The night Eira Thorne turned twenty-one, the mark on her wrist burned like fire.
She had been scrubbing tankards behind the bar of *The Rusty Lantern* when it happened—a sudden, searing pain that shot up her arm like a blade dipped in molten silver. Her fingers spasmed, and the mug she'd been holding crashed to the floor, shattering into jagged pieces.
"Damn it, Eira!" barked Old Man Harlow from across the tavern. "That's coming out of your pay!"
But Eira barely heard him. She clutched her wrist, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she stared at the silver crescent moon etched into her skin. It *glowed*, pulsing with a light that seemed to hum beneath her flesh.
*No. Not now. Not here.*
She had spent her entire life hiding the mark, keeping it wrapped in cloth or hidden beneath long sleeves. The villagers of Black Hollow already thought her strange—the orphan girl with the too-pale eyes and the uncanny way of knowing things before they happened. If they saw *this*…
A drunken miner lurched toward the bar, slamming his fist down. "Another ale, girl! And try not to drop this one."
Eira forced a tight smile, flexing her fingers to shake off the lingering pain. "Right away."
She reached for a fresh tankard, but as she did, the mark flared again—brighter this time. A whisper curled through her mind, a voice that wasn't her own:
*"They're coming."*
Her blood turned to ice.
The tavern door burst open.
Three figures stood silhouetted against the stormy night, their long cloaks dripping rainwater onto the wooden floor. The air in the room grew heavy, as if the very light recoiled from them.
Eira didn't need to see their eyes—cold and hollow, like polished obsidian—to know what they were.
*Hunters.*
The leader, a gaunt man with a scar running down his cheek, lifted his chin and inhaled deeply, as if scenting the air. Then his gaze locked onto Eira.
*"There she is."*
Panic seized her. She had no weapons, no magic—at least, none she knew how to control. But she had one advantage: she knew every inch of this tavern, every hidden exit.
As the Hunters advanced, Eira ducked behind the bar, snatching a knife from the counter. She bolted for the back door, ignoring Harlow's shouts. The moment she hit the alley, the cold night air slapped her face, but she didn't stop running.
She didn't make it ten steps before a hand clamped over her mouth, yanking her into the shadows.
Eira thrashed, driving her elbow back—but her attacker caught her wrist with terrifying ease. A deep, velvety voice murmured against her ear:
*"If you want to live, stop fighting."*
She stilled. The stranger released her, and she whirled to face him.
He was tall, dressed in black leathers that clung to his lean frame like a second skin. His hair was dark as ink, his eyes—*gods*, his eyes—gleamed like liquid gold, catching the faint light of the alley's lone lantern. But what truly stole her breath was the mark on *his* wrist: a sunburst, glowing faintly in answer to hers.
"You're one of them," she breathed, heart hammering.
"One of *us*," he corrected, his voice low and urgent. "And if we don't move, the Hunters will find you before I can explain."
Behind them, the tavern door slammed open. Boots pounded against cobblestones.
The stranger didn't wait for her response. He grabbed her hand, his grip firm but not painful, and pulled her deeper into the darkness.
Eira had spent her life running—from the whispers, from the fear in people's eyes. But tonight, she wasn't just running *from* something.
She was running *toward* the truth.
And it terrified her more than the Hunters ever could.
---
**Teaser for Chapter Two: The Lost Heir**
*"The mark means you're the last heir of the Celestial Court," Kaelan said, his golden eyes burning into hers. "And the King of Shadows wants you dead before you awaken your full power."*
*But as Eira's magic flared to life for the first time, she realized something far worse: the shadows within Kaelan ran deeper than he'd let on.*
*And one of them was lying.*