The police precinct smelled like stale coffee and old secrets. Detective Rhys leaned forward across his desk, a man worn thin by cases that defied explanation. He dropped a file onto the desk between him and Nyah with a heavy sigh, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes like he could erase what he'd seen.
"They all had the same chemical compound in their blood," he said at last. "Victim after victim with identical signatures."
Nyah flipped through the pages. "A drug?"
"No. That's the thing! It was not a drug. I don't even think it was from this world." He paused, weighing his words. "I had three labs test it and none could classify the compound. The structure isn't entirely carbon-based. As a matter of fact, it shouldn't exist."
Nyah's breath hitched.
Rhys reached into his drawer, pulled out a photo, and slid it toward her. "We found this burned into Greg's spine postmortem. Same with two others. All carrying the same symbol."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she took the image.
The symbol was jagged and ancient-looking, like a clawed spiral with spiked edges.
"I'm sure that Greg was helping your sister," Rhys continued, watching her face carefully. "She was investigating the compound on her own. I think she got close to something—or someone—and that's when things went sideways."
Nyah's gaze locked on the sigil, her voice distant. "This isn't random. It's connected to Ravion somehow."
"You have no proof of that," Rhys warned.
"I don't need proof. I have a hunch and that's all I need to get to the bottom of this."
She stood, her movements swift, decisive. "I'm going to dig deeper into this. I need access to everything Greg touched—company logs, clearance archives, restricted files."
Rhys stood too, blocking her with a hand. "Ny, you're crossing lines here. These aren't red-tape lines. They're firewalls built to vaporize you."
She looked at him then—really looked—and the fire in her eyes startled him. "Then erase my footprints after I cross them."
****
Ravion Global's rooftop was too quiet tonight. The usual low hum of distant traffic and wind-swept sirens seemed to still beneath the weight of something unseen—something ancient. The air shimmered in a crescent-shaped ripple near the helipad, like heat rising from a dying sun. Kael felt it in his bones before it formed—a pull, deeper than gravity, older than memory.
He stood alone near the edge, the skyline a jagged silhouette against the silver-washed sky. A glass of untouched whiskey hung loosely in his hand, catching the moonlight like liquid amber. His other hand brushed the railing, fingers twitching with tension. Above him, the moon gleamed too bright, too still—as if watching.
He knew the signs. Aelareth was calling. Is he ready to answer the call though?
Thane emerged from the rooftop access door, coat fluttering behind him like a phantom's shadow. His movements were precise, as always—silent, composed.
"You felt it," Thane said, matter-of-fact, stepping to Kael's side.
Kael didn't answer right away. His fingers grazed the lip of the glass, but he didn't drink. "The boundary's thinner than it should be."
Thane nodded. "Our contacts in Montenegro confirmed a breach. The Orrian Order lit the pyres again. A blood ritual—eastern dialects, one not seen in over a century. That's Daeva's domain."
Kael's brow twitched. "Then she's finally moving."
"Yes. And we're wasting time here."
Kael exhaled, slow. "Aelareth will survive another day."
Thane's jaw clenched. "You know better. The threads are unraveling. Your people are leaderless, scattered—waiting for you to return. You cannot delegate your responsibilities to the elders. You're the deity of Aelareth and your people need you, Kael. It's time to return."
Kael said nothing.
Thane's eyes narrowed. "Or is this about the girl?"
Kael turned his head slightly, but not all the way.
"I've seen this before," Thane continued, his voice low and edged. "The way you watch her. There's a force around her—I'll give you that—but you're letting curiosity cloud your sense of reasoning. She's mortal. At least… as far as we know."
Kael's grip tightened on the glass. "She's not just any random mortal."
Thane scoffed. "You don't know what she is. You feel something and that's not the same as knowing."
"No, it's not," Kael agreed, voice quiet but certain. "But I've ruled Aelareth for centuries. I've walked through flame and ruin and watched stars fall. I've never felt this. The night she went under the water, I felt a crack run through the Veil… and something inside me broke open. That doesn't happen for nothing."
"Then investigate," Thane said sharply, stepping closer. "Probe it. Study her. But don't forget who you are. You're not some wayward sentinel sniffing after omens in alleyways. You're the Sovereign of Aelareth."
Kael finally turned to meet his gaze. "Exactly. Which means I don't move without understanding what I'm stepping into. Daeva's movements don't scare me as much as what I don't know about this woman."
Thane shook his head. "If she's a threat, you're handing her leverage with every delay. If she's nothing—"
"She's not nothing," Kael interrupted, eyes dark. "She's a fracture. A question mark where there shouldn't be one."
Thane sighed, restrained. "So what? You'll wait here until she shows you what she is?"
"I'll wait until I understand why fate is circling her like a hawk," Kael replied. "If she's important—if she's tied to me or Aelareth—leaving now could hand her straight to the wrong side."
A long silence passed. Then Thane said, more quietly, "The sky opened tonight. That hasn't happened in centuries. The people need their divine leader."
Kael's gaze flicked toward the shimmering pulse of the boundary forming above them, vertical and narrow like a closing eye.
"I'll cross soon," he said at last. "But not yet."
Thane gave him a long look, disappointment woven with loyalty. Then, with a sharp nod, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows.
Kael stood alone again. The wind surged and the veil pulsed. Still, he didn't move.
He only whispered, almost to himself, "Who exactly are you, Nyah? What are you up to?
And the sky, torn between worlds, remained silent.
****
Far from the neon pulse of Prague's cityscape, deep beneath the bones of St. Vitus Cathedral, where sunlight had not touched stone in centuries, a hidden chamber breathed with unnatural life. It was a vault of secrets—carved in blood, whispered into existence, and pulsing now with something ancient.
The entrance was nothing but an unmarked slab behind the confessional. But through a series of trapdoors, mirrored corridors, and forgotten crypts, the masked figures descended—one by one, deeper into the belly of forgotten faith.
At the chamber's heart stood a black altar carved from volcanic glass, veined with glowing threads that pulsed in time with no heartbeat. The air was thick with incense and rot, and the scent of myrrh couldn't mask the undercurrent of burnt ozone and bone.
Above the altar, Daeva stood barefoot, robes of crimson unraveling in slow ribbons as if obeying unseen hands. As moonlight filtered down through an impossibly narrow crack in the stone ceiling, it touched her skin—and her form began to unravel.
Bones shifted audibly. Her spine arched back with a sound like splintering ice. Her human flesh peeled away in shimmering seams, revealing a divine monstrosity of obsidian and starlight. She rose taller. Taller than she should have. Her limbs elongated with elegance and terror. Her eyes—voids that spun like dying stars—swallowed the chamber in silence.
Her voice—when it came—was not a human voice, but a choir of languages long dead, vibrating in the chest of every witness. It slipped into their ears, behind their eyes, and curled around their nerves like silk and steel.
Candles floated, suspended midair like pale stars. Symbols glowed faintly in the air above each masked figure. The ground hummed with glyphs centuries old—not drawn, but carved by will alone.
The masked figures were the world's elite. Billionaires in bone masks. Politicians cloaked in obsidian velvet. Media moguls clutching prayer beads that twitched of their own accord. They all bore the Sigil of Allegiance, scorched into their flesh in places never seen in daylight.
Some watched in rapture. Others barely kept themselves from vomiting.
Then a trembling girl was brought forward. She was young and innocent. Her eyes widened with raw fear and disbelief that such a magical yet dark place existed. She was thrown to her knees in the circle, the glyphs beneath her feet reacting—writhing like snakes.
Daeva stepped forward gliding, not walking. Her presence cracked the air like a hum beneath the skin. She addressed the masked audience.
"You seek immortality," she whispered, though her voice echoed as if shouted from behind a thousand veils. "You beg for divinity. But you forget what gods are made of."
The sigils flared. The chamber darkened, almost like it was retreating from what was coming.
"Let me show you."
The shadows lunged and slowly glided over the walls like smoke with talons. The girl screamed, and the chamber shook. Candles flickered. The masked figures trembled.
When the shadows pulled back, the young girl stood. still with hollow silver eyes. Her breath no longer fogged in the cold air. She was no longer a girl.
Silence fell upon the room like a blade. Even Daeva paused—head tilted, like a maestro admiring her crescendo.
Then the masked crowd moved—slowly at first, then all at once. Knees hit stone. Hands clutched robes. A billionaire wept into gloved fingers. One woman convulsed in silent reverence.
Daeva—her form now folding slowly back into near-human shape, her silhouette draped in whispers—turned to them, with a sinister smile sharp enough to cut someone.
"Immortality," she purred, "begins with obedience."
The room erupted—not with applause, but with chanting so raw, so guttural, it sounded older than language. Like the cracking of earth. Like the mourning of stars.
The sight was almost unreal to a mere observer.
****
6:14 a.m. — Ravion Global Headquarters. Steel and glass shimmered like a weapon against the pale light of dawn. Nyah stepped through the security doors like a shadow with purpose. Her navy slacks cut sharply against her boots, her coat cinched neatly, sunglasses hiding eyes that scanned everything. She wasn't here for polite questions. She was here for the ghosts in the data.
Greg's former coworker, Flynn, sat in Sublevel Two like a man at war with sleep. He looked twitchy and thin. Too pale for someone who rarely skipped lunch.
"I—I don't know what he was into," Flynn said, voice cracking under the pressure of her silence. "All I know is, Greg changed. He started spending nights on Sublevel Four and kept muttering about something he saw in the vaults."
Nyah tilted her head. "Vaults?"
He licked his lips. "You don't get clearance down there unless you're… them. The Executives. People with black badges and dead stares. Greg said he found something down there."
Her pulse quickened.
"And then there were the books," Flynn added. "He started carrying around these old journals. Leather-bound. Filled with glyphs and diagrams. I swear one of them looked like… a spellbook."
Nyah stared at him for a long moment. "What happened to the books?"
Flynn's eyes darted nervously. "I heard he hid one. In the HVAC duct above his desk. Maintenance found scorch marks after he died."
Before she could respond, a strange silence fell over the corridor.
From the far end of the hall, the click of polished shoes. Then—Kael appeared.
Black tailored suit, dark silk tie, posture carved from authority. His presence rolled through the hallway like gravity made flesh. People stepped aside without knowing why.
Nyah turned, caught in his gaze. Her breath snagged, just slightly. Their eyes locked.
For a moment, the world around her dimmed. The fluorescents flickered, just once. Her chest tightened—not with fear… but with faint warmth and familiarity.
Huh? What was that? She was sure she didn't know this man like THAT. Or did she?
Kael's eyes narrowed slightly. He'd felt it again—that ripple in reality. Stronger when she was near. It felt like the air between them wanted to split and speak.
Nyah held her ground, her expression cool. Controlled.
Kael approached, each step deliberate. "Miss Keene," he said, his voice a dark velvet. "You're a long way from the employee lounge."
"I'm getting to know everyone in the company," she replied smoothly, removing her sunglasses. "Apparently I have so much to learn about the company and the work ethics here."
Kael tilted his head. "Curiosity is an admirable trait."
"It's not curiosity," she said. "It's survival."
His gaze dipped to the folder in her hand, then flicked back up. "Then I hope you have some fun "bonding" with everyone."
Her lips curled faintly. "Oh, I'm having fun already. It can only get better."
Kael studied her, and in that moment, something flickered behind his eyes. A memory he didn't possess. A future he hadn't lived.
Then, like a page turning, it was gone.
Without another word, he moved past her. But not without one last glance—not warning… not interest… but intrigue.
Nyah watched him disappear around the corner.
And somewhere far above them, unseen by both, the Veil cracked again—just a hairline fracture.
****
Nyah was drowning again but not in water. She was drowning in silk, in heat, in the press of starlit shadows that kissed every inch of her skin. The dream held her like a lover—breathing against her throat, winding through her fingers, curling into the folds of her deepest thoughts.
She stood barefoot in a field of obsidian grass, each blade glinting with violet dew that shimmered like gemstones under a sky she couldn't name. Above her, twin moons circled, leaving silver trails in their wake. Clouds churned in lavender firestorms, the air tasting of spice and myth.
She should have been afraid.
But her skin tingled. Her breath came shallow. Her heart didn't race with fear—but with anticipation and recognition. She didn't know how or why, but the name—Aelareth—burned itself into her thoughts like an echo from another life.
The silk gown she wore was a second skin—crimson, sinfully sheer, cut high along the thighs and cinched tight at the waist. A breeze, warm and scented like night jasmine and lightning, brushed her bare shoulders, teasing the hem of her dress. It whispered along her collarbone like a secret.
She was being watched. Wanted. Claimed.
Then, he appeared.
From behind a wall of mist, a figure emerged—tall, godlike, untamed. Shadows bent toward him. Stars seemed to orbit him. His skin was warm bronze, etched in faint gold veins that pulsed with power. Long dark hair fell around his face, tousled by the wind, and his eyes… his eyes were molten silver, burning with hunger and something older than time.
Riven.
How did she know his name? It was as though it had been carved into her bones long before she was born.
He didn't walk—he prowled, every step like a promise of devastation and desire. His gaze locked on hers, and the air between them thickened, turned electric. Her pulse quickened as the space between them shrank.
"Mine," he said.
It was not a question nor was it a plea. It was a declaration.
Her breath hitched. "Who... are you?" she whispered, voice barely her own.
His smile was slow, wicked, and breathtaking. "You know me," he said, stepping closer, the obsidian grass parting around him like it feared him—and worshipped him.
She stepped back on instinct, but her body wouldn't obey her mind. The heat rising between them was unbearable. Familiar. Terrifying.
He reached out, fingertips brushing her jaw—and she shivered, not from cold, but from the wildfire that ignited beneath her skin. Her knees threatened to buckle.
"I've waited long enough," he murmured, voice a melody stitched with thunder. "Come to me. The veil is thinning. The time is right."
His hand slid around her waist, pulling her to him with impossible gentleness. Her body reacted with betrayal—a flush of desire bloomed where his fingers touched, and her lips parted with a breathless gasp.
He leaned in, his mouth grazing the curve of her throat.
"You were always meant to find me," he whispered, as the world blurred—
****
Nyah jolted awake, the dream ripping from her lungs like a scream she hadn't let go. She sat up, drenched in sweat, her silk camisole clinging to her skin. Every nerve burned and every breath felt stolen.
Her sheets were twisted around her legs, the taste of the dream still on her lips. The heat… the heat was real. The ache was real. And the name that clung to the back of her throat, unspoken but etched in neon fire?
Kael.
Her heart thudded like war drums. She stared into the dark of her bedroom, pulse unsteady, hands trembling with fury and want.
"That bastard," she whispered, swinging her legs out of bed. "I could almost swear that was him in my dream. Or was that a god?"
She paced, mind spiraling, body still betraying her with lingering warmth. "No, no. I'm sure Kael is hiding something. Something big. And now he's trying to seduce me away from finding it."
She stopped in front of her mirror. Her pupils were still wide. Her pulse still racing. But her voice was cold now.
"Let's see how well you play when the cards are in my hands, Kael."
She smiled—a sharp, knowing smile—and reached for her tablet.
She had some digging to do.