The rain came soft at first, like a forgotten lullaby tapping against the windows of the bookstore. Then harder—heavier, wilder—until it drowned out the hum of the heater and the quiet jazz trickling from the old radio Seraphina had forgotten to turn off.
She sat cross-legged behind the counter, arms wrapped around a cup of lukewarm tea, the steam long gone, the comfort fading just like her thoughts. There were two kinds of nights: the ones that passed, and the ones that stayed. This was the latter.
Her phone had buzzed three times in the past hour—Rowan checking in.
She hadn't answered. Couldn't. Not tonight.
Julian's name had appeared in her dreams again. Always the same dream. A hallway made of mirrors. His back turned. Her running, barefoot, blood dripping from her feet, screaming his name—but he never looked back.
Then, the mirrors would crack, and Madeline's face would stare back instead of hers.
She shook the memory off like a wet coat and forced herself to her feet. The rain had driven away customers early, and it was past closing time. She flicked off the "OPEN" sign, turned the key in the front door, and exhaled into the empty shop like it could hear her.
Then—a thump.
Not loud. But distinct. Behind her, in the second aisle near the old poetry section.
Her spine straightened. She wasn't the kind of girl who got spooked easily—this bookstore had been her sanctuary for years. But something about the sound… it wasn't a book falling. It was heavier than that. Like a presence brushing the shelves.
She moved slowly, feet quiet on the wood floor, every step thick with tension.
There it was. A book—not one of hers—lay on the floor.
She knelt down, frowning. The leather was aged but not dusty. Bound in deep navy, nearly black, with silver embossing she couldn't quite make out. The spine bore no publisher's mark, no ISBN. Just one word etched in curling, elegant script:
> Vale.
Her fingers twitched. She should've left it.
But of course she didn't.
She opened it. The inside smelled faintly of rosewater and ash. The pages were handwritten in a language she didn't know—but her brain recognized. It felt like understanding danced just beneath the surface.
And then—her name.
"Seraphina."
Written in ink that shimmered, like it was catching light that didn't exist.
Her hands trembled. A chill ran down her back.
Suddenly, the bell above the door rang.
She dropped the book.
Rowan stood in the doorway, drenched. No umbrella. No explanation.
He looked at the book on the ground. His jaw clenched. Too hard. Too fast.
"You found it," he said.
Not what's that?
Not are you okay?
Just that. Like he'd been waiting for this moment.
Her mouth dried. "You know this book?"
He stepped forward, rain dripping from his jacket. "You're not supposed to touch it."
"I'm sorry," she snapped. "Did you say I'm not supposed to in my bookstore?"
The air shifted between them.
He looked… different. Not physically. But his energy. His presence. Like a storm was standing still in his veins. His eyes—dark and furious—flashed something inhuman for the briefest second. Not a glow. Not a color change. Just... wrongness.
"I told them it was too soon," he muttered, almost to himself.
"Told who?" Her voice cracked. "Rowan, what the hell is going on?"
He looked at her like he was choosing which truth might hurt her less.
"You're not crazy," he said. "But you're not normal either."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you were never meant to live quietly in this city pretending to be just a woman with a broken heart and a dusty bookstore."
She stared at him, rage burning now. "Then what am I?"
He hesitated. "Not safe."
And then he left. Just… turned and walked back into the rain like the weight of saying more would've crushed him.
---
That night, Seraphina sat in bed with the book unopened on her nightstand. She couldn't touch it again—not yet.
But sleep didn't come easy.
And when it did, she saw a creature with silver eyes and wings made of smoke, standing over a cliffside battlefield. Beneath it, fires raged. Above it, stars blinked out, one by one.
She stood in the middle of it all. Crownless. Barefoot.
Around her, voices whispered in a language older than time.
> "Daughter of the Lost Line."
"Heirs of Vale must awaken."
She turned—and Rowan was there, eyes glowing. Guarding her. Bleeding.
She gasped awake.
Someone was in the room.
Her breath caught in her throat. Not quite a sound—but a feeling.
Then she heard it—a voice, soft and not human, curled around her like smoke:
> "Awaken."