The night it happened, Ayla thought it was just another storm.
Rain hammered against her bedroom window, thunder shaking the thin walls of her small house. She pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders, whispering to herself that it would pass, that storms always passed.
But then the thunder cracked like splitting glass—and the world outside ignited.
Through the window, the sky burned. Veins of fire stretched across the clouds, pulsing like living veins of molten light. The air warped, shimmering like a desert mirage. The storm didn't feel natural. It felt alive.
Her chest tightened, breath catching as the glass rattled so hard she thought it would shatter. Then came the sound—not thunder this time, but a roar. A deep, guttural howl that seemed to shake the very ground.
She didn't remember standing. She didn't remember opening the window. She only remembered the blinding flash of crimson fire swallowing her whole.
When Ayla's eyes opened again, she was no longer in her room.
She lay sprawled on damp earth, her body trembling. The sky was darker here, stars sharper, the moon a massive silver disk hanging so close it felt like it watched her. Trees rose high above, thick and ancient, the kind of forest that belonged in a storybook.
Her body ached, every muscle twisting. She reached for her throat, gasping at the pain crawling through her veins. Her nails scraped her skin—longer, sharper than before.
"No," she whispered, stumbling to her knees. "This isn't real. This isn't—"
The sound that tore from her throat silenced her. Not a scream. Not human. A low, guttural growl.
And deep in her chest, a hunger stirred.