away, hard. Trying to focus on all the new, good things in her life.

“I told you not to jam the bread in like that,” she said to Markus, tossing a smoking slice onto a plate. “This toaster thing is from hell.”

Markus chuckled behind her, still half-buttoned in his work shirt, tie slung loosely around his neck. “You’ll appreciate my eternal battle with small appliances when you’re paying the electric bill.”

“I am paying the electric bill,” she said, smirking.

“Right, my bad. Barista royalty.” He winked and reached for his travel mug, branded with 'BEST DAD EVER', it had been a fathers day gift she gave him earlier that year.

She stuck her tongue out at him and turned back to butter her tragically crisp breakfast. A few feet away, her sketchpad lay open on the small dining table, coffee rings staining the corner of her latest design: a dress with embellishments shaped like a falling star, silver threads trailing like comets down its spine. Her acceptance letter from the Brooklyn School of Art and Design was still pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a twerking fox.

“We are pleased to inform you…”

Gods, she'd cried when she read those words. Markus had too, in his usual, quiet way, eyes shining as he kissed her hair and said,

“Told you it’d all work out.”

He’d sold a chain of assets to set them up in Manhattan, some old contacts from his more… questionable days had come through with forged documents and a human life ready to live. Markus Duskbane was now “Mark Deveraux,” certified CPA. She was “Lyra Deveraux,” a college first-year student and part-time caffeine dealer at Starbucks.

Somehow, they were making it work.

“You’re working tonight?” he asked as he slung on his coat.

“Yeah. Double shift. Tamika’s out sick again.” She rolled her eyes. “But it’s fine, I need the cash for materials. My professor wants us to use actual leather next term.”

Markus grimaced, grabbing his briefcase. “Just don’t let them work you into the ground, okay? You’re not proving anything to anyone.”

“I’m proving it to myself,” Lyra replied blandly, taking a bite of her toast.

He gave her a long, searching look. Then he softened. “You’ve already proven more than most people twice your age. But sure. Just… remember you’ve got nothing left to run from.”

She nodded, biting back the quiet ache in her chest. She hadn’t partially shifted since she left Ashmoor, or hadn't been able to. . . more specifically. It was odd, and felt entirely unnatural. Suddenly, weights that she had never struggled with before in the gym were heavy enough to make her muscles ache, paper cuts took a week to heal, and combat forms she'd been able to do since she was a kid were suddenly odd and unnatural to her human body. Artemis had vanished the second the bond was severed, Lyra found her wolf-voice that allowed her to growl, and her ability to scent had gone like a dream.

But lately— lately something was changing.

At night, she would wake with her fingers twitching, chest tight, ears straining for sounds that didn’t belong in New York. There were whispers sometimes. Half-heard, half-felt. Like wind through an open palm.

She didn’t tell Markus.

Didn’t want to worry him.

But today, as the subway roared past outside and the sky turned that watery grey unique to Manhattan mornings, and she moved to rinse her cup, she thought she heard it again—

"You were born in silence… but you will end in thunder."

Her coffee mug slipped from her hands and shattered in the sink.

Markus turned as he reached the door, eyebrows raised. “Lyra?”

“I’m fine,” she lied, heart racing. “Just clumsy.”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

She forced a smile. “Totally.”

He nodded, but worry clung to his eyes. He left with a promise to call, and the door clicked softly shut behind him. Lyra stared at the broken porcelain for a long time, then slowly reached for her sketchpad— only to find a long, jagged claw mark down the middle of her drawing.

Except she hadn’t made it.

And her nails were perfectly human.

~=+++=~

The sewing machines buzzed like wasps.

Thread littered the floors like confetti, half-dressed mannequins leaned like exhausted models across the room, and somewhere in the back, someone was weeping over a ripped sleeve three days before finals.

Lyra sat cross-legged on a paint-stained stool, sketching furiously. Her charcoal pencil smudged her fingertips, her freshly cut bangs falling into her eyes as she dragged dark strokes over ivory paper. The design was coming along more aggressive than she'd meant— angular lines, layered leather, dark feathers stitched into the hem like warning.

“Is this your villain era again?” a familiar voice asked.

Lyra looked up as Amelia flopped into the chair beside her— short, whip-smart, and dressed like if Wednesday Addams became a museum curator. Amelia wore a black turtleneck with a vintage fur coat draped over her chair and carried a sketchpad full of anatomy studies and androgynous runway monsters.

“She’s always in her villain era,” added Brooklyn, appearing with two coffees and a mischievous grin. Her curls were tied in a pink silk scarf and her nails glittered like stardust. Brooklyn was sunshine incarnate, always humming, always bringing people together, like the human equivalent of Paris Hilton's signature perfume.

“I am not,” Lyra protested, accepting the coffee. “This is called ‘structured rebellion.’ It’s fashion.”

“It’s trauma with topstitching,” Amelia said flatly. “But it’s hot, so I’ll allow it.”

Lyra snorted. “You’re both awful.”

“And you love us,” Brooklyn beamed, swinging into her seat.

“I tolerate you at best.”

“Lies. You cried when I brought you a croissant last week.”

Lyra gave her a withering look and took a sip of the coffee anyway.

“Hey, babe,” came another voice.

She glanced up as Ethan appeared— tall, lean, and a little dorky in a charming way, with sandy blond hair and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He wore pressed chinos, old sneakers, and a wool coat too long for his arms. He smelled like rain and eucalyptus and always had spare granola bars in his pockets.

“Hey,” Lyra said, relaxing slightly as he leaned down to kiss her cheek.

Ethan wasn’t like the others.

He wasn’t a wolf, or a fae. Not even close.

He didn’t move like Rowan; predatory and graceful. Didn’t smirk like Riven or growl like Sylas when she pushed too hard. Ethan didn’t brood. He organized his Spotify playlists by genre and mood. He wore reading glasses. He asked about her designs and actually listened. He bought her candles because he knew she walked into Lush just to smell the overwhelming scents (little did he know, it was because the whole world smelled like a Lush store when she was a wolf).

But he was safe.

And safe was what she’d chosen. What she’d wanted.

Wasn't it?

“You coming to the screening tonight?” he asked. “It’s 'Pan’s Labyrinth' and I made notes this time so I don’t get yelled at again for calling it a fairytale.”

Amelia made a strangled sound. “It’s a dark mytho-poetic exploration of innocence lost—”

“Yes, Amelia,” Ethan said, deadpan. “I know that now.”

Lyra laughed, surprised by how natural it felt. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

Ethan smiled, kissed her again, and moved on toward his own class, waving at her friends as he went.

Brooklyn gave her a look once he was out of earshot. “Still not sleeping, huh?”

Lyra’s smile faded.

Amelia leaned in. “You know I think you're a straight hottie with a bod most body builder chicks on a bulk would die for, but you look awful.”

Lyra stared down at her sketch again. At the sharp lines. The feathers. The shadowed eyes she hadn’t meant to draw on the faceless model.

“I’m fine,” she said.

They both watched her like they didn’t believe it. But they didn’t push.

Class started. And outside, the sky turned darker than it should’ve at noon.