The morning sun filtered weakly through Riven's curtains, casting fractured lines across his room. His body felt heavy — like he'd been running for hours in his sleep. When he finally sat up, his breath caught.
His sketchbook lay open on his desk, pages fluttering from the night breeze. The last thing he remembered drawing was an abstract swirl of darkness and wings. But now, an image stared back at him — a man with piercing silver eyes and a faint smirk, detailed down to the scar along his jawline.
Riven's fingers trembled.
He didn't remember drawing that.
He shut the book quickly, trying to calm his racing heart. It's just stress, he told himself. Midterms, lack of sleep, too much coffee. But deep down, something about those eyes… felt real.
---
At the university, the air was thick with the scent of rain and city smog. Riven walked past rows of students chatting in clusters, the noise blending into a low hum. He felt oddly detached — like the world was moving slightly out of sync.
Then, the feeling returned.
The weight of being watched.
He turned.
Across the courtyard, standing by the old fountain, was a man dressed in black — tall, composed, with eyes that caught the morning light like liquid mercury.
Azael.
Riven froze, his pulse stuttering. The man from his dream — from his drawing.
Their eyes met. For a moment, the world dimmed. The sounds, the people, everything faded. Azael tilted his head slightly, a small, unreadable smile curving his lips, as if greeting someone he'd waited centuries to find.
Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.
---
"Riven? You good?"
A voice snapped him out of his trance. His friend Kai, always with a camera slung over his shoulder, gave him a weird look.
"Yeah… yeah, just thought I saw someone," Riven muttered.
Kai raised an eyebrow. "You look like you've seen a ghost, dude."
Maybe I have, Riven thought.
---
Later that evening, rain poured over the city like silver threads. Riven wandered through the narrow backstreets near his apartment — the kind of alleys that swallowed sound. Something pulled him there. An invisible tug, a whisper he couldn't name.
When lightning split the sky, he saw him again — standing under an awning, dry despite the storm.
Azael.
"You shouldn't walk alone on nights like this," Azael said, voice smooth and low, echoing faintly beneath the rain.
Riven stepped back. "You… you followed me."
"Followed?" Azael's smile deepened, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "No. I found you."
Riven's heart hammered. "Who are you?"
Azael looked at him for a long moment — something ancient flickering behind his calm expression. Then, almost tenderly, he said,
"Someone who's been waiting for you to wake up."
The words struck like a pulse through Riven's chest.
Lightning flashed again — and in that flash, Azael's reflection in the puddle wasn't human. Wings of shadow unfurled, eyes burning crimson.
Then the image vanished. The rain fell heavier.
And Riven, trembling, whispered the only thing his mind could form:
"Wake up… from what?"
Azael's gaze softened — sorrow, longing, and something dangerous all in one.
"From yourself."
---
The rain swallowed his words, but they burned into Riven's soul.
That night, when he dreamed again, he saw flames, a blood-red moon, and a voice whispering:
> "The Eternal One… has returned."