The wooden box radiates warmth as Elena pulls it onto her lap, the intricate carvings on its surface pulsing faintly—like a heartbeat hidden beneath layers of wood and time. Outside, the wind stirs, rattling the old oak branches against her windowpane as if whispering *wait… wait… wait.*
She takes a deep breath.
Then unties the leather cord.
The lid lifts slowly—creaking as if it's resisting—but then pops open with a soft *click.*
A gentle glow rises from within—not harsh or blinding, but soft and silvery, like moonlight captured in glass. Nestled in dark velvet lies a smooth crystal pendant shaped like a teardrop, suspended from an ancient silver chain. Around its edges, symbols Elena doesn't recognize are etched—runic swirls that shimmer when she tilts it toward the light.
And then she feels it:
A pull behind her ribs—as if something within her *recognizes* this treasure.
Not just recognizes.
*Remembers.*
She doesn't know how or why… but part of her believes she's held this before—in another life? Another dream?
Her fingers tremble as they brush over the cold metal and stone—and suddenly—
*A vision.*
---
*Fire burns low beneath twisted trees shaped into arches above blood-soaked soil. A circle of figures stands cloaked in shadows—one steps forward: a young woman with long brown hair tied back with a leather band. She wears robes stitched with lunar phases and carries the same pendant resting in present-day Elena's palm—but glowing brighter than stars at midnight.*
Across from her stand two boys—one fair-skinned with green eyes full of sorrow (Stefan); one darker-skinned, broad-shouldered, jaw clenched tight (David). Both bleed down their arms where veins pulse black for three seconds then fade—signs of transformation fighting to break free before the ritual binds them back under control . . . not fully human nor beast but something older: guardians meant to walk between worlds.
The woman reaches out her hand, holding the crystal high, chanting words lost to history until the sky splits open, light pours down, connecting earth above, merging realms unseen.
Then a scream tears through the night—someone interrupts the ritual.
Figures turn fast—too late.
An arrow strikes the woman's chest, piercing her heart clean through.
The crystal falls into the mud; darkness swallows all, screams follow silence.
And one voice remains, whispering even after the memory ends:
"*When blood returns home … stone will wake … love shall break every seal.*"
---
Elena jerks back hard, gasping for air, dropping the crystal onto the carpet where its soft glow dims again.
"What was that?" she whispers, shaking hands clutching her knees, trying to stop her body from trembling so violently that her teeth chatter.
It felt real.
Too real.
Like remembering a death you never experienced…
The door creaks downstairs.
No—not the door.
The back window in the kitchen.
The slightest shift, a floorboard groans—only heard if you listen carefully, because most don't these days, assuming noises are just ghosts or the house settling. They don't realize that small sounds precede big horrors, patiently waiting, quiet killers reveling in suspense more than violence itself. They let their victims hear them coming just enough to think they can escape when the truth is always that it's already too late.
Elena freezes mid-breath.
Footsteps move slowly across the linoleum.
One. Two.
Pause near the pantry—does a shelf rattle, a bottle falling?
Another step forward—
She grabs the lamp beside the couch, ready to throw anything needed to protect herself. Remember Wickery Bridge—jump, no fear, girl—survive whatever comes next even if it shatters pieces of the soul, for somehow, some way, that's the only way to keep going: living, breathing, fighting, winning despite the cost.
Suddenly, her phone buzzes violently across the table; the screen lights up—unknown number, text appears, a single line stark white against a black background:
**"Don't trust what he tells you about your parents' accident."**
Her heart nearly stops, pumping fear instead, running at full sprint while survival instincts flare, red alert mode activated—run, hide, question later, live first, die second; choice is never an option anyway.
Footsteps halt abruptly outside the living room doorway.
Silence thickens, suffocating.
Then—
A familiar, low voice, chillingly controlled yet calm, speaks from beyond the reach of the shadowed wall, simply saying:
"You're not supposed to have that yet."
It's **Adrian Hobbs**.
He steps forward slowly, one hand casually tucked into his coat pocket, the other adjusting a cufflink on a tailored sleeve—far too formal for an uninvited visit to homes of townsfolk, who unknowingly harbor the keys to salvation and damnation. These same fragile mortal hands hold the power to destroy and rebalance a world teetering on the edge of collapse since the beginning ages—forgotten names whispered once during rites, dying amid screams, names written in dust and ashes carried away by the wind until reborn in flesh, destined to reclaim a throne of stolen dreams rewritten through tragedies masked as miracles. The cosmic clock ticks louder with every beat, nearing hour zero.
Adrian smiles—but no warmth touches his eyes.
"They were supposed to deliver it during phase completion," he says quietly, watching her pick up the crystal again despite the warning tone filling the space around him, pressing harder and heavier as if to remind her of the power she now holds.