Jeremiah was running.
The ground beneath his feet was uneven, slick, dark Stone—soaked through with blood that clung to his boots and splashed up his legs with every step. The air was thick, heavy, filled with the coppery stench of blood, sharp enough to burn his throat when he breathed. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, far too loud, far too fast, drowning out everything else.
Or maybe that was someone else screaming.
He couldn't tell.
Shadows surged through the Darkness—too many, too fast. They were a blur of violence, limbs flashing and bodies colliding in a frenzied, unfocused chaos. He was drowning in it: the dull thud of impact, the desperate resistance, the sensation of wading through a tide of yielding flesh.
Falling to his knees.
He looked down.
His hands were clean.
Then, the red bled in.
Viscous and hot, blood flooded his palms, snaking up his wrists in slow, rhythmic trails. It should have been a horror, but it wasn't. It felt horribly natural—a muscle memory he couldn't suppress. He knew this feeling. He knew this warmth. He had always known there's a predator inside him, even if he had buried the memory of it.
A whisper threaded through the chaos.
Not a voice. Not words.
A pull.
Hunger pressed against him from somewhere deep and instinctive, coiled tight with restraint. The urge to give in warred with the discipline that had been hammered into him over years of control and repetition. His body wanted one thing. His mind demanded another.
Someone called his name.
The sound was distant, warped, stretched thin by the roar of his pulse. He turned toward it—and the world fractured.
Jeremiah woke with a sharp inhale, sitting upright in bed.
Silence crashed down around him, sudden and absolute. No blood. No screams. Just the quiet hum of the city outside his window and the steady, measured beat of his heart slowly returning to normal.
He sat there for a moment, unmoving, letting the last remnants of the dream bleed away.
Get up.
The thought was calm.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
His apartment was small and sparsely furnished, every piece chosen for function rather than comfort. No decorations, no photos, and nothing that suggested lingering attachments. A place to sleep, eat, and reset—nothing more. Morning light filtered in through partially drawn blinds, casting pale bands across the floor.
Jeremiah moved through his routine without thinking. Shower. Dry. Dress.
Black T-shirt. Black jacket. Black pants.
Last, he reached for the necklace resting on the dresser. A simple chain. A small cross, worn smooth with age. He slipped it over his head and tucked it beneath his shirt, where it disappeared against his skin.
He paused at the mirror.
For a heartbeat, his reflection wasn't right.
His eyes glowed red.
Not bright.
Not flaring.
Just a deep, unsettling crimson that stripped humanity from his gaze and replaced it with something colder, older. His mood darkened instantly, the echo of the dream pressing back in around the edges of his control.
Jeremiah's jaw tightened.
He took a deep inhale and slowly exhaled.
Good, he thought. I'm seeing Master today.
The glow vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Grey eyes stared back at him, steady and unreadable. He looked away and turned from the mirror as if nothing had happened.
He checked the time.
A message notification waited on his communicator.
Master:
I know you're awake. Don't be late.
A quiet chuckle escaped him before he could stop it. He didn't respond—not out of defiance, exactly, but because she already knew he wouldn't be. Some conversations didn't need replies.
Another alert chimed.
Your vehicle has arrived.
Jeremiah grabbed his jacket and headed out.
BayPort City greeted him with movement and sound.
The morning air was heavy with coastal humidity, carrying salt from the nearby water and the low mechanical hum of infrastructure cycling into full operation.
Pedestrians filled the sidewalks—commuters, students, workers—each absorbed in their own routines. Cafés rolled open their shutters, the smell of coffee and warm food drifting out to mingle with the city air. Automated transit lanes glided past with barely a whisper, sleek vehicles moving in patterns.
Above it all, drones traced slow arcs across the skyline. Traffic monitors. Delivery units. Municipal scanners. So common they barely registered as unusual.
To most people, BayPort City was exactly what it looked like: a modern coastal hub built on technology.
Jeremiah watched the city pass by through the vehicle's window. BayPort City was one of the Alliance's designated Gate Cities—an urban hub built around controlled access points, monitored infrastructure, and population density high enough to mask anomalies when they occurred. To the public, it was a near-futuristic coastal metropolis known for trade, tourism, and technological innovation.
Mana-conducting networks were woven into the city's power grid, disguised as standard electrical infrastructure. Runes were etched into foundations, bridges, and streetlamps, calibrated to detect fluctuations before civilians ever noticed something was wrong. Gates—minor and major—were sealed beneath the city, their locations top alliance secrets.
The vehicle slowed before a monolithic government complex that swallowed an entire city block. Pale stone rose in tiers, capped by reinforced glass and flags that signaled oversight and regulation.
The Alliance didn't need a sign; they preferred the shroud of anonymity.
Jeremiah stepped out, as he approached the entrance security personnel were stationed like statues, their presence understated but absolute. One guard's gaze locked onto his, a single, sharp nod cutting through the silence.
Jeremiah returned the gesture and continued forward.
A runic sensor embedded in the doorway activated as he passed through. He felt it brush over him—cool, invasive, precise—cataloging mana signatures and scanning for weapons. The scan finished without pause or alarm, and the doors slid open.
Inside, the main lobby stretched wide and high, polished stone floors reflecting soft overhead lighting. People moved through the space with purpose, voices low, expressions serious. There was a faint magical vibration beneath everything—not mechanical, but magical, woven into the building itself.
And then he saw her.
Selene Ardent stood near the center of the lobby, perfectly still amid the flow of traffic. Tall. Elegant. Composed. Dark robes cut with subtle lines that marked her affiliation without shouting it. Her black hair, streaked faintly with silver, was pulled back neatly, exposing sharp ice-blue eyes that missed nothing.
Power clung to her like a second presence.
In this world—two worlds—power was not evenly distributed.
Most people lived their lives in the Human Realm, unaware that another world existed alongside their own. The Supernatural World, known as Aetheria, Aetheria was older than human civilization itself—an overlapping realm saturated with mana, governed by ancient lineages, territories, and forces that predated modern institutions. Mana originated there, flowing naturally through Aetheria and bleeding into the Human Realm through Gates and rare points of instability. Humanity learned to survive around it.
Those capable of wielding mana were known publicly as practitioners—mages, in common terms. Each practitioner possessed a mana core, a stabilized shard of personal mana that determined their capacity for spellwork. Core color was the universally accepted measure of power and refinement.
Red marked novices, barely capable of controlled casting.
Orange and Yellow denoted competent practitioners trusted with low-risk operations.
Green represented seasoned operatives capable of handling moderate threats.
Blue signaled advanced power—rare, dangerous, and closely monitored.
Purple belonged to elites whose presence could shift the balance of a battlefield.
White stood at the absolute peak of human potential, the upper limit of what a mortal practitioner could achieve.
Above even them stood the Magus.
Not merely a measure of strength, but a designation of mastery, authority, and trust. A Magus was a practitioner who had reached the pinnacle of control and refinement, whose power was matched by experience and institutional weight.
Their words carried policy. Their decisions shaped containment, diplomacy, and the fragile balance between the two worlds.
Selene Ardent was not only a Magus.
She was an Alliance Overseer—one of the Elders who governed the Alliance itself. A figure whose authority extended across worlds. And she was standing directly in front of Jeremiah.
Jeremiah approached, stopping just short of her personal space. He inclined his head slightly. "Good morning, Ma'am." Up close, there was nothing in his expression to betray the late night or the dream that still lingered at the edges of his thoughts. His face was composed almost unreadable—an exterior he wore as naturally as his clothes.
She turned fully toward him, her expression softening just a fraction. "You look like you didn't sleep."
Jeremiah gave a small shrug. "You know I don't need to."
Her gaze lingered on him longer than strictly necessary. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her—for now. "Come," she said.
They moved toward the elevators together. The doors slid open at her approach, and they stepped inside as the car began its ascent immediately. The display above the doors climbed steadily, floor after floor passing without pause.
Top clearance.
Jeremiah barely glanced at the numbers, but the direction registered all the same. He leaned back slightly, eyes drifting—not to the city shrinking below them, but to Selene herself.
She noticed.
Her eyes flicked to him, sharp and knowing. She held out her hand without turning her body, palm up.
"Phone."
Jeremiah grimaced, already reaching for it.
She glanced at the screen, scoffed, and changed the contact name with a few precise movements. "Every time I see you," she said, handing it back, "my contact is always something different."
"Last time it was 'Benefactor,'"She said.
Selene arched a perfectly groomed brow. "And now?"
"Master."
She shot him a glare sharp enough to cleave granite.
Jeremiah's spine snapped straight, his internal alarms screaming. "Sorry, ma'am!"
Selene sighed, the terrifying weight of her presence shifting into something more like an exasperatedgrandmother. "Jeremiah, if you call me 'Master' one more time, I will have the security teams treat you like a training dummy. Do I look like a dusty overlord to you?"
"No, ma'am. You look... radiant? Terrifyingly radiant?"
"Better," she muttered, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in her silk robes. "And stop wearing all black. Honestly, Jeremiah, in this humidity? You look like a grief-stricken homeless man. Fashion was never your strong suit, but this is a cry for help."
Jeremiah felt his eye twitch. He shot her a glare that would have withered a lesser human, but Selene just adjusted her cufflink, completely unbothered.
"With all due respect, ma'am," he grumbled, "you pay my salary. You know for a fact that I'm broke. My wardrobe is currently limited to 'Thrift Store Noir' and 'Laundry Day.'"
Selene didn't even look up. "Being poor is no excuse for looking like a haunted coat rack. I've seen beggars with better color coordination." She sighed, a sound of pure, grandmotherly disappointment.
She studied him for a moment longer. Then, slowly, a smile touched her lips.
The elevator chimed as it reached the top floor.
As they stepped out, her expression shifted—calm, but serious. "It's happening again."
Jeremiah didn't respond immediately. His eyes flicked to hers. He gave a short nod.
She nodded once. "We'll handle it after the meeting." Then, lightly, "You're still young. Keep your jaw in place. Be respectful."
He scowled faintly. "I always am."
They stopped before a set of closed doors.
Selene glanced at him one last time. "Try to behave."
"Yes, Master."
Her scowl returned instantly—and she flicked his forehead without warning.
"…Yes, Selene," he corrected, rubbing at the spot with a hint of amusement slipping through.
She shook her head, exasperated—and then smiled.
The doors opened.