Light spilled over the threshold into the vast and barren hall, illuminating blue filaments in the marble flooring. It vanished when the doors shut with an ominous thud behind me.

I paused while my eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering in through a series of tall, arched windows. Each one framed a unique snapshot of the surrounding nature reserve, lending the draughty hall the flattering impression of an art gallery. Reluctant to face the more sinister truth of the purpose of this room, I let my vision wander through the foggy panes and as far as the limitations of the environment allowed, all the way to the line of gumtrees heralding proper bushland in the distance. That distant canopy glowed with the ghostly light of the waxing moon.

Sensing that I could delay no longer, I set forth along the path of least resistance to the head of the room, where the marble underfoot rose into broad steps that eventually levelled out into a dais. Atop the dais sat a striking mahogany throne, carved into the likeness of snarling wolves. Its most menacing feature, however, was the man who occupied it; power seemed to ooze from his pores, hovering about him like a dark miasma.

But I'd grown accustomed to my father's posturing over the years. My eyes skirted over him in favour of the unfamiliar figure by his side. The wall sconces hadn't been lit, indicating the unexpected nature of this social call. Our guest was someone of relative importance, then — and impudence. Already holding the mysterious stranger personally responsible for the reprehensible interruption of my sleep, I turned the most disapproving of looks I could muster on —

— her. I blinked stupidly, genuinely surprised that I wasn't the only woman in the room. Most of the guests my father entertained were male, reflecting the frustrating distribution of power in our shadow society. She smiled at me, but the gesture was a little too earnest for my liking, especially considering we'd never met. I found my steps faltering, something deep within me urging caution, despite her approachable demeanour.

Seeking an explanation for my unease, I openly scrutinised her from head to toe. The woman's clothes would have been fitting for a smart-casual party, and she wore no makeup as far as I could tell. Her hair was fine and wispy, as compellingly dark as her complexion, and she'd somehow managed to twist it up in a knot that looked sophisticated rather than slovenly. The corner of my mouth twitched up ruefully; I'd never had the knack for that sort of thing, no doubt evidenced by the bird's nest atop my head even now.

But that is neither here nor there, I chided myself. Of more interest (and concern) was the crown of thorns atop the woman's brow, fashioned from gleaming white-gold. It was a beautiful piece, but a trickle of blood by her left temple implied it was more than just a pretty bauble. The points were undeniably sharp.

"Good evening, Chance," she addressed me, respectfully inclining her head. Her voice was deeper than I would have expected, given her petite stature. "I'm glad you could join us."

"It certainly took you long enough," Father grumbled, searching my form for any sign of grooming as he rose from the throne. He found none. I'd learned from experience not to test his patience when summoned, no matter how inconvenient the time of night might be.

"Actually, she's right on time," the visitor said wryly.

It took all of my willpower not to frown. Was she trying to aggravate him?

"Who are we entertaining this evening?" I pointedly asked my father, bypassing the presumptuous girl.

"Midna Everclear," he boomed in reply. "Prophet of the Council of Thirteen."

I raised an eyebrow; I'd never met a witch before. Though my father was polite towards the magical community in formal settings — like us, the Council of Thirteen owned a third of Melbourne City's infrastructure — he tried not to associate with them unnecessarily.

I didn't blame him. Witches were formidable enemies by all reports. And to think that Midna belonged to a coven comprising the world's most prodigious witches was unsettling, to say the least. She must be freakishly powerful, I thought with a flicker of mistrust, to be a member of that group at such a young age.

"I'm here because I had a vision," Midna said, as if that explained everything. "One that involves your family."

Not entirely sure that I leant any credence to premonition, I asked: "What did you see?"

"I saw your father." Midna turned to face the subject of her vision with wide, imploring eyes. "You're about to receive some news, Lord Nightshade. Terrible news, and it's going to prompt you to make a decision that will cost thousands of innocent lives."

"And what decision might that be?" Father humoured her.

"You're going to start a supernatural war."

There was a moment of stunned, disbelieving silence.

"That's ridiculous," I scoffed. "It would be entirely too much effort."

Whilst I'd failed to phrase it eloquently, it was the truth of the matter. Such an endeavour would require the conscription of every registered werewolf in the state, not to mention the relocation of all those dependent on them. Forming a viable army would be an administrative nightmare and incredibly taxing on our estate resources. Because where else would our soldiers live during such a war, and who else would feed them? We certainly couldn't expect them to put their lives on the line and to pay us for the privilege of staying here while they did it.

Father caught the gist of my thoughts and chuckled aloud. His blatant indifference towards the news of imminent disaster proved distressing for the witch.

"You must resolve this diplomatically," she insisted, clasping her hands so tightly that the colour leeched from her knuckles. "The battle I've foreseen is going to alert the human race to the existence of the shadow world."

"So?"

"So we can't afford for that to happen," Midna asserted, refusing to be dissuaded. "Humans can't handle the concept of magic or evolution that eludes them. If they discover us, the extremist factions of their societies will stop at nothing to exterminate us. It'll be the Salem witch trials all over again, only this time, they'll have the power at their disposal to get rid of us — all of us — for good."

Father shrugged. "It all sounds rather melodramatic, to be perfectly honest. You might as well take your leave; I'm afraid I have no way of verifying what you say."

Triumph flashed in the witch's eyes. "Why do you think I insisted on inviting your daughter to join us? Chance, I would appreciate your input on the matter."

The blood in my veins turned to slush. I felt frozen in place, even as my mind raced. Was it possible this visit was staged, her doomsday vision a sham, all of it an attempt to verify rumours about my abilities?

But there shouldn't have been rumours. Only my father and brother knew what I could do, and we were all sworn to secrecy.

Father reached out to me with a tendril of his mind. His eyes, the lurid yellow of a feral animal, narrowed dangerously as he reevaluated the witch. Play along, he sent. We need to test what she knows.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked Midna, feigning ignorance. It wouldn't do to clue her in on something if she was bluffing.

"I want you to verify what I'm saying. I know you can tell truth from lies," she admitted, and my heart felt like it was dropping into my shoes.

A second was all it took to grasp her throat and lift her into the air. I should kill her, I thought, fingers tightening reflexively. My father had been explicitly clear about his desire to keep my gift under wraps; if it became common knowledge, he'd lose the upper hand in all of his political negotiations.

But the enormous risk of letting Midna live came with a matching reward: the opportunity to learn more about my condition. I so desperately wanted to understand myself.

I shouldn't have been willing to spare her because of that.

"Put her down, Chance." I detected a hint of amusement in the command. "She can't tell us anything if she can't breathe."

I released her at once, relieved that he'd decided for me. Midna fell spluttering to her knees, clutching at her throat as tears sprang in her eyes. I fought the urge to pace as she recovered, mentally berating myself for compromising her ability to speak. I had so many burning questions, all competing for the place at the tip of my tongue.

When the witch climbed to her feet, there was an unsettling forgiveness in her eyes. I didn't like the way she looked at me, like she'd known me for many years and was intimately familiar with my person. How often had I featured in her visions?

"Only I know," Midna croaked. "Only I know about your magic, outside of your family."

The sensation that ensued was like the whoosh of a wick as it takes on flame, a rush of colour and warmth. Gold suffused my mind.

"She's telling the truth," I declared, some of the tension draining from my body. "Or at least, as she knows it."

"Of course," Midna said. "I wouldn't lie to you."

The truth of that statement failed to reassure me. I wouldn't lie to someone who can supernaturally detect deception, either, I thought bitterly. No, instead I would find other ways to mislead them, with fractions of the truth or outright omission. It was another reason my gift was best kept secret, and why I lived my life in relative solitude as an extension of my father's City Pack. If I were to forge a telepathic union with a pack of my own, a single stray thought could expose me.

Father cleared his throat, visibly disgruntled by this turn of events. "Midna, you have intruded on my territory and on my time. My patience is wearing thin. If you can't convince me of the sincerity of your vision with your next sentence, I'll have you forcibly removed from the premises. Assuming, of course, that you can also convince me Chance's secret will be safe with you. One way or another, you're going to take it to the grave."

It was a blatant threat, but Midna didn't look daunted, as I would have expected. She's seen this all before, I realised as she opened her mouth to deliver a line she must have practiced a thousand times.

"I will not jeopardise the secret of Chance's magic for as long as I live," she vowed. I nodded, confirming what she said. "And if Ford Nightshade ushers in a supernatural war, it will result in the discovery and annihilation of the shadow world."

Whoosh. This time her words were more like a breath of wind to a forest fire. An ethereal kaleidoscope assaulted my perception. It shone predominantly with gold, but there were nuances of sparkling grey and charcoal that confused me, because each dark segment was a potential lie. But why would she lie to me if she knows about my gift? I wondered, only able to pose questions, incapable of reaching a conclusion. Is the future not set in stone? Is it potential but unlikely futures she's witnessed that are corrupting her statement?

Midna checked her watch and did a double take. "Please," she begged of us, desperation leaking into her tone. "No matter what happens, you must not go to war with the Irephang family."

Father made a noise of disgust, one that I was quick to imitate. The Irephang family was the vampire equivalent of ours, the presiding monarchy in their respective shadow society. The interspecies treaty established in colonial times forced us to be civil with the leeches, but their actions — nay, their very nature — persistently tested our patience. Vampires were parasites that relied on the life force of other creatures to survive. Their immortality defied the natural order of the world and their lust for power was insatiable, resulting in several border skirmishes over the years and a constant state of underhanded competition in modern institutions of power. We were constantly training agents to limit the influence of theirs in corporations, emergency services, and even government proceedings on a state and federal level.

"As much as I detest vampires, outright war with them seems like an extreme option," I admitted. "Perhaps we could compromise in some —"

The doors burst open, propelling the stench of blood throughout the hall. A man lurched towards us, clutching at a wound in his side, twin crimson smears following the progress of his feet. His legs gave way when he reached the base of the stairs.

"Richard?" It took a moment for me to recognise the man beneath the gore. He was my elder brother's Beta, of the Melbourne City Heir Pack. Their ranks comprised the children of various high-ranking werewolves. "What happened?"

"All seven of us were patrolling the border," Richard said through panting breaths, raking back the fiery strands of hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Unfortunately, the nervous gesture resulted in the smearing of blood all over his brow. "The Irephang brat ambushed us. Arthur tried to resolve things diplomatically, but..." Richard trailed off, his cornflower-blue eyes filling with tears. "Things went bad."

I glanced at Midna, perturbed. What could Richard possibly say that was bad enough to catalyse an interspecies shadow war? "Where is my brother?" I asked abruptly. "How badly was he hurt?"

"Arthur..." Richard couldn't finish. A tear slipped down his cheek. "He didn't make it."

A starburst of gold. I wanted to throw up, to purge the evidence of the truth. Father rose from the throne and descended on us, hands balled into menacing fists.

"You're wrong," he said, with the clipped tone of tightly controlled rage. "Arthur is an exemplary warrior, more than capable of tackling those odds. I taught him myself."

Richard swallowed hard. "I know, sir, but —"

"Silence!"

An invisible wave of dominance crashed down on our heads. Midna was oblivious to it, as anyone not of our species would be, and so it must have seemed especially strange to her when Richard crumpled to the floor and curled up into a whimpering ball. I was a little more accustomed to the strength of my father's will, and managed to weather the mental blow, stumbling only a little.

"Where is my son?" the City Alpha demanded to know.

"His body is in an alleyway," Richard whimpered. "I can take you there, if you let me —"

Father lashed out with his boot, catching Richard on his wounded side. There was an audible crack of bone, followed by an ear-splitting howl of pain.

"How dare you lie to me, boy!"

Another kick, another scream. Midna started forward, but I gripped her wrist and held her in place, shaking my head at the pleading look she sent my way. My father was venting. I knew from experience that by interfering, we only risked becoming new targets for his violent attentions.

"I'm not lying," Richard sobbed, shielding his face as best he could with his arms. "Your son... my friend, he's dead. Arthur is dead."

Gold.

The information my magic provided was impossible to debate, unfairly catapulting me through the first stage of grief. I didn't want to acknowledge Arthur's passing; like any other, I wanted to cling to the hope that my loved one might still be alive. But I was damned to recognise the truth. Even without a corpse as proof, I knew my brother was dead.

"Stop." My voice came out strangled, barely audible to my own ears. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Dad, stop. He's telling the truth."

Father came to a shuddering halt. That title was a cruel reminder of the time when my mother was still alive. But I needed his attention, and I knew that invoking her memory would secure it.

"Richard is telling the truth," I went on, enunciating every word whilst maintaining a relatively submissive posture, hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. I didn't want him to perceive my assertion of the facts as a challenge to his authority. "My gift says so."

"Your gift..." The meaning of my words finally sank in. It absolutely bewildered him. "No. That can't be right."

"It is," I said, settling the matter.

There was an instant of sincere pain in his eyes before they clouded with rage. This time his boot came down on the side of Richard's head, trapping it against the floor. "How is it," the City Alpha growled through clenched teeth, "that you survived instead of my son?"

"If I could have taken the blow that killed him, I would have," Richard whispered, all the fight taken out of him. "He was my best friend."

His words rang true, but I wished they hadn't. I needed someone to blame, someone to punish for this devastating loss. But I did the right thing and nodded in response to my father's questioning gaze, confirming what Richard said.

"Well, you know what this means," Father said, ceasing his assault on the messenger whose news had changed the very course of our lives.

"What?" I asked, but I knew what he would say from Midna's sudden look of defeat. She closed her eyes, as if readying herself for a verbal blow.

"Isn't it obvious? The vampires killed my son. We must go to war."