Chapter 62

Raven

The box was heavier than I expected.

The ashes inside seemed to weigh more than my father ever did in life, and the idea of him reduced to this—just powder and bone fragments—made my throat tighten.

I swallowed hard as I held the urn against my chest, my hands trembling. The nurse who handed it to me had said something kind, I think. I couldn’t even remember. My ears were ringing too loudly, my thoughts too tangled to focus on anything that anyone said today.

All I could think about was my father and that note from Neil.

I wanted to go after Neil. And a stupid, crazy part of me was planning on it, even if I knew it could very well result in my death. But I had to do it. I just… had to handle some things here first.

The cab ride to my father’s house was suffocatingly silent. Every bump in the road made the urn shift in my arms, and every shift reminded me of what I was holding. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, staring at the familiar streets and pretending I wasn’t breaking into pieces.

When we pulled up to the house, it looked exactly the same as it always had. The neatly trimmed hedges, the pale blue shutters, the little wind chime hanging from the porch—it was all so normal. Too normal. And far smaller than I ever remembered.

Was my childhood home really this small? It felt like a thimble compared to the enormous mansion I’d built with the money earned from modeling and starting my perfume business.

Bitterly, I recalled the day I’d asked my dad if he wanted me to buy him a new place, or even move into mine.

“Thanks, but no thanks, honey,” he’d answered with a chuckle. “I’m staying put. Your mother would come back from the grave and kill me if I moved out of our old home.”

I stepped out of the car, clutching the urn tightly to my chest as I made my way to the front door. The key was still in my bag, still on the ring where I had left it months ago. It felt foreign in my hand as I slid it into the lock and turned it.

The door creaked open, and the familiar smell of my dad’s cologne and old wood hit me like a punch to the gut. For a moment, I couldn’t move. My legs felt rooted to the spot as I stood there in the doorway, staring at the empty living room.

“I’m home,” I whispered, my voice cracking. For a moment, I prayed that he would come around the corner, smiling, and offer me a cup of coffee like he always did. But no one answered.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The silence was deafening, every creak of the floorboards echoing in my ears as I made my way to the mantle above the fireplace. I placed the urn there, my hands lingering on it for a moment longer than necessary.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Okay. You can do this.”

I needed to go through his things. It felt wrong, almost invasive, but it had to be done. The house would have to be sold, and I couldn’t leave anything important behind. I owed him that much.

I started in the living room, sorting through old photos and stacks of mail. Most of it was junk—magazines, bills, a few holiday cards from neighbors. But every now and then, I’d find something that stopped me in my tracks.

A photo of the two of us at the beach when I was eight. His favorite mug, still sitting on the coffee table. The little ceramic wolf I’d made in grade school that he used as a paperweight.

By the time I moved to his bedroom, my chest felt too tight to breathe, and my eyes were burning. His scent was stronger here, clinging to the sheets and the sweaters draped over the back of the chair. I sank onto the bed, running my fingers over the worn fabric of his favorite cardigan.

“Miss you,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Miss you so much.”

I sat there for a long moment before finally pulling myself together and standing. I opened the closet, bracing myself for another wave of grief. His shirts hung neatly on the rack, his shoes lined up in perfect rows on the floor. But it was the box on the top shelf that caught my attention.

It was tucked away in the corner, almost hidden, and the sight of it sent a strange pang through my chest. Slowly, I reached up and pulled it down, the cardboard flaking slightly under my fingers. It wasn’t labeled, but something about it felt… important.

I carried it to the bed and sat down, my hands shaking as I lifted the lid. The first thing I saw was a scarf with a faint floral pattern woven into the fabric. Beneath it was a photo of a woman I barely remembered but knew immediately.

My mother.

She was smiling, her arm wrapped around my father, her chestnut hair tumbling over her shoulders.

Tears blurred my vision as I traced her face with my fingers. “Mom,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

There were other things in the box, too. A small bracelet made of polished stones. A journal with her name written neatly on the cover. And beneath it all, wrapped in a piece of faded cloth, were artifacts that I didn’t recognize but somehow knew were significant. A small dagger with intricate carvings. A pendant shaped like a crescent moon.

Lycan artifacts.

I felt like the air had been knocked out of me as I stared at them, realization dawning in my mind. My dad had been telling the truth. My mother had been a Lycan.

I was half Lycan.

My hands shook as I carefully set the artifacts aside, but something about the bottom of the box caught my attention. It felt heavier than it should have, and when I pressed down on it, the bottom gave way to reveal a hidden compartment.

Inside was a letter.

It was old, the edges yellowed and brittle, but the handwriting on the envelope was unmistakable. It was my mother’s.

“To Raven,” it read. “Open on your 18th birthday.”

I stared at it, my heart pounding. She had written this for me. She had planned for me to read it. But she hadn’t lived long enough to give it to me. My dad probably didn’t even know about it.

With trembling hands, I opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. Her words flowed across the page, neat and precise.

“My dearest Raven,

Happy birthday! You are eighteen now—a woman, but you’ll always be my little girl no matter what.”

I chuckled a little, wiping tears away as I continued to read. No doubt was in my mind that she planned on handing this letter to me herself, if only she hadn’t died so suddenly.

“But you are special, Raven,” the letter continued. “More special than you know, and that’s not just me saying that because I’m your mom. You are the product of two worlds—two bloodlines—and with that comes a responsibility. There is a prophecy, one that speaks of a Luna who will bring peace between the Werewolves and the Lycans. She will be strong, compassionate, and unyielding in the face of adversity. She will unite the two worlds and end the bloodshed.”

I couldn’t breathe. My hands trembled as I read the next lines.

“I believe you are that Luna, my darling. The moment I held you in my arms, I knew. You have the strength of a Lycan and the spirit of a Werewolf. And one day, you will meet your mate—the one who will stand by your side and help you fulfill this destiny. Trust him, Raven. Trust your mate. Fulfill the prophecy. Bring peace between the Werewolves and the Lycans.”

A small pendant on a golden chain was taped to the bottom of the page. It shimmered faintly in the light, the same crescent moon shape as the artifact in the box.

“The Luna who wears this will be recognized as the one from the prophecy,” the letter finished. “You will be protected. You will not be alone.”

I clutched the pendant to my chest, my tears soaking into the paper still in my lap. My mother’s words echoed in my mind, and for the first time in days, a spark of hope flickered in my heart.

It was true. All of it.

And I would not fail her.