The fire had burned low, throwing only shadows across the ancient floorboards.
Seraphina Vale stirred beneath the woven blanket, heart still thudding from a dream that had bled into memory. In her dream, her mother had whispered something in a language she did not understand, then kissed her forehead, eyes filled with tears and starlight.
When Seraphina opened her eyes, she half-expected the woman to still be standing at the hearth, holding her as she had when she was a baby. But there was only Rowan. Sitting against the stone wall, sword at his side, eyes shut—but not asleep.
"You dream loud," he murmured.
She rubbed her face, cheeks still damp. "Do you listen?"
"Only enough to make sure you're still here."
There was something in his tone—soft, brittle, almost guilty. She stood slowly, stretching, and walked to the window. Outside, the woods were still. A fog hung low across the underbrush, glowing faintly in the light of dawn. But beneath that stillness, there was something breathing.
"Rowan," she asked, "how long have they been watching me?"
He hesitated. "Since you were born."
She turned to him, lips tightening. "So my whole life has just been a surveillance project?"
"Not by everyone," he said, standing. "Some of us were protecting you. Some… not so much."
She could still feel the ghost of Julian's fingers around her wrist.
They spent the day combing through books in the library—books bound in scales, stitched in spider silk, smelling of ash and salt and blood. Every one of them mentioned the Veiled Court and the line of Vales.
What startled her most was the imagery. Every Vale woman bore similar features: long dark hair streaked with silver, eyes that shifted in color depending on the light, and a strange mark at the base of the spine—what one book referred to as "the gate of the Bone Lantern."
Seraphina hadn't noticed the mark before. But that night in the bath, when the candlelight flickered just right, she saw it.
A tiny crescent moon surrounded by seven dots. Like a constellation carved into her skin.
When she told Rowan, he grew quiet.
"That's how they'll track you."
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
"The mark activates when the Seal weakens. They can sense it. Smell it. The lower lords from the Below—they feed on bloodlines like yours."
"So how do I protect myself?"
Rowan stepped closer, jaw set. "You don't. We do. Together."
There was a weight in those two words she wasn't ready to unpack. Not yet.
That evening, Rowan lit a circle of salt and bones in the clearing behind the house.
Seraphina watched as he moved like someone reciting a dance learned long ago—graceful, precise, a blade wrapped in ritual.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Calling an ally."
"You have friends who like bone circles?"
"Just one," he said, smirking. "Don't worry. She's a bit dramatic, but she won't bite."
As the final rune was drawn in blood—his own—the wind snapped sharply. Leaves flew into the circle, and the air bent inward like a breath being taken by the earth.
And then, there she was.
A woman with skin the color of molten bronze, wings of feathers and ash, and eyes with no pupils. She stepped from the spiral of smoke like a goddess exiting her temple.
"Rowan," she said, voice like thunder wrapped in silk. "You dare summon me with such little flair?"
"I figured you'd enjoy the nostalgia," he replied dryly.
Her gaze turned to Seraphina—and everything stilled.
"You," the winged woman said, stepping forward slowly. "The last Vale. I never thought I'd see your blood awaken again."
Seraphina swallowed. "You know me?"
"I knew your mother. And her mother. I carried them across the river between worlds when they fell."
Rowan touched Seraphina's arm gently. "This is Nyra. One of the Astrals. She once served the Court before it fell."
Nyra tilted her head. "You walk close to your shadow, Vale girl. You will need a guide if you are to survive the path ahead."
Seraphina stepped into the circle. "Then teach me."
Nyra smiled. "No. I will test you."
And with a wave of her hand, the forest vanished.
Seraphina stood in a vast, moonlit desert. Sand swirled at her feet, whispering secrets she couldn't hear. In the distance, stone pillars rose like broken teeth from the earth, and somewhere behind her, something was chasing her.
She didn't remember how she got there. But she knew one thing:
She was alone.
No Rowan. No Nyra. No real-world anchor. Just the pounding of her heart, and the sound of wings overhead.
Suddenly, the moon shattered.
Black shards rained down like glass. Seraphina ran, ducking under a pillar as something large crashed into the sand behind her.
A creature—half-serpent, half-human, with a dozen crimson eyes—snarled and lunged.
She screamed.
And then instinct kicked in.
She threw up her hand.
Light burst from her palm, white-hot and searing. The creature screamed, recoiling. Her veins burned with something ancient, something violent.
Her voice rose—not hers, not quite. An incantation in a tongue she didn't recognize poured from her throat like fire.
The creature disintegrated.
She fell to her knees, breath shuddering.
And then the dream peeled away.
Nyra stood over her, wings folded.
"You passed."
Seraphina sat up slowly, sweat soaking her shirt. "What was that?"
"A fragment of your power," Nyra said. "Your blood remembers. Your bones remember. You are a weapon, Vale girl. You just forgot."
Rowan helped her to her feet. "How do we control it?"
Nyra looked at Seraphina, solemn. "You don't. You only survive it."
That night, Rowan stayed by her door.
Not inside the room. Not touching her. Just there. A steady presence. A silent promise.
Seraphina lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, tracing the pattern of stars etched into the wood. Her body ached in places she didn't know could ache. Her magic buzzed under her skin like static.
Everything had changed.
But something was growing inside her. Not fear. Not anymore.
Resolve.
She would find out what Julian did. She would uncover the truth about her family. And she would not run from her power—not anymore.
The next morning, they hiked to an abandoned chapel buried deep in the woods. Nyra said the old Vales once met there, in secret, to prepare for the Fall.
The structure was more ruin than sanctuary. Ivy choked the spire. The stained glass was shattered. But the altar was intact—and underneath it, a door.
Rowan and Seraphina pried it open together.
Beneath it was a chamber carved into the stone, covered in old symbols. And in the center, a pedestal holding a silver dagger with a black gem in the hilt.
"The Blood Key," Rowan breathed.
Nyra nodded. "Only the rightful heir can wield it."
Seraphina stepped forward. The dagger pulsed.
She reached for it.
And the moment her fingers closed around the hilt—
Pain. Blinding. All-consuming.
Visions slammed into her:
Her mother, running through the woods, cloak on fire.
A black gate opening beneath the sea.
Rowan, blood pouring from a wound in his chest.
A woman with her face—older, crueler—standing in a field of bones.
Seraphina staggered back, eyes wide.
Rowan caught her.
"What did you see?"
She clutched the dagger to her chest. "A warning."
Nyra's voice was low. "You saw what's coming."
Seraphina nodded. "And I'm not ready."
Rowan looked at her. "We'll make you ready."
That night, back at the house, she sat at the kitchen table with a map stretched out between them.
The Veiled Court had once ruled over hidden cities—realms tucked between the folds of the world. Places where time bent, where creatures lived in secret, where the Blood Magic still whispered.
They would need allies. Answers. Artifacts lost to time.
But more than anything—they would need to find the first gate.
It was where her bloodline began.
And if the visions were true, it would be where it might end.
Rowan poured her a glass of wine.
They drank in silence for a moment. Then she looked at him.
"Why do you stay?"
He didn't hesitate. "Because you matter."
She shook her head. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough," he said, eyes locking onto hers. "You're the only one who's ever scared me. Not because of your power—but because I know I'd burn the world to keep you breathing."
The silence that followed was hot and heavy.
She didn't break it.
She leaned in.
Their lips brushed—just a breath, just enough to crack something open. But she pulled back, eyes shining.
"Not yet," she said.
He nodded. "I can wait."
And outside, the fog thickened.
The watchers were closer now.
But so was her fire.