Part I — The Voice and the Void
The song had become a movement.
Across cities and covens, mortals and monsters whispered his name like it meant freedom. Echo.
Not Kai. Not wolf. Not godspawn.
Just sound — carried through speakers, through blood, through prayer.
The Alpha Order called it heresy in rhythm. The divine sentinels called it resonant contagion.
But the people called it hope.
Posters bloomed in alleys and underpasses — black moons dripping silver, the word REVERB painted beneath. Across the supernatural underground, half-bloods and exiles began gathering — sirens who'd lost their oceans, vampires excommunicated from their clans, werewolves born under wrong moons.
They came with trembling hands and old scars, whispering, "He sings for us."
Kai tried to hide from it, to tell himself he wasn't meant to lead anyone. But every time he closed his eyes, he heard them — millions of small, desperate heartbeats tuning to his own.
Lira said it best: "You didn't start a rebellion, Kai. You just gave it a melody."
He didn't answer. He couldn't. Because the melody was killing him.
Each time he used his power, his reflection grew dimmer — his voice more divine, less human. His pulse no longer matched the beat of the world.
It matched the moon.