Rain falls like shards of glass—sharp, glittering, relentless. The streets of Valemont City glow with sickly neon, reflecting in the puddles like blood and mercury. Beneath the storm's hiss, the world hums with a power most people can't feel—a heartbeat that doesn't belong to mortals.
Aradia Vale feels it.
She always has.
Every raindrop that lands on her skin whispers secrets in a language she almost remembers. She ignores it, just as she ignores the voice in her dreams, the one that calls her "my flame" in a tone that both thrills and terrifies her. Tonight, she needs normal. She needs silence.
But fate doesn't grant silence to the cursed.
The bar where she works—The Rusted Halo—is packed with the restless and the broken. Music thunders. Smoke curls. Mortals drown themselves in cheap whiskey and cheaper love. Aradia moves through them like a shadow, her black hair tied up, her silver eyes catching the light every time she turns her head.
She doesn't know that those eyes are the reason half the supernatural world has been hunting her.
She only knows that when she touches glass, it cracks. When she bleeds, the wounds shimmer like embers. When she dreams, the earth trembles.
And tonight, someone is watching her.
Not one of the usual drunkards or lonely souls. No, this gaze is sharp—ancient, calculating. It presses against her magic like a blade to skin.
When she glances toward the corner booth, the world narrows.
A man sits there, cloaked in the low glow of amber light. Dark coat. Black shirt. Unbothered by the noise or the storm. His eyes catch hers across the room—silver, the color of moonlight on knives. Time freezes.
The music fades. The rain stops. Her pulse trips.
For one impossible heartbeat, she remembers another world—firelight, screams, a man kneeling before her throne, blood on his hands and love in his eyes.
And then it's gone.
"Aradia!" the bartender snaps, breaking her trance.
She blinks. The stranger is gone. The booth is empty.
But the air still hums with power.
When her shift ends, the streets are half-flooded. Thunder rolls low, like the growl of something old waking beneath the city. Aradia tugs her hood up and steps into the rain, heading for her apartment three blocks away.
Halfway there, her phone buzzes—unknown number. She hesitates, then answers.
Only silence greets her. Then a voice, low and smooth as smoke:
"You shouldn't be out in the open, my flame."
Her heart stops. "Who is this?"
The line goes dead.
Lightning splits the sky. The city lights flicker, and for one instant, she sees him again—standing at the mouth of the alley ahead.
The man from the bar.
Tall, motionless, his coat whipping in the wind. His silver eyes gleam like captured lightning.
"Stay back!" she warns, stepping backward. But the ground beneath her glows faintly where her boots touch, veins of light spreading like cracks in reality.
He tilts his head, his voice calm. "So it's true. You haven't awakened yet."
"What are you talking about?" she snaps.
He takes a slow step forward, and the rain bends around him, falling but never touching. "Your blood calls to mine. You feel it, don't you?"
Aradia's throat tightens. Her magic thrums under her skin, wild and terrified. "I don't know you."
He almost smiles. "No. But your soul does."
Something inside her ignites—an ache so deep it feels ancient. For one breathless moment, the air between them crackles with something neither of them can control.
He steps closer. Her pulse races. The world dims until there's only his voice.
"I am Valen Thorne," he says softly, "Crown Prince of the Bloodborn. And you—" his gaze flicks to the faint glow pulsing under her collarbone "—you are the reason my curse still breathes."
The words hit her like a blade.
And before she can react, the ground splits open behind her.
A creature made of shadow and bone lunges from the fissure, claws dripping with black flame. Aradia screams as Valen moves faster than thought—his hand snapping out, catching the monster mid-leap, his eyes flashing silver-bright.
He tears the creature apart like paper. Smoke and sparks scatter across the rain-soaked street.
Aradia stumbles back, panting. "What—what are you?"
He turns toward her, unbothered by the blood—if it is blood—dripping from his hand. "Your protector. Your curse. Your fate."
She shakes her head, retreating. "Stay away from me."
But Valen doesn't move closer. He looks almost pained. "You don't understand what's coming. The others have sensed you. They'll come for you before dawn."
"Why me?"
"Because you're not just human," he murmurs. "You're the Crown of Smoke and Bone reborn."
Her breath catches. "That's—impossible."
"Nothing about you is impossible, Aradia Vale."
He takes another step closer, voice dropping to a whisper that seems to echo inside her bones. "You died once for love. Don't make the same mistake twice."
Lightning flares again—and in the flash, she sees his fangs.
Real. Sharp. Gleaming.
Her instincts scream to run. Her body refuses.
Because somewhere deep inside, something ancient remembers the taste of his name.
The air thickens, pulling them together like magnets. Valen's eyes burn brighter, his voice trembling between hunger and restraint.
"Do you feel it?" he asks.
She can't speak. The air hums with magic, vibrating between their hearts.
"Then you already know," he says quietly, stepping close enough that the heat of him cuts through the rain. "You were never meant to escape me."
The words should terrify her—but instead, they ignite something molten in her chest. Her pulse races, her magic flares.
A blast of light bursts from her palms, sending him reeling backward. The street cracks. Sparks scatter into the rain.
Valen steadies himself, eyes wide—not with anger, but awe. "The flame wakes," he whispers. "Finally."
Before she can question him, a scream tears through the night. Shadows rise at the far end of the street—dozens of figures with glowing red eyes, moving fast.
Valen's voice hardens. "Run."
"What about you?"
"I'll find you."
"How?" she demands.
He meets her eyes, his voice a vow. "I always do."
Then the shadows hit.
The storm howls. The world vanishes in silver fire.
And when the smoke clears, Valen Thorne is gone—leaving only the scent of rain and blood, and the faint echo of her own name whispered on the wind.
End of Chapter One.