I’ve always been good at keeping things in the dark. It’s sort of my thing.

Secrets, snark, shadows—they’re all part of the package. And Whispering Pines? It’s the perfect place for someone like me. Everyone here is hiding something, even the town itself. It makes it easy to blend in, to hide the parts of myself I’d rather keep buried.

But tonight, the shadows aren’t just hiding me. They’re whispering to me.

I sit on the roof of Pixel & Fangs, my legs dangling over the edge as I watch the flickering streetlights below. The ley lines hum faintly beneath the town, their rhythm uneven and strained. Even the air feels heavier, like the town is holding its breath.

“You can feel it too, can’t you?” I say softly.

My shadows shift around me, curling and uncurling like restless animals. They’re always with me—silent, watchful, waiting. Usually, I’m the one in control, but lately... lately they’ve been acting out.

A tendril stretches toward the sky, flickering like a flame. It doesn’t speak—not the way people do—but I can feel its intent. It’s hungry.

“Not tonight,” I whisper, pulling it back with a flick of my wrist. The shadows settle reluctantly, but their unease lingers.

That makes two of us.

I wasn’t always like this.

Once upon a time, I was just a girl in a too-small town with too many rules. But that girl died a long time ago—buried under the weight of things I couldn’t control and didn’t understand. What rose from her ashes was something darker, sharper.

The first time the shadows came to me, I thought I was losing my mind. They weren’t just a part of me; they were a mirror, reflecting every fear and doubt I tried to bury. And now, years later, they’re still there—reminding me of what I am and what I could become.

I don’t know where my magic comes from. Maybe it’s tied to the ley lines, or maybe it’s just another cruel twist of fate. All I know is that it scares the hell out of me.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The sound of footsteps breaks my train of thought.

“Raven?”

I don’t need to look to know it’s Finn. He’s got that heavy tread, like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Or maybe just his own claws.

“What’s up, Wolfboy?” I say, glancing over my shoulder.

Finn stops a few feet away, his golden eyes catching the dim light. “You’ve been out here a while. Figured you might want company.”

“Not really.”

He snorts, crossing his arms. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”

I roll my eyes but don’t send him away. Finn’s a lot like me—rough edges, a little broken around the edges. But where I’ve learned to hide my cracks, his are right there for everyone to see.

He leans against the ledge, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Feels off tonight, doesn’t it?”

“That’s one way to put it,” I say, letting my shadows swirl lazily around my feet. “The ley lines are a mess, and the town’s barely holding itself together. Same old, same old.”

Finn doesn’t respond right away, and for a moment, it’s almost... comfortable.

But then he looks at me, and his voice drops. “You ever feel like it’s too much? Like you’re just... one mistake away from losing it?”

The question catches me off guard. I’ve spent years building walls around myself, and most people don’t bother trying to peek over them. But Finn’s different. He sees things other people miss, and he’s not afraid to call them out.

“Yeah,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I intended. “All the time.”

I don’t tell him about the whispers, or the way the shadows have been pulling at me lately. I don’t tell him about the nightmares that keep me up at night—the ones where I lose control and the shadows take over completely.

But part of me wonders if he already knows.

When Finn leaves, I stay on the roof, my thoughts circling like vultures.

The shadows are quieter now, their restlessness tempered by the conversation. But the unease lingers, a weight I can’t shake.

I think about the team—Zoe with her blinding light, Finn with his barely-contained rage, Melody with her endless optimism. They’re all so... bright, in their own way. And then there’s me, the shadow lurking at the edges.

I tell myself it’s better this way. I’m not like them. I don’t belong in the light.

But sometimes, in the quiet moments, I wonder if that’s really true.

The shadows stir again, their whispers louder this time.

“Not tonight,” I say again, but my voice is less certain.

They don’t respond—not with words, anyway. But their meaning is clear.

They’re not asking for permission anymore.