Jade barely remembered getting home.
Her mom's voice drifted around her—worried, gentle—but Jade could only nod and mumble that she was fine. Just a fall, nothing serious. The bruise on her wrist wasn't glowing anymore, and that should have been comforting.
It wasn't.
She stood in front of the mirror that night, fingers grazing the skin where the shimmer had been. Nothing. But she could still feel it. Like a phantom warmth, pulsing softly beneath the surface.
And Kael.
His words echoed in her head:
"You're starting to wake up."
"They'll come for you."
She barely knew him. He had only transferred to Crestwood High two weeks ago. Yet somehow, she felt like they had crossed paths before. Not in real life, but in dreams. In those strange, star-lit visions that never left her alone.
She turned off the light and crawled into bed, heart hammering.
That night, the dream returned.
The stars burned brighter than ever.
Jade stood barefoot in a vast field under a night sky that pulsed like a living thing. A wind stirred her hair, cool and fragrant with something that smelled like wild lavender and smoke. She wasn't alone.
The silver-winged figure stood at the edge of the field.
He looked like Kael—but older. Sharper. His eyes glowed like fire behind glass. His wings, massive and radiant, stretched wide across the sky, scattering starlight with every beat. He looked at her as if he knew every secret she had ever kept.
"You were meant to fall," he said, his voice deeper in the dream. "So you could rise."
"Rise as what?" she asked, her voice trembling.
But the stars began to flicker—one by one blinking out, like someone snuffing candles in the sky.
Darkness spilled across the horizon.
And from it, something emerged.
Eyes—glowing red and hungry—stared back at her through the shadows. Not human. Not even close.
The winged boy turned to her, voice sharp and urgent now.
"You have to wake up, Jade. They're already here."
Jade shot up in bed, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a war drum.
Outside her window, the wind howled.
And across the street, standing perfectly still under the flickering streetlamp, was a figure cloaked in black—watching her window.
Not moving. Not blinking.
Watching.