Chapter 1 — Prologue: A Memory of Loss

Third Person

The woods were alive that night, a symphony of whispers carried on the wind. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the kind of smell that clung to your skin and seeped into your lungs. Isla Harrington, just seven years old, stood at the edge of the forest, her small fingers clutching at the fabric of her mother’s coat. The silver light of a swollen moon spilled through the canopy, painting the world in shades of gray and shadow.

“Stay here, Isla,” her mother whispered, her voice trembling with urgency, but layered with a fragile warmth. Her hands tightened on Isla’s shoulders, as though anchoring her in place.

“But, Mama—” Isla’s protest was cut off as her mother knelt, her emerald-green eyes locking onto Isla’s with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“You must never let it take you,” her mother said, her words a hissed command, but her voice wavered. Her trembling hands cupped Isla’s face, the warmth of her palms doing little to mask the storm within. “Promise me, Isla. No matter what happens, no matter how it calls to you, you must never let it take you.”

Isla hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. Her mother’s eyes softened, a fleeting moment of tenderness breaking through her desperation. “You are stronger than you know, my darling. But you must promise me.”

“I promise,” Isla whispered, her throat tight.

In the distance, a howl pierced the air, sharp and mournful. Isla flinched, her eyes darting toward the sound, but her mother didn’t look away.

“Stay here,” her mother repeated, standing abruptly. She turned toward the woods, her dark hair catching the moonlight in a cascade of silver. Isla reached out, her small hand grasping at empty air.

“Mama!”

Her mother didn’t stop. She moved toward the trees with a strange, fluid grace, her steps almost too quiet, as though the forest itself swallowed the sound. Isla’s feet, planted firmly on the soft earth, refused to move.

Another howl echoed, this one closer, joined by others in a chorus that seemed to vibrate in Isla’s chest. Shadows danced between the trees, shapes that didn’t quite belong to the forest.

The last thing Isla saw before her mother disappeared into the darkness was the faint glow of silver encircling her finger—a ring with a crescent moon-shaped emerald. It pulsed faintly, the light flickering in rhythm with Isla’s own racing heartbeat.

Then, silence.

The howls ceased, the wind stilled, and the forest seemed to hold its breath. Isla took a hesitant step forward, her small legs trembling beneath her. The moonlight felt colder now, harsher, as though it had turned its gaze directly on her.

“Mama?” she called, her voice a fragile thread.

The forest didn’t answer.

Time passed—minutes, hours, Isla couldn’t tell. The silence pressed against her, thick and suffocating. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the ground, the damp earth soaking through her dress. Her small hands fisted in the fabric, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Tears streamed down her face, but she didn’t sob. She sat frozen, listening to the echoes of her mother’s last words.

It was the sound of footsteps crunching through the underbrush that finally broke her trance. She looked up, her vision blurred by tears, to see her father, Adrian Harrington, running toward her. His face was pale, his expression a mix of relief and terror.

“Isla!” he cried, scooping her into his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder, her small fingers clutching at his sweater.

“She’s gone,” Isla whispered, her voice muffled. “Mama’s gone.”

Adrian’s arms tightened around her, his silence heavy with unspoken fears. His jaw clenched as he glanced toward the forest’s edge, his eyes lingering on the darkness that seemed to breathe of its own accord. A flicker of something—fear or recognition—crossed his face before he turned away, carrying Isla back toward the estate.

Over his shoulder, Isla caught one last glimpse of the trees, their shadows stretching long and dark under the unrelenting moonlight.

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The sound of howling jerked Isla awake.

Her breath came in sharp gasps as she sat up, her heart thundering in her chest. For a moment, she was seven years old again, lost in the woods, her mother’s voice echoing in her ears. The faint scent of damp earth seemed to cling to her, though she was surrounded by the sleek sterility of her penthouse.

The room was bathed in the soft glow of city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline stretched out before her, a tapestry of glass and steel that pulsed with life even in the dead of night.

Isla pressed a hand to her chest, willing her racing heart to slow. The dream—no, the memory—hadn’t plagued her in years. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool surface of the polished wood floor.

The distant howl came again, faint but unmistakable. Isla froze, her pulse quickening. Her rational mind tried to dismiss it—perhaps a dog, or the wind—but the primal unease that prickled at the back of her neck wouldn’t be silenced. Her fingers brushed her collarbone, as though searching for something to anchor her.

She rose and crossed the room, her movements precise and controlled, as though any sudden motion might shatter her carefully constructed world.

The city below was quiet, its hum muted at this hour. Isla stared out at the expanse of twinkling lights, her reflection faintly visible in the glass. Her dark brown hair, usually styled to perfection, hung loose around her shoulders, and her sharp green eyes held a shadowed intensity.

“You must never let it take you.”

Her mother’s words surfaced unbidden, sending a chill down her spine. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, tension rippling through her. The glass in front of her reflected back a woman in control, but beneath that polished surface, cracks threatened to form.

She turned away from the window and padded toward the kitchen. The faint scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered, a reminder of her earlier attempt to prepare for the sleepless night. She poured herself a glass of water instead, the cool liquid grounding her.

Her gaze drifted to the far corner of the room, where a scale model of the Glass Spire sat on a sleek pedestal. The miniature skyscraper gleamed under the soft light, its precise lines and illuminated interior a mirror of the life Isla had built.

Control. Precision. Ambition.

These were the pillars of her existence, the foundation of the empire she’d constructed in the heart of a city that never slept. There was no room for cracks, no space for chaos.

And yet…

A flicker of light from the model caught her attention, faint and brief, as though the pristine structure itself had shuddered. Isla’s breath hitched, her unease deepening. Her fingers tightened on the glass of water, leaving faint impressions where her grip had been.

Straightening her spine, she squared her shoulders. Whatever had stirred the memory tonight—stress, exhaustion, or the echoes of the past—it didn’t matter. She had a company to run, a legacy to shape.

Isla Harrington didn’t dwell on the past.

She conquered the future.

With one last glance out the window, her lips pressed into a determined line, she turned off the lights and retreated to her bedroom.

But as she lay back against the pillows, the city’s distant hum lulling her toward sleep, the sound of a wolf’s howl echoed faintly in her mind.

And this time, it didn’t feel so distant.