Riven woke to the sound of thunder rolling over the city. The storm hadn't left; it had simply been waiting. Sheets of rain blurred the glass, turning the morning light to silver ash. His body ached as if he'd fought someone in his sleep.
When he sat up, his chest burned. A sting, sharp and sudden, flared beneath the skin over his heart. He pulled off his shirt, expecting a rash or bruise—
and froze.
A mark had bloomed across his chest: black lines twisting into a pattern that looked half-wing, half-circle. It pulsed faintly, as though inked by light instead of pigment.
"What the hell…"
He rubbed at it, but the skin was unbroken. The mark throbbed with every beat of his heart, like it was alive.
The image from his sketchbook flashed in his mind—the man with silver eyes. Azael. And last night's words echoed again:
Someone who's been waiting for you to wake up.
Riven stumbled back from the mirror, panic prickling down his spine. He threw on a hoodie, grabbed his phone, and left the apartment, needing air—needing the world to feel ordinary again.
The streets of Nocturne City were slick and glistening. Neon signs bled color into puddles; the scent of rain mixed with car exhaust. People hurried by with umbrellas, but Riven felt detached, as if moving through a reflection instead of reality.
Every passing window caught his image, yet sometimes—just for a second—the reflection didn't move quite when he did.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and muttered, "I'm losing it."
"You're not."
Riven turned sharply. Azael stood beneath a narrow awning across the street, his black coat untouched by rain. His silver eyes caught the dim light, sharp and calm as always.
"You again," Riven said, voice low. "Are you following me?"
Azael's lips curved faintly. "You walked exactly where I knew you would. Call it instinct."
"Then your instinct needs boundaries."
"You'd prefer I left you alone?"
Riven hesitated. He should have said yes. But the truth was, he didn't want to. There was something about Azael's presence that steadied the chaos in his chest—even as it terrified him.
He crossed the street despite himself. "What's happening to me?"
Azael's gaze dropped to Riven's chest for half a heartbeat, as though he could see through fabric. "You've begun to wake. The mark proves it."
Riven's breath caught. "Wake? From what?"
Azael's expression tightened, a shadow crossing his face. "Not here. Too many ears."
They ended up at an abandoned café at the edge of campus, its windows fogged with condensation. Azael moved with quiet certainty, brushing dust from a chair and gesturing for Riven to sit. The place smelled faintly of old wood and rain.
Riven sat, arms crossed. "Start talking."
Azael's eyes softened slightly. "Do you believe in things that shouldn't exist? Creatures hidden among men?"
"Ghosts? Vampires? Demons?" Riven gave a weak laugh. "No. I believe in deadlines."
"Then your world is about to get larger."
Something in his tone made Riven shiver. "And you? What are you, Azael?"
Azael tilted his head. "Something that remembers you."
Riven blinked. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one that won't break you."
For a moment, silence filled the café—broken only by rain against the roof. Azael reached into his coat and drew out a small pendant shaped like an obsidian feather. He set it on the table between them.
"When you dream tonight," he said quietly, "hold this. It may show you what words cannot."
Riven stared at the pendant. The air around it seemed to hum, pulling faintly at the mark beneath his skin.
"What happens if I don't?"
"Then the memories will come on their own."
Outside, the storm deepened. When Riven stepped into the rain again, Azael remained in the doorway, half-shadow, half-light.
"Riven," he called softly. "When it burns too much, don't fight it. Pain is only your soul remembering."
Riven turned, confused—but Azael was gone, as if dissolved into the rain itself.
That night, the mark burned hotter. He tried to ignore it, lying in bed with the pendant clutched in his fist. Thunder shook the window.
And then—he wasn't in his room anymore.
He stood in a vast hall of obsidian pillars, the air heavy with power. Flames floated without smoke. A throne rose at the end, carved from bone and light. A figure sat upon it—his own face, older, eyes gold and red like molten dawn.
"You finally found your way back," the figure said, voice echoing like many overlapping tones.
Riven's knees weakened. "Who are you?"
The figure smiled, and behind him, enormous black-and-white wings unfurled, filling the hall with wind and ash.
"I am what you once were."
The mark on Riven's chest blazed. His vision fractured into light, sound, and pain—
and then he was back in bed, gasping, the pendant still in his hand, smoke rising faintly from his palm.
Outside, lightning carved the skyline. Somewhere in the city, Azael lifted his gaze to the storm and whispered, almost reverently,
> "The Eternal One stirs."