At breakfast, the spoon felt heavy. Each bite tasteless, swallowed past a throat too tight with unease. I kept glancing at the window, expecting him—Eros—to be there, waiting. Watching.
But the street was empty. Only gray morning seeped in, indifferent and ordinary.
And yet, nothing felt ordinary. Not anymore.
Gathering my bag, I stepped outside. The air was cooler than expected, almost sharp, yet it did nothing to steady me. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to dull the thrum in my chest.
The street was quiet—too quiet for the hour. Even the usual hum of passing cars seemed muted, swallowed by the night. A pair of strangers laughed drunkenly as they passed, their voices slicing through the stillness like knives, but once they turned the corner, silence returned, thick and waiting, curling around the edges of the street like smoke.
I lingered, hesitant, staring down the narrow stretch of pavement leading away from the club. Every instinct screamed at me to walk, to go home, to pretend this night was ordinary. But the pull tugged again, subtle but insistent, drawing my gaze toward the shadows just beyond the reach of the flickering streetlight.
A chill rose along my spine, and I shivered despite the sweater clinging to my arms. My breath caught, steaming in the cold night air. The shadows stretched unnaturally, bending at angles that made my pulse hammer against my ribs. Every sense screamed that I wasn't alone.
For an instant—no more than a heartbeat—I swore I saw him. The same figure from inside. His silhouette moved with a stillness that seemed impossible, almost unreal. His eyes—darker than the night around him—pierced through the darkness, patient and ancient, holding a weight that made the world shrink around me.
And then he was gone. Swallowed by shadow as though he had never been there.
I blinked hard, my heart thudding in my throat, nails digging into my palms. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe Grandma's warnings had poisoned every corner of my thoughts. But the cold press of the air, the unnatural silence, the residual heat against my skin—none of it felt imagined.
No. I wasn't imagining him.
He was here.
The night itself seemed to fold in around us, heavy and watchful. My breath came in uneven clouds, each exhale a whisper against the black. Even the distant sounds—the dripping of rain from rooftops, the faint scrape of a trash bin—seemed magnified, stretched to keep pace with my pulse.
Eros stood just a few steps away, statuesque, unshaken, his presence bending the very space between us. He didn't need to move closer for me to feel the weight of his gaze; it pressed into my chest, daring me to look away.
But I didn't.
"What did you mean," I asked, my voice low, tight, and trembling slightly, "about the prophecy?"
A flicker of recognition passed across his face, subtle, almost imperceptible, like a spark catching in the corner of the dark. He had been waiting for me to ask.
I swallowed hard, throat dry. "Why? What does it mean? And what does any of it have to do with me?"
Silence stretched, thick and heavy. He studied me, slow and deliberate, as if every detail of me—every twitch, every thought, every hesitation—was both obvious and hidden all at once. The shadows behind him deepened, swallowing lamplight, stretching across the walls of nearby buildings, echoing the weight in his eyes.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low, steady, and certain:
"The prophecy isn't about what will happen. It's about who will make it happen." His eyes caught mine, unflinching, like steel. "You, Amara."
My throat tightened. My hands shook. "That's... insane. I'm nobody."
"Not nobody." He stepped closer, the lamplight catching the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the intensity in his expression. "Marked. Born into something you don't yet understand. You've felt it, haven't you? The pull in your blood. The shadows watching. The sense that nothing about your life has ever been entirely yours."
My fingers curled into fists at my sides, nails pressing into palms, every word hitting like a hammer against my chest.
"You talk as if you know me," I said, voice trembling.
"I do," he said simply. "Better than you know yourself."
The street seemed to darken further around us, the city dimming as if it recognized the gravity of the moment. All that remained was his voice and the thrum of my own heartbeat, loud enough to drown out everything else.
"Tell me what it means," I pressed, forcing the words out despite the trembling. "Tell me what I'm supposed to do with all this. Why you're even here."
For a fleeting moment, his expression softened—not with warmth, but something older, something unreadable, ancient.
"Because," he said quietly, deliberately, "if the prophecy is true... then you're the only one who can end us. Or the one who can save us."
The words hit me like a stone, sinking deep, heavy, impossible, terrifying. My breath caught in my chest. My knees felt weak, my hands clammy.
And for the first time, I realized this wasn't just fear I felt standing in front of him. This wasn't just danger. This wasn't just the pull of something unknown.
This was choice.
"You want answers," he said, low, dangerous. "Then look."
Before I could react, he moved faster than sight. One moment he was before me, the next his hand caught my wrist. I gasped, jerking back, but his grip wasn't cruel—just steady, like holding glass that might shatter.
The air thickened around us, vibrating faintly, almost like static brushing against my skin. I shivered, feeling the pulse of the city shift—the hum of distant traffic stretched, every footstep echoing as if in slow motion. Streetlights flickered, shadows elongating and bending toward us, curling around lampposts and the edges of buildings like liquid ink. The wind stilled, as if the night itself were holding its breath.
A scent—metallic, sharp, almost coppery—rose from the asphalt. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. The distant drip of rain became a drum, matching the rhythm pounding in my chest. Even the faint hum of electricity from a nearby transformer seemed magnified, vibrating against my skin.
Then a wave of heat surged up my arm, starting at my wrist and crawling in a bright, searing line that made me gasp. My fingers tingled, then burned. The shadows seemed to lean closer, the air tightening around us as if it could hold its breath. My vision sharpened unnaturally—I could see the tiny sparks of light reflecting off wet asphalt, the way the neon signs flickered like silent warnings, and the faint shimmer of the sigil beginning to glow beneath my skin.
I tore my gaze downward.
Beneath the lamplight, faint lines glowed on my wrist, spiraling upward, molten silver against my pale skin. They curled into a symbol I had never seen, yet somehow... recognized. My breath caught in a choked gasp as the pattern pulsed, almost alive, syncing with the rhythm of my heart. I could feel its heat under my skin, faint vibrations traveling up my arm, resonating in my chest. The world around me seemed muted, every sound dampened except for the thrum of my pulse and the hiss of distant rain sliding along the pavement.
"No..." My voice cracked. "That—that's not real."
"It's as real as the blood running in your veins," Eros said. His tone held no triumph, only certainty. "You bear the sigil of the First House. Royal blood—untouched, unclaimed. The bloodline our kind has hunted for centuries."
A shiver ran down my spine, the sensation of the symbol's energy crawling along my veins. My vision flickered at the edges—streetlights dimmed, shadows stretched, and the lamplight reflected off the silver lines, making the sigil appear as if it were etched into the air around me, not just my skin. My chest tightened, a mix of fear and... something else I couldn't name. Power, maybe. Recognition.
"That's why..." My lips trembled as the realization sank in. "That's why they're after me."
Eros's gaze locked with mine, sharp and merciless. "You're not prey, Amara. You're power. To some, salvation. To others, the weapon that will end them."
I stumbled back, yanking my wrist free, but the mark still glowed faintly, as if mocking me. I pressed my palm against it; the heat didn't fade entirely—it left a pulse, a thrum, like a second heartbeat vibrating beneath my flesh.
This wasn't new. It had always been inside me, waiting to awaken. The whispers at the edge of sleep, the way danger made my chest burn, the gate that pulsed in recognition of my blood—they were all pieces of this truth. And now, nothing would let me deny it.
Eros's words—end us or save us—still rang in my ears as the shadows leaned closer, wrapping the street in silent anticipation. And though he was gone in the blink of an eye, the sigil remained, a living reminder: that my blood carried destiny, and the night was already awake.