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Henrik Kirby's life had always seemed ordinary—quiet, controlled, predictable. Or at least, as ordinary as life could be for a boy adopted by witches.
He paced his bedroom, bare feet brushing against the cold wooden floor, his fingers brushing absentmindedly over the spines of books. The room felt too small, the air too thick, as if the walls themselves were holding secrets.
How is this possible?
The question clawed at him, growing louder with every heartbeat.
Henrik was adopted when he was five. Mr. and Mrs. Kirby had raised him with care, but with rules that had always seemed strange to a normal child. Vervain tea at night to suppress his vampire instincts. Silver utensils at every meal to dull the wolf side simmering inside him. He had learned to obey, to swallow his instincts, to ignore the little urges that sometimes bubbled just below the surface.
And he had believed it was enough.
Until the box.
It sat on his bed like a silent judge, old and worn, as if it had been waiting for him all these years. Dust clung to its edges. He had passed it countless times, ignoring the faint hum of destiny it seemed to carry. Now, with trembling hands, he lifted the lid.
Inside were letters. Dozens of them, stacked neatly. Each one addressed in flowing, elegant handwriting. Each one for a birthday he had celebrated in silence. Sixteen letters for sixteen years.
Henrik's chest tightened.
Brothers.
The word burned in his mind, tasting foreign and strange. And yet, each letter promised it to be true.
Draven Ravencroft.Sebastian Ravencroft.
Famous names in a world he had never known. Names that belonged to power, danger, and influence. And now… to him.
He sank onto his bed, letters clutched to his chest. His hands shook, his mind a storm of confusion and disbelief.
Who am I?
Why didn't they come for me?
How long have I been sixteen?
What am I?
The questions clawed at him, demanding answers that did not come. The silence of his room pressed down, heavy and suffocating, until the faintest flicker of movement at the corner of his eye snapped his attention forward.
A chill raced down his spine.
The letters were no longer just paper—they were a key. And the key had begun to turn.
Suddenly, pain exploded behind his eyes. His vision blurred. Shadows stretched and twisted across the walls. A soundless pressure gripped his chest, and Henrik stumbled backward, bracing himself against the edge of his bed.
He saw her first.
Lilith Ravencroft. Her eyes were dark, lifeless, yet impossibly alive at the same time. She hovered in a space that seemed to exist outside reality, a world cracked and wrong. Beside her was a figure of raw power, a hybrid named Draven Bloodwolf, the very same that had haunted the letters, the whispers, the stories he had barely dared to imagine.
They spoke, their voices low and urgent, words curling like smoke around his mind.
"A child," Lilith said, cold and precise. "One who should never awaken."
Henrik's stomach lurched. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. His breath came in ragged gasps. The letters in his hands trembled, though he could not explain why.
Then he heard a name, sharp and heavy, cutting through the haze:
Kaelith Nightborne.
It echoed, reverberating in his skull like a warning. A curse. A promise.
The vision intensified. Henrik stumbled backward, falling to his knees, hands gripping the floor as if he could tether himself to the world he knew. The air felt alive, writhing with shadows that whispered in voices he could almost understand. Shapes moved just beyond his sight—faces screaming in silence, hands reaching from nowhere.
And then, silence.
Henrik's eyes snapped open. The smell hit him first. Iron. Copper. Blood. Thick, metallic, and unmistakable.
He coughed, gagging, as he pushed himself upright.
The room was… changed.
Blood streaked the walls. Dark rivulets pooled on the floor. His hands… soaked, dripping. He stared at them, every instinct screaming that this was impossible.
No one was there.
No explanation.
Only the overwhelming, undeniable truth: something inside him had awakened.
The power he had spent sixteen years suppressing—the hybrid blood, the vampire instincts—stirred. A pulse of warmth, fierce and unnatural, raced through his veins. And then a voice, not his own, whispered in the depths of his mind:
"Awaken, heir of the Nightborne. Your time has come."
Henrik trembled, staggering back against his bed. His thoughts screamed for reason. For denial. For anything to make sense of the horror before him.
But there was none.
The letters, the visions, the blood… everything pointed to one inescapable reality: his life as he knew it was over.
He was no longer just Henrik Kirby, the adopted boy raised by witches. He was something else. Something ancient. Something hungry.
The shadows shifted, coiling at the edges of the room like smoke around fire. His hands glowed faintly, veins pulsing as if alive. The air hummed with energy, heavy with something he could not name.
And then a faint whisper called his name from the darkness.
Henrik froze. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His heart raced faster than he thought possible.
"Henrik…"
No one was there.
And yet, the voice lingered.
Something had begun. Something that would not wait. Something that would not forgive.
The Nightborne heir had awakened.
And the world he had known… was already dead.