They say Edinburgh is a city stitched together by ghosts—every cobblestone, every alleyway holding its own whisper of the dead. Most of us grow up ignoring the stories, laughing them off as tourist bait. But I should've listened.
Because the night the storm broke, the city wasn't haunted by the past. It was being claimed by something older, something that had been waiting for centuries.
I didn't know it then, but the chanting in the woods wasn't an accident. The circle, the runes, the glowing lines cut into the earth—they weren't some kids playing at witchcraft. They were a door. A door they cracked open with thunder for a key. And I was the fool who stepped too close.
When the light swallowed me, I thought it was death. It wasn't. Death would've been mercy.
Instead, I woke up trapped inside a body that wasn't mine, staring into my own face worn like a mask by something cruel and patient. And in his smile, I understood: my life wasn't stolen. It was rewritten. My soul wasn't lost. It had been claimed.
What happened in those woods wasn't the beginning of a nightmare. It was the end of the world I thought I knew.
And my name—Nabi—was now the first word in a story I never asked to be written.