********************
"You're not supposed to be real," she whispered.
The stranger only smiled.
"Neither are you."
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The dreams came every night.
Selene Mirthvale stood at the edge of a black sea, waves swallowing moons, her feet bare against fractured marble. Above her—stars spun backwards. Below her—faces rose in the water, weeping her name.
She never remembered what came next.
Only that she always woke screaming.
And tonight was no different.
She bolted upright in her small stone room at the Sanctum of Ashengar, breath ragged, soaked in sweat. Her fingers trembled. Not from fear—
From familiarity.
"Selene?"
It was the voice of High Sister Avena, gentle and rasped by age.
Selene quickly wiped her face. "I'm fine."
The old woman entered with a small brass lamp, its glow flickering across the runes carved into the walls. Her eyes were kind but calculating. "The dreams again?"
Selene nodded.
Avena sighed and sat beside her on the cot. "You're not cursed, child. Dreams are just echoes. They cannot harm you."
Selene looked away. "Then why do I wake with blood on my lips?"
Avena paused. Her smile didn't falter, but her fingers tightened around the lamp.
Selene had asked that question before.
And never once received an answer.
Outside, the city of Ashengar slumbered under veils of frost and moonlight. A thousand ancient towers clawed the sky. The sanctum sat on its highest hill, guarded by holy wards and stone-faced statues of winged saints long dead.
But none of that mattered now.
Selene couldn't sleep.
She rose from her bed, wrapped in her thick wool robe, and stepped barefoot into the cold corridor. The sanctum halls were like bones—white, narrow, and echoing with memory. She wandered them like a ghost, avoiding the patrolling Sisters.
Her feet brought her—without meaning—to the library.
Ancient. Forbidden. Locked to all but a few.
But tonight… the door stood open.
Candlelight flickered within.
And standing at its center—
A man.
Cloaked in black feathers, his back turned, his posture regal yet coiled.
Selene froze.
Something inside her pulled taut, like a harp string just before it snaps.
He turned.
Eyes dark as ink. Lips thin. Hands gloved.
"Hello," he said, voice like velvet soaked in ruin.
She didn't speak. Couldn't.
Because she knew him.
Not by name. Not by face. But by feeling.
He was the scream she swallowed in every dream.
"I wasn't expecting you," he said.
She blinked. "Who—"
"No name," he cut in. "Names are dangerous things here."
He stepped toward her, slow. Measured.
"I've come to keep watch."
"Watch what?"
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You."
Selene stumbled back. "I—I should call the Sisters."
"You could," he said. "But you won't."
Something about his certainty made her stomach twist. "Why not?"
"Because you're not afraid of me," he said.
And she realized—
He was right.
She wasn't.
She was drawn.
He moved closer, shadows clinging to him like old lovers. "They've lied to you, Selene. The sanctum. The Sisters. Even your own reflection."
"What do you mean?"
He stopped a breath away. "You're not their ward. You're their weapon. A ticking prophecy they've hidden for years."
Her breath caught. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" He reached into his coat and drew out a rune-burnt parchment. "This is your name. Your real one."
She hesitated. "I can't read that."
"You will," he whispered, pressing it into her hand.
A pulse.
Hot.
Ancient.
The letters rearranged, shimmered. And then—
Selene of Mirthvale. Bloodbound. Seer of the Sixth Vein.
She dropped the parchment like it burned.
"What are you?"
He tilted his head. "A shadow you once died beside."
She stepped back.
But his next words stopped her cold.
"They're coming for you, Selene. Inquisitors. Heretics. Monsters in skin. And they all want the same thing."
Her heart thundered. "What?"
"You."
He reached for her cheek—but didn't touch.
"You'll need to choose. Very soon. Who to trust. Who to kill."
"And you?" she whispered.
"I'm only the warning."
He vanished before her eyes.
Not in smoke.
Not in light.
Just—gone.
By the time dawn stained Ashengar's towers red, Selene hadn't slept.
She sat in the corner of her room, staring at the parchment the man had left behind. It still shimmered faintly, the letters swimming.
Seer of the Sixth Vein.
Who was she?
What had they kept from her?
And why did she feel like this was only the beginning?