#1 Letter
April 17, 1972
Harrowick, North Carolina
From the desk of Celeste Black
Dearest Theo,
Cas says I’m mad for writing this down, especially when no one knows what’s happening yet. He thinks it’s dangerous to leave a record. I think it’s dangerous not to. So here I am—pen in hand, hands still shaking.
Something has happened, Theo. Something real. Something impossible.
This morning, we woke to smoke on the ridgeline—thin at first, like a whisper, or steam rising from the earth itself. The grown-ups said it was just the heat rolling off the valley. But we knew better, didn’t we? You said you felt it before you saw it. Like the air had shifted. Like the trees had stopped breathing.
By afternoon, the whole town was talking. About the way the birds had vanished. About the dogs that wouldn’t stop howling. About the circle of trees—new trees—that hadn’t been there yesterday. Perfect. Ancient. Wrong.
Cas and I rode out to the overlook near Ash Briar Creek. We saw it.
We saw them.
An entire forest, thick and dark and unnaturally still, standing in the middle of the hillside like it had always been there. The trees don’t belong to this world. They’re too tall. Too tightly wound. The color of old wounds and secrets.
There’s only one path. Just one. No breaks in the trees, no way to cut through or climb over. A single, narrow trail that disappears into the dark.
I wanted to go in. Cas didn’t. He grabbed my hand too tight and said, “Don’t be stupid, Cel.” You would’ve rolled your eyes at both of us. Then probably dared me to do it anyway.
But here’s the strangest thing—no one else seems to care. The government has said nothing. The mayor’s talking about it like it’s just a strange growth. Something to be studied. Contained.
They don’t understand. This isn’t something that grew. It arrived.
Cas thinks I’m romanticizing it. But I saw the way his eyes lingered too long on the path. He’s afraid. We both are.
But you? I know you’re not. That’s why I’m writing to you. Because if I don’t get this out—if I don’t tell someone what we saw—I’m afraid I’ll forget that it was ever real.
The trees are still there now. They haven’t moved. Haven’t made a sound. But I swear, Theo… I don’t think they’re asleep.
And I don’t think they like being seen.
Write me back, if you can. Or meet me tomorrow—at the creek, just like always.
If the world is changing, I want to face it with you.
Yours always,
Celeste
#2 Letter
April 21, 1972
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Celeste Black
Private – Do not share with Theo
Cel,
Father would be livid if he knew I was writing this down. “Paper trails are for fools and fools are forgettable,” right? But I’m tired of your silence and your sad little eyes at dinner, so here we are.
You need to wake up.
Whatever you think is happening with Theo Calloway—it’s not real. He’s not like us, Cel. He doesn’t come from anything. Doesn’t belong to anything.
We’ve known him since we were kids, and I’ll admit—he used to be harmless. But he’s watching you differently now. You can feel it too. You just won’t admit it because you’re always trying to fix things that don’t want to be fixed.
Do you know what the rest of the family says about you behind closed doors? That you’re too soft. That you’ll never be what they expect of a Black heir.
You need to stop sneaking out with him. You think I don’t notice, but I do. I’ve covered for you more times than you know. And I’m done pretending it doesn’t matter.
He’s dangerous—not because he has power, but because he doesn’t. And people without power will do anything to get it.
Have you told him what Father’s planning? What the Council’s whispering about the Wood? I hope not. Because if he gets curious enough to go looking, he won’t come back. And I won’t be able to protect you from what happens next.
You’re my sister. My twin. We’re supposed to be on the same side.
Start acting like it.
—Cas
#3 Letter
April 19, 1972
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Celeste Black
Cel—
I wasn’t going to write. You know that’s not really my thing. But your letter hasn’t left my head since you handed it to me. You had ink on your fingers. I should’ve told you.
I went back. Not into the Wood—don’t panic. But I got closer. Close enough to hear something.
It wasn’t the wind.
It was like… a hum. A low sound that rattles just beneath the ribs. I couldn’t tell if it was calling or warning. Both, maybe.
I threw a rock at one of the trees. It didn’t make a sound when it hit. Just—stopped. Like the Wood ate it.
There’s something else.
The sheriff’s kid, Mason, went in yesterday. I don’t think anyone was supposed to know, but my mom heard it on the scanner. No one’s said it out loud yet, but I don’t think he came back.
People are scared. They’re just pretending not to be.
Cas was at the diner today. He sat with me for a bit, messed with the salt shakers like always. Asked if I’d seen you. I lied and said no. He looked relieved, and that scared me more than the trees.
Be careful, Cel. Please.
I don’t know what this thing is, but I know it’s not natural. And I know if anyone’s going to walk straight into it, it’s going to be you.
So don’t.
Or if you do—wait for me.
– Theo
#4 Letter
April 26, 1972
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Theo Calloway
Theo—
I keep thinking about your letter. The part where you said you’d go in with me. You meant it like a warning, I know. A reason not to. But my heart still caught on those words like they were a promise.
I don’t know when it changed—when looking at you stopped feeling like comfort and started feeling like the edge of something dangerous. But I like the way it feels. That’s probably the worst part.
Cas thinks I’m being reckless. But he doesn’t understand what it’s like to look at the world and want something more. He doesn’t feel pulled toward the trees the way I do. And he certainly doesn’t look at anyone the way I look at you.
You make me brave.
I know you’re scared. I am too. Everyone’s pretending things are fine, but we both know they’re not. People are disappearing. The town is whispering about shadows moving in the trees. The Wood isn’t quiet anymore.
But when I’m with you, the fear softens. Even if it’s still there, underneath everything else.
Promise me you’ll keep writing. Even if I stop.
Even if I can’t.
Because no matter what happens, I want there to be a record. Of this. Of us.
If we’re walking into something impossible, I’d rather go in holding your hand.
Yours—
Celeste
#5 Letter
April 29, 1972
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Celeste Black
Cel,
I’ve started and crumpled three versions of this letter. None of them said it right.
You’re the only person I’ve ever felt brave for.
I don’t mean that like a line in one of your novels—I mean it like a fact. When you look at me like I’m worth something, I almost believe it. Almost.
But Cel… I’m scared.
Not of the Wood. Not really. I mean, yeah, it’s terrifying. And wrong. And hungry. But what’s worse is what you told me yesterday.
That your family thinks the Wood is a gift. That they want to study it. Use it.
You don’t understand what that sounds like, coming from people like them. They’ll tear it apart looking for power. And when it fights back—and it will—they’ll find someone else to blame. Someone like me.
I’ve been having dreams. About the path. About you standing just at the edge, looking back at me like you’re already lost.
Don’t let them pull you under.
Don’t let them change you.
If the world’s coming undone, I want to stand beside you—but not if it means losing who you are. Not if it means the Cel I love turns into someone who looks at me like I’m in her way.
You said to keep writing. So I will. Even if you stop.
Even if you forget me.
But I really hope you don’t.
– Theo
#6 Letter
May 10, 1972
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Celeste
Private – Burn after reading
Cel,
I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news. I don’t mean the sanitized garbage they’re feeding us on Channel 4—I mean the real news. The kind we hear late at night when Father leaves the office door cracked too wide and Mother forgets the house echoes.
Something is happening. Something they’re not telling anyone else.
There’s one in Harrowick. A Magical. Not someone who walked out of the Wood—a person. A man. Human. At least, he was.
He set fire to the orchard behind the Ridgemont dairy. With his hands, Cel. Not gasoline. Not matches. Just—magic. Wild, unformed, and loud. I saw it myself. It was like the fire listened to him.
They took him away before anyone else saw, but I followed long enough to watch them load him into one of the unmarked vans Father pretends not to know about. He wasn’t screaming. He was smiling.
The government’s pretending it didn’t happen. And Father… he’s excited. He told Mother it’s all “finally unfolding.”
I don’t think we’re watching history. I think we’re watching a plan.
And the worst part? We’re in the center of it.
Don’t tell Theo. Don’t even look like you know something when you’re around him. The family’s starting to pay attention, and he’s the crack in your armor they’ll try to break through.
I’m not saying this to scare you. I’m saying it because you’re still the only one I trust.
But you need to be smarter. You need to be ready.
The world is changing. And this time, I don’t think we’re going to be able to pretend we’re above it.
—Cas
#7 Letter
October 3, 1974
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Theo
Do not let anyone else see this. Burn after reading.
Theo—
Two years ago, we were writing letters about trees and shadows and vanished boys. Now the whole world’s pretending none of it ever happened.
The governments are calling it containment.
The Mages say it’s evolution.
The rest of us? We’re still pretending we’re safe.
I don’t believe them anymore. I believe you. I always have.
The Magicals that walk among us aren’t human—not exactly. They look like us. Speak like us. But there’s something off. A hum in the air when they get too close. A weight behind their eyes like they’re hearing something the rest of us can’t.
And the truth no one wants to say out loud?
They didn’t come from us.
They didn’t used to be people.
They came out of the Wood.
Not into it—from it.
Fairies with glowing skin and voices like bells. Goblins with twisted smiles and fingers that split into too many joints. Shifters who twitch when they hear howls at night.
They are creatures of the Wood, Theo. Born from it. Shaped by it. No one knows how many are out there—or what they want.
My father says it’s a blessing. That magic is the future.
I’ve heard him whisper it behind closed doors: “Our family will hold the power that reshapes the world.”
But I don’t want power. I just want you.
I know Cas suspects. He watches me too closely now. He’s always in the hall when I sneak back in. He leaves my bedroom door open a crack like he’s giving me a chance to confess.
But I won’t.
Because what we have—it’s mine. It doesn’t belong to the Black family, or the Mage Houses, or whatever twisted world is rising up around us.
It’s just us.
You kissed me in the orchard last week.
And for the first time in months, I forgot how dangerous it all was.
I needed that. I needed you.
Please be careful. Cas won’t ask questions next time.
And if anyone finds this letter, they won’t just take you away.
They’ll make sure you don’t come back.
Yours, always—
Celeste
#8 Letter
October 7, 1974
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Celeste
No return address. Burn after reading.
Cel—
I had to wait to write this. Too many eyes. Too many shadows. I’m not sure which are worse.
The things you said—about the ones coming out of the Wood, the creatures that were never human—I’ve heard the same rumors. Whispers in alleyways. One of the dockhands at the mill said he saw something fly across the river. Not like a bird. Too long. Too fast. He hasn’t shown up for work since.
We used to talk about myths like they were bedtime stories. Now they’re walking the streets.
And I’m starting to think your father isn’t preparing for what’s coming. He’s welcoming it.
You said they’ll make sure I don’t come back. I believe you.
But you need to understand something, Cel—I’m not going anywhere.
Not unless you tell me to.
I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep watching. I’ll keep loving you from as far away as I have to. Just don’t ask me to forget.
I won’t.
Not after the orchard.
Not after everything.
Cas saw us. I know it. The way he looked at me yesterday—like I was already halfway buried.
I’m not afraid of him.
But I’m afraid of what he might do.
So if you ever feel like something isn’t right—if he says something or you just get that feeling—don’t wait. Tell me. I’ll come for you. No matter what.
You’re not alone in this.
Not as long as I’m still breathing.
—Theo
#9 Letter
February 16, 1975
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Theo
No return address. Hide this. Please.
Theo—
I don’t know how to say this. I’ve been sitting in the Black House greenhouse for over an hour, staring at the same cracked pot and trying not to cry because I think the walls are listening.
It’s happening.
Father’s decided.
Cas and I are being sent into the Wood.
Our sixteenth birthday. The path. The Heartstone. The transformation.
He says the blood in us is ready. That we’re “worthy of the risk.”
He said it like it was a compliment.
Like dying for power is an honor.
And Cas… he didn’t argue. He just stood there and nodded. Like he’s already accepted it. Like he’s always known this day would come.
I think maybe he did. Maybe I did too. But it still doesn’t feel real.
Theo, I don’t want to go.
They tell us that the ones who survive the Heartstone become Mages. That it’s beautiful. That it’s transcendent. But they never talk about the ones who don’t come back.
Or the ones who come back wrong.
I don’t know what the Wood will do to me. I don’t know if I’ll survive. But I know this—if I do, I won’t be the same.
And I’m scared you won’t recognize me.
I wanted to tell you in person, but I’m barely allowed to leave the estate now. Cas is always watching. Father’s tightened everything. He says we must be “pure of intent” when we enter. That any lingering attachments could interfere with the transformation.
He means you.
He always means you.
If I don’t come back—know that I loved you. That you were the only thing that made this cursed house feel like home.
And if I do come back… I don’t know who I’ll be.
But I’ll find you. Somehow.
Yours,
Celeste
#10 Letter
February 19, 1975
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Celeste
No return address. Hidden beneath the floorboard.
Cel—
No.
No, no, no—you are not doing this.
I don’t care what your father says. I don’t care what Cas is pretending not to feel. I don’t care what they whisper behind silk drapes and locked doors—you are not walking into that Wood.
You are not their offering.
You are not some heirloom they get to throw at a myth to see what survives.
Do you even hear yourself in that letter?
Do you know what it did to me—to read the words if I don’t come back?
I’ve watched the Black family take and take and take from you. They stole your silence. They dressed you in obedience and called it pride. They looked at your heart and saw leverage.
But not me.
I see you, Cel.
All of you.
I’m not going to sit here and wait for a letter to tell me if you lived or died.
I’m finding a way in. I don’t care if it kills me.
And if they catch me, they’ll have to drag me out in pieces.
Because I’m not going to lose you to the Wood.
Not to magic.
Not to them.
Hold on. Just a little longer.
I swear to whatever gods are left—I’ll get you out.
—Theo
#11 Letter
March 7, 1975
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Celeste
No address. No plan. Just words.
Cel—
It’s been two weeks.
I waited in the orchard. Every night since your birthday.
I waited until the frost bit my knuckles raw and the wind stopped whispering your name.
You didn’t come.
There’s been no word from the estate. No flicker of light in your bedroom window. No slip of paper hidden behind the bricks.
I haven’t seen Cas since your birthday. Not you. Not him. Not even a shadow.
I tried to get to the Wood. I made it half a mile before the Black family’s hired guards stopped me. Suits and silence. The kind of men who don’t blink when you scream.
They’ve stationed them at the estate too. No one goes in. No one comes out.
I think the Black family always knew someone would try to follow.
I think they knew it would be me.
I asked someone in town—one of the old Mages who sells charms to drunk tourists. I asked him what happens if someone doesn’t survive the transformation.
He just smiled and said, “Then the Wood keeps them.”
I punched a hole through my bedroom wall after that. I haven’t fixed it. I think I like the way it looks—shattered. Like me.
If you’re gone… I don’t know what I’ll do.
If you’re not… and you just can’t reach me…
Please.
Please.
Find a way back.
Even if you’re different. Even if you don’t remember the orchard or the sound of my voice or the way you used to leave ink smudges on my fingers when you handed me letters.
Even then, I’ll still be waiting.
—Theo
#12 Letter
March 20, 1975
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Theo
This letter must never be seen.
Theo—
I don’t know how to start this.
I don’t know how to be the version of me you remember.
But I’m still here.
Somehow.
The Wood didn’t kill us.
Cas and I made it to the Heartstone on our sixteenth birthday. We were told not to speak. Not to breathe too deeply. Not to feel.
I felt everything.
It was like standing inside fire and frost all at once. Like the Wood peeled back my skin and poured something ancient into my veins. I could feel the heartbeat of the trees. The pulse of something older than language.
I remember the color of Cas’s eyes when he came out of it. They were darker. Sharper. Like the magic chose him. Like it saw the shadows in him and approved.
And now…
He won’t talk to me the same way. He walks the halls like he already owns the world. Father says he’s ready. That Cas is the future of the Black family.
I think I’m just the price he paid to get there.
I’m different too. I feel it when I sleep. When I touch things. The air stutters around me sometimes, like it’s afraid.
They’re keeping me locked in the east wing.
They say I need “rest.”
What they mean is control.
They’re watching my hands. My words. My thoughts.
But Theo… I still remember you.
I still remember the orchard.
Your voice.
The way your hoodie always smelled like cold wind and firewood.
I don’t know what the Wood turned me into.
But I know who I was before I touched it.
And I’m holding on to that version of me with everything I have.
Please be safe.
Please stay far away.
If Cas knows I’m writing to you—he’ll make sure it’s the last letter I ever send.
But I needed you to know.
I’m alive.
And I still love you.
Always—
Celeste
#13 Letter
April 1, 1975
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Celeste
Hidden in the hollow of the orchard tree.
Cel—
I read your letter a hundred times before I believed it was real.
Then I cried.
Not because you were different.
But because you were still you.
They didn’t take that from you. They tried. Gods, they tried. But you’re still in there. I can feel it in your words. In the way you still sign your name like it’s a secret. In the way you’re afraid, but still reaching.
So here’s my truth:
I don’t care what the Wood did to you.
I don’t care if your hands spark or the air bends around your voice.
I don’t care if your eyes glow or the trees listen when you speak.
You’re still mine.
Not in the way they mean it—like something to control.
I mean the real way. The quiet way.
You’re my person. My promise. The reason I haven’t let this town swallow me whole.
I know your father’s locking you away. I know Cas is watching. I know it’s not safe to write. But I’ll keep finding a way.
And one day, when the locks fail and the guards blink and Cas thinks he’s already won—
I’ll be there.
I’ll come get you.
Because you’re not a weapon.
You’re not a legacy.
You’re Celeste Black.
And I’d rather burn with you than let them turn you into something you’re not.
Always—
Theo
#14 Letter
April 9, 1975
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Theo
Burn this the moment you finish. Please.
Theo—
I don’t want to write this.
But I have to.
Cas is changing.
I used to know his moods. The sharp tilt of his jaw when he was lying. The way his fingers twitched when he was about to say something cruel and call it honesty.
But now… it’s like watching a stranger wear his skin.
There’s something in his voice. In his eyes. A kind of cold certainty. He doesn’t just think he’s right—he knows it.
He watches me like I’m a chess piece. A locked door. A problem to be solved.
And I’m afraid, Theo. Truly afraid.
There’s something else.
The families who survived the transformation—the ones like mine—they’ve started forming something. A group. A secret alliance.
A Council.
Old names, old money, old blood.
They’re calling it a necessary step. “A new order,” Cas said at dinner.
They want to govern magic. Control it. Build a world where power belongs only to those who bled for it.
But you and I both know what they’re really doing.
They’re choosing who gets to be powerful—and who gets to disappear.
He hasn’t said your name, but I think he suspects.
I think he knows.
He smiles at me like nothing’s wrong.
Like he’s being patient.
Like he’s waiting.
Father’s always trusted Cas more. But now? He defers to him. Cas speaks and people listen.
He’s the favorite son. The heir. The perfect Black.
And I’m the girl locked in a velvet cage who still dreams about running away with a boy who smelled like autumn.
You’re still in here, Theo. Inside me. Like a secret spell I’m too afraid to speak.
But I can’t protect you if you stay close.
Please—don’t try to find me. Don’t write. Don’t look at the estate if you pass it on the road.
If you love me—forget me.
Because if Cas finds out what we were—what we are—
He’ll tear the memory of you from me, piece by piece.
And I won’t survive losing you again.
Yours, always (even if I shouldn’t be)—
Celeste
#15 Letter
October 5, 1977
Somewhere near Harrowick
To: Celeste
Buried beneath the roots of the orchard tree. I know you’ll find it.
Cel—
You told me to forget you.
That if I loved you, I’d let you go.
But I couldn’t.
I tried, for a while. I really did.
I stopped writing.
I stopped watching the estate.
I stopped whispering your name to the trees like it might call you back.
But your memory never left me. It just settled deeper.
Like roots. Like thorns.
And now… I know where they’re keeping you.
It took two years of whispers, of tracking men in expensive coats who never gave names, of bribing Council housemaids and pretending I didn’t notice the blood on their boots.
But I found you.
The new wing. The hidden one. Built beneath the estate like a tomb. No light. No visitors. No trace in any Black family records.
They buried you, Cel. But I’m not a boy anymore.
And I’m not afraid of digging.
I don’t care if you’ve changed.
I don’t care what magic has taken root in you.
You’re still mine.
And I’m coming to take you back.
This isn’t a love letter.
It’s a promise.
I’ll find the cracks in their fortress.
I’ll slip through the shadow of their name.
I’ll walk into that house of mirrors and monsters—
and I’ll walk out with you.
Just hold on.
You held on for me.
Now it’s my turn.
Always—
Theo
#16 Letter
October 12, 1977
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Theo
Folded beneath the broken brick by the back garden wall.
Theo—
I read your last letter with shaking hands.
And then I ran to the eastern staircase, heart in my throat, afraid you were already waiting in the dark.
I’ve never hated these walls more than I do now.
Not even when they first locked me in.
Not even when Cas put a hand on my shoulder and called me safe.
But now that I’ve seen you again… now that I’ve felt your breath on my skin, tasted your name in the orchard air…
This place doesn’t feel like a prison anymore.
It feels like a lie I refuse to keep telling.
We’ll get out. I don’t know how, not yet, but we will.
You slipped past their guards. You found my letters. You kissed me like time hadn’t touched us.
So yes—we’ll run.
The tunnel near the catacombs still exists. It’s been sealed, but not well. There’s a mage mark keeping it closed, but I’ve been practicing in secret. I’ve learned things.
I’ve been stealing notes from the Council’s briefings.
I’ve hidden them in the lining of my dresses and the spine of hollowed-out books.
We can use their own secrets against them.
I’ll gather what I can. Spells. Timing. Schedules. The names of the guards who blink too long.
And you—
You just have to stay alive until I get to you.
Because if we do this… we don’t look back.
Not for Cas.
Not for the name Black.
Not for anything.
Just you and me.
And whatever life we can build outside these cursed walls.
Always—
Celeste
#17 Letter
October 20, 1977
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Celeste
Delivered by hand. Left unsealed.
Dearest Sister—
It’s been some time since we last spoke, hasn’t it?
Funny, how silence can be louder than words when you know what to listen for.
The Council has been asking about you.
They say your progress is… inconsistent.
They say your loyalty wavers like a candle in wind.
But don’t worry.
I told them it was just growing pains.
That you were adjusting.
That you were still one of us.
I even smiled when I said it.
You’ve always been better at secrets than I have, Cel.
Better at sneaking out, slipping notes, leaving traces only one person could ever follow.
Do you think Father doesn’t know?
Do you think I don’t?
You forget—we were born of the same blood.
But I’m the one who listened.
I’m the one who believed.
And now?
Now I’m the one who decides what happens next.
Be careful, sister.
There are eyes in the walls now.
Ears in the glass.
And not every ghost who walks these halls is friendly.
I hope, for your sake, that you remember where your loyalties lie.
We wouldn’t want to lose you.
Again.
—Cas
#18 Letter
October 28, 1977
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: Cas
Scrawled. Unfolded. Delivered by force.
Cas—
Where is he?
Don’t pretend you don’t know. Don’t feed me that polished Black family venom wrapped in concern.
Where. Is. He.
Theo’s gone. Disappeared without a trace. His hiding place is empty. His letters—burned. The orchard is cold.
And you? You’ve been smiling again.
That soft little smirk you wear when you think you’ve won.
You think I don’t recognize the shape of your lies?
I grew up with them. I shared a womb with them. I used to defend them.
But this—this—is different.
You didn’t just betray me.
You destroyed the one good thing I had left.
And I swear, Cas, if you’ve hurt him—if he’s bleeding in some basement or bound by one of your Council leashes—I will not be quiet.
I will not play the good heir.
You always thought I was soft.
That I was the weak one. The sentimental one.
But love has teeth.
And if I find out you’ve taken him from me—
I’ll bare mine.
This House will burn before I let you make me a widow in waiting.
Tell me where he is.
Or pray the Wood takes mercy on you.
—Celeste
#19 Letter
Undated
Unknown Location
To: Celeste
Scrawled in uneven script. Delivered in secret by an unnamed servant.
Cel—
It’s loud here.
Even when it’s quiet.
The walls hum. The lights flicker. Something in the air tastes like metal and memory.
I don’t know how long it’s been.
Days. Weeks. Years?
I dream of you and I think they’re memories.
Or maybe I dream of memories and pretend they’re you.
They keep saying I’m close.
Close to what? They won’t tell me.
They say my blood is changing.
That it’s adapting.
That I’m becoming something new.
But all I feel is less.
Less human.
Less real.
Except when I think of you.
You in the orchard.
You whispering my name like it was a secret.
You kissing me like it was the first time and the last.
They can take my blood.
My body.
My name.
But not that.
Not you.
You’re the only thing that still feels warm.
And I’m so cold now, Cel.
So cold.
I think they’re going to try again tonight.
They say this time, it will take.
If I forget you—if whatever they’re turning me into is stronger than the boy you loved—
Don’t let me stay that way.
Pull me back.
Please.
—Theo
#20 Letter
November 2, 1977
Harrowick, North Carolina
To: No one
Scrawled in the back of a spellbook. Tucked between pages she hopes no one will read.
I got him out.
I don’t know how I did it.
The alarms. The blood. The way the hallway twisted when the magic shattered. I don’t remember moving—I just remember running.
And then he was there.
Curled in a corner like something forgotten.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched me with eyes I didn’t recognize.
They’re red now. Not like blood. Not like anger.
Like fire behind ice.
His skin is cold. Too cold.
His breath shallow, but steady.
He said my name once. Like it hurt.
And then he flinched when I touched him.
Not like he was afraid of me.
Like he was afraid for me.
He’s sleeping now.
Resting. Healing.
I don’t know what they did to him—not exactly. I only saw fragments. Tubes. Ritual circles. Silver binding marks etched into his skin and barely healed.
I want to believe he’s still Theo.
Still mine.
But when I pressed my hand to his chest, I couldn’t feel a heartbeat.
He looked up at me with those burning eyes—
and smiled with fangs.
They didn’t just change him.
They turned him into a Vampire.
—Celeste
#21 Letter
November 6, 1977
Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.
To: Celeste
Cel—
I know.
You don’t have to say it out loud. I see it when you look at me.
The fear. The ache. The question you won’t ask.
You don’t need to.
I already know what I am.
I can feel it in the silence.
In the way my skin no longer fits the same.
In the way light stings and hunger hums beneath my ribs like a second pulse.
I don’t dream anymore.
Not really.
But I see you when I close my eyes.
You, barefoot in the orchard.
You, saying my name like it still belongs to me.
That’s how I know I’m not gone.
Not completely.
They tried to hollow me out.
Tried to turn me into something sharp. A weapon. A warning.
But they didn’t count on you.
They didn’t know love could dig in deeper than magic.
So if you’re wondering whether I’ll stay—
whether I’ll fall into the dark they carved into me—
I won’t.
I won’t let this thing I’ve become be the end of us.
I’ll learn to live like this. I’ll fight the hunger.
I’ll win.
Because you pulled me back.
And I won’t break your heart again.
Not after everything it’s already survived.
You’re my home and my future.
Always,
Theo
#22 Letter
September 18, 1979
Blakewell, North Carolina
To: The Black Family Archives
Marked for future generations.
We’ve begun again.
The old world was too loud. Too scattered. Too full of ghosts who refused to stay buried.
But this place?
This place is untouched. Fertile. Quiet in all the right ways.
We’ve named it Blakewell.
A town to carry our legacy.
To shape the next generation of magic.
Father believes this is the final chapter. I believe it’s the first.
He still clings to old ways, old names. But I see it clearly now:
The future belongs to those who are willing to rewrite the story.
The Council grows stronger. The bloodlines are stabilizing.
We’ve documented the surviving rituals. Purged the weaker threads.
No more sentiment.
No more softness.
Celeste was always the fracture. The echo of something small and dangerous.
She made a choice.
So did I.
And only one of us was born to lead.
Theo Calloway has not resurfaced.
Not yet.
But Blakewell is warded. Watched.
And should he return, I will finish what began years ago.
We are building a haven. A seat of power. A monument.
And when they speak of the new age of Mages, they will speak our name.
Black.
—Caspian
Brittany Arden Author 