"Oh my God, not again. I kept on having this dream, and honestly, I still don't get the meaning."
I stare at the ceiling, listening to my worn-out fan creak overhead. The same chill follows me out of sleep and into the real world. Another year older—twenty-two today—but nothing ever feels normal on my birthday.
It's always this dream, every birthday since I turned eighteen:
I'm walking down a blinding, golden corridor—sometimes it feels like a palace, other times, a church filled with glowing light. Always in a wedding dress that fits too perfectly, too strangely.
Then him. Always him.
Tall, ridiculously handsome, but with eyes like the night sky—full of secrets and storms. He calls himself Azazel. Every time, I want to run or maybe scream, but I don't.
He holds out his hand, voice smooth and powerful:
"Welcome back, welcome back, my wife to be. I'm so happy. Let's work together and take dominion together."
I hate how my heart races. I hate that every birthday kicks off like this—haunted, confused, and alone.
Nobody would believe a girl like me—half invisible in my own life, living with my aunt Mirabel for as long as I can remember—gets dreams about evil grooms and palaces. Aunt Mirabel is more practical than magical; she keeps our little flat neat, even on her wildest days.
I drag myself out of bed, shake off the dream, and hustle to the shower. There's a party today, even if it's just going to be me, Aunt Mirabel, and some leftover stew. Not that I have friends to invite; I've never really fit in anywhere, not at uni, not online, not even in my aunt's homemade world.
After my shower, I pull on jeans and a hoodie, tie my hair in a messy bun, and make a quick list—cake, candles, maybe some soda if I'm feeling fancy. I slip out to the mall, enjoy the freedom of grocery aisles and music in my earbuds, pretending it's an ordinary birthday.
When I get back, arms full of cake and snacks, I freeze in the hallway. The front door is slightly open. Inside, Aunt Mirabel's voice is low—serious, worried. Then I hear two strangers: a man and a woman, their voices soft but urgent.
"It's time, Mirabel," the woman says. "Lucy must return to the kingdom where she belongs. She's older now—the bloodline can't hide her forever."
Kingdom? Belongs? I press my back to the wall, heart hammering. They can't mean me… can they.