They say blood is life.
But what if yours was never alive to begin with?

Nyra’s hands have always been cold. Her palms, too pale. Her veins, too silent. In class, in the hallways, even under the sun—her body carries no warmth, no blush of color.

She thought it was strange. She thought it was harmless.
Until the mirror smiled back at her.

Now, shadows whisper her name, crimson tonics stir in the kitchen, and her mother’s gentle voice hides secrets sharp enough to cut. Something ancient stirs in her veins, something rare enough to be feared… and hunted.

As the thin line between reflection and reality begins to shatter, Nyra must face a terrifying truth:
She doesn’t just carry blood.
She carries their blood.

The blood of the Noctari.
The blood of the rare one.

And once it awakens, there’s no turning back.

The cut on my palm burned long after it should have stopped. A shallow slice—that's all it was. Yet it throbbed, hot and hollow, as if something beneath the skin refused to heal.


I wrapped it in tissue, but the mirror's version of me stayed etched into my mind—her palm dripping red like she was more alive than me.


I climbed back into bed, pulling the covers over my head. My mother's footsteps passed by the door once, slow and heavy, before fading down the hall. She hadn't checked on me. She hadn't noticed the cup shattering. Or maybe she had—and chosen not to.


Sleep came in fragments. When I closed my eyes, the taste of metal lingered. When I opened them, the shadows along my wall seemed to stretch, reaching toward me. At some point, I must have drifted, because the next thing I knew, a voice was calling.


A whisper threaded through my mind, soft as silk, sharp as glass.


My eyes snapped open. The room was empty, but the air pressed tight against my chest.


My breath hitched. They were already open.


Slowly, trembling, I turned my head toward the mirror across the room. A faint glow pulsed along its crack, dim but steady, like a heartbeat. My reflection wasn't asleep. She was sitting up, smirking, waiting.


"No," I whispered, clutching the bandaged hand to my chest. "This isn't real."


The words weren't sound. They slid straight into my mind, curling like smoke.


I stumbled from bed, crossing the room in two frantic steps, and yanked the mirror's cloth covering down. But instead of darkness, the glass gleamed brighter, her face clearer than ever.


Before I could look away, the bedroom door creaked open.


"Nyra?" My mother's voice. Calm. Too calm.


I spun, the cloth still in my hands. "Mom—"


Her gaze darted once, sharply, to the mirror. Her face drained of color, though she tried to mask it with a smile.


"You shouldn't uncover that at night," she said quietly. "Go back to sleep."


And then she shut the door without waiting for an answer.


I stood frozen, staring at the handle long after she'd gone.


Because the thing in the mirror wasn't smirking anymore.


Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Glass