Chapter 84 The Hawk Sigil
Vanessa
The cloth shouldn’t feel this heavy.
It’s barely the size of my palm—torn from the inside of Lyra’s cloak when she had grabbed my hair in cold cell. I hadn’t even realized I’d grabbed it at the time. It had been instinct. Reflex. Survival. I needed something, anything to use against her after.
Now it lies on my desk.
The candle beside me flickers, the flame bending slightly as if reacting to something unseen. Shadows stretch across the desk, crawling over the scattered books like long fingers.
I lean closer, resting my elbows against the wood, eyes narrowing as I study the embroidery stitched into the faded fabric.
A sigil.
Sharp lines cut across the cloth, forming the shape of a bird caught mid-dive. But it isn't your regular hawk; it's huge, almost three times of a normal-sized hawk. It has large yellow eyes, huge beaks, and red feathers. Its wings are jagged, almost unnatural, the edges too precise, too deliberate to be decorative. They look like blades, like weapons.
Beneath the bird sits a small circle,and inside it are three tiny runic marks. Simple, but wrong.
I trace the symbol again with my eyes, committing every detail to memory, trying to force recognition. “I know I’ve seen this before.”
The words fall softly into the empty room, swallowed almost instantly by the quiet.
But where?
That’s the problem.
That’s always the problem.
I’ve been at this for hours.
Books cover every surface of my room—stacked on the desk, piled on the floor, balanced precariously on the edge of my bed. Ancient magic texts, folklore archives, historical records from the pack library that haven’t been touched in decades.
Some of them even still smell like dust and neglect, while the others carry that faint metallic tang of old magic. Still none of them have given me what I need. Nothing matches.
At least… not exactly.
I lean back in the chair opposite my desk, letting my head fall against the worn wood behind me, staring up at the ceiling.
The room smells like old paper, candle wax, and something faintly herbal from the books I pulled from the library earlier.
Outside the window, the forest glows under the moonlight, soft, silver and deceptively peaceful.
Most of the house is asleep now which is exactly why I chose this time. No interruptions, no questions.
No Xander standing in the doorway with that look in his eyes that sees too much.
Even if I miss him like crazy especially with the way he had to leave to attend to business, and I want to see him again.
And definitely no Max leaning against the wall, smirking like he already knows I’m hiding something.
Because if either of them knew I had taken evidence from Lyra’s cloak…well, they’d have questions and I don’t have the answers yet. Not even close.
I lean forward again, dragging one of the heavier books closer.
Symbolism of Pre-Council Witchcraft.
The title alone had been enough to catch my attention earlier. Anything labeled 'Pre-Council' usually meant old magic. Dangerous magic. The kind that existed before rules were written… or enforced.
I flip through the pages again, slower this time.
Making sure to be careful and focused.
Each page is filled with symbols: circles, runes, intricate designs that twist and coil into patterns I barely understand. Some look harmless. Others just feel…wrong in a some kind of way.
Like the ink itself carries something heavier than meaning.
My fingers pause over one page.
Then another.
Nothing.
A sigh slips past my lips as I turn the page again.
And then, I stop.
My eyes narrow. It isn't the same symbol, but it's close. Very close.
I lean in, heart picking up slightly as I study the illustration. It's a hawk-like bird with its wings spread wide, curved upward instead of downward. The lines are smoother, less aggressive and more… controlled, surrounded by a ring of runes. Protective ones also, if I’m reading it right. The description beneath it almost faded, but still legible.
“Watcher of thresholds. Guardian of unseen paths. A symbol of guidance and protection used by early covens to mark safe passage between realms.”
I stare at it for a long moment before I glancing back at the cloth on my desk.
It has the same concept but a completely different intent.
This one feels… lighter, almost sacred.
The one on Lyra’s cloth?
It feels like someone took that idea and twisted it. Turned something meant to guide into something meant to hunt.
My stomach tightens slightly. “That is not good.”
I reach for my notebook and flip it open to a blank page.
The pencil feels heavier than it should as I begin sketching the sigil from memory. Line by line, stroke by stroke. The process forces me to slow down, to really look at it.
The angles and the sharpness.
The way the wings curve inward instead of outward, like they’re folding around something.
Or closing in on it.
The circle beneath it comes last.
Three runes, they're small, deliberate and precise. I hesitate before drawing them because something about them feels… familiar.
I just can't place it yet, but in a way that makes the back of my neck prickle. I sketch them anyway.
When I’m done, I sit back and stare at the page.
Someone had spent a lot of time on this because this isn't just decorative, every line means something.
“Okay,” I murmur, tapping the pencil lightly against the edge of the notebook. “Who do you belong to?”
The question lingers in the air.
Unanswered.
The bird shape bothers me the most. It doesn’t look like a normal hawk.
It looks predatory. Not like a watcher, guardian or hunter. Just something that doesn’t just observe from above but dives fast and lethal.
I flip another page in the book.
Then another.
My movements become more restless, more impatient.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
The hours continue to stretch, slipping past unnoticed as the candle burns lower, wax pooling at the base.
My eyes begin to sting from the strain and my head throbs faintly.
Fuck.
Eventually, frustration wins when I find nothing else yet.
I drop the pencil onto the desk with a soft clatter and rub my eyes, pressing my fingers against them until colors flash behind my eyelids.
“This is useless.”
The words come out sharper than I intend.
The silence that follows feels heavier.
I exhale slowly and lower my hands, gaze drifting back to the cloth.
It hasn’t moved.
Of course it hasn’t. Duh.
But somehow it feels like it has. Almost like it’s… waiting.
I lean forward again, resting my forearms on the desk, glaring at it.
“You’re not just decoration, are you? Who's your maker?”
No answer.
Just that same quiet presence. I sigh.
I reach out slowly, fingers brushing against the fabric.
The moment I touch it, something shifts. Not physically, but I feel it.
A faint hum, like distant energy buried deep within the threads.
My breath catches.
Magic, old and muted like something that’s been deliberately hidden.
A slow, uneasy realization settles in my chest, my heart beating a little faster.
This doesn’t feel like something Lyra came up with on her own.
This feels older. Older than the council. Older than the systems that are supposed to keep things like this contained.
I glance back at the book, then at my sketch. Then at the cloth again. Corrupted protection. Predatory guidance. A hunter’s mark.
A chill slides down my spine and I lean back in the chair again, staring at the ceiling.
There’s one person who might recognize something like this without needing ten books and a headache.
Elda.
The elderly witch lives on the edge of the territory, tucked away in that strange little cottage that always smells like herbs and something older. Something deeper. She’s seen things. Things most people don’t even know exist. She’s forgotten more about magic than most modern covens will ever learn.
If anyone knows what this sigil means, It’s definitely her.
I sit up slowly, resolve settling into place.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “That’s the next move.”
I reach for the cloth again, this time more carefully.
I fold it along its natural creases, pressing it flat before tucking it into the inner pocket of my jacket.
I’ll ask her about it tomorrow.
Something deep in my gut tells me this symbol matters. A lot.
And I’ve learned not to ignore my instincts any longer.
I glance once more at the sketch on my desk. At the sharp wings, the diving form. The three silent runes sitting beneath it like a secret waiting to be unlocked.
“If Lyra carried you…” I murmur softly, “Then you’re not the beginning.”
My gaze hardens slightly. “You’re the clue, but to what exactly is what I'm going to find out soon.”
The candle flickers again, the flame dipping low as the wick struggles against the melted wax.
The trees rustle like the forest itself knows something is coming.
I stand slowly, blowing out the candle.
Darkness settles instantly, wrapping around the room like a second skin.
Somewhere out there, something is watching.
And for the first time since this all started, I think we might be the ones being hunted.