Chapter 1: The Day the Fire Took Everything
Kian Vale stared at the fading sun through the cracked window of his attic room. The sky was bleeding orange, much like the ache that pulsed beneath his skin — the ache of being forgotten.
The house below buzzed with fake laughter. The relatives who once ignored his existence now filled his home with hollow stories and noise. Today marked the second anniversary of his father's "accidental" death, and for reasons Kian didn't understand, his house was full of people who once refused to attend his birthday.
He gripped the edge of the wooden windowsill, his nails digging into the worn frame. No one had come upstairs to check on him. Not even his mother.
Especially not her.
She had changed. Since his father died in that warehouse fire, she buried herself in silence, rituals, and cryptic words about "protecting what was left." Whatever that meant. She never explained. She never looked him in the eyes anymore. Just lit candles. Drew symbols on paper. Burned herbs like it was 1600.
Everyone thought she'd gone mad. He thought maybe they were right.
Kian looked around his room — the one he had retreated to when the world outside grew too loud. There was a photo on his wall: a younger version of himself smiling between his parents. He was seven. Happy. Before the fire. Before everything shattered.
He hadn't smiled like that in years.
His phone buzzed beside him. A message from Clara.
"Hey, come by after. I need to talk to you. Alone."
Kian's heart stuttered. Clara. His girlfriend — or at least, that's what he still believed. Though lately, she'd been distant. Texts came slower. Her voice colder. She stopped holding his hand at school.
But maybe… just maybe she wanted to fix things.
He stood, grabbed his hoodie, and quietly slipped out the side entrance of the house, unnoticed by the crowd downstairs. No one cared anyway.
The streets were empty as twilight gave way to night. Wind whispered through dying leaves, and Kian's breath turned to mist. He kept his hood up, hands buried in his pockets, trying to fight the nerves fluttering in his chest.
Clara lived a few blocks away. He knew the path by heart. He also knew something felt… off tonight.
As he reached her house, the lights were already on. The front door was slightly ajar.
He stepped in.
"Clara?" he called.
Silence.
He moved slowly, his boots echoing softly on the tile floor.
Then — voices. Upstairs.
He climbed the stairs with dread crawling up his spine.
Half-open bedroom door. Light spilling through.
A soft moan.
Kian froze.
Another moan — louder.
Clara's voice.
He pushed the door open.
His heart stopped.
Clara. In bed. With Devon — his best friend.
Devon looked up mid-thrust, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. Clara gasped and pulled the blanket over herself, too late.
"Kian—" she started.
He turned and walked away.
No words.
No yelling.
Just silence.
His heart didn't shatter. It rotted.
The cold air outside punched his lungs as he walked. Fast. Then ran. Then stopped in a park near the edge of town.
He collapsed on a bench.
How stupid was he?
Everyone always saw him as weak. The quiet one. The broken one. The weird boy with a dead father and a witch for a mother.
Devon used to defend him. Now he was screwing his girlfriend.
The world didn't want him.
Fine.
He didn't want it either.
He sat there for hours, numbing under the weight of his own breath. Night had fully arrived, and the town's lights dimmed one by one.
His phone battery finally died in his palm.
And that's when the scream came.
A woman. Sharp. Echoing through the darkness.
From his street.
Kian jumped to his feet, heart thundering. His legs carried him before his brain could catch up.
Smoke.
He saw it before he got there.
Flames — licking the night sky like demonic tongues.
His house.
Engulfed in fire.
No. No. No.
He sprinted closer.
People were already outside, pointing, gasping. Someone called emergency services.
"KIAN!" someone screamed — it was Mrs. Halley from next door. "Your mother—she's still inside!"
He didn't hesitate.
He charged in.
The front door had already collapsed, but he found an opening through the kitchen. The heat clawed at his skin. Smoke filled his lungs. He coughed violently, covering his mouth with his sleeve.
"Mom!" he shouted.
No answer.
He stumbled through the flames, past melting furniture and falling wood. Something heavy struck his shoulder, knocking him down.
That's when he saw her.
On the floor.
Lying in the middle of the living room.
Candles circled around her, forming a symbol drawn in blood. Her eyes were open. Her hands clasped around a glowing pendant — red as a beating heart, suspended in a silver claw.
His mother didn't look burned.
She looked… peaceful.
"Mom…" he whispered.
The pendant pulsed. Once. Then again.
As if it sensed him.
And then — it leapt from her hands and shot toward his chest.
Pain exploded through him as the relic embedded itself in his skin. He screamed, body convulsing as heat, cold, and darkness all flooded his veins at once.
Visions.
Flashes.
Fangs. Claws. Fire. Blood.
An ancient voice whispered:
"Nightborn… awaken."
Then — darkness.
Kian opened his eyes slowly.
Everything was different.
He was lying on cold stone — not in his house.
The air smelled of dust, earth… and something older.
He sat up.
He was inside a crypt. Lit torches lined the wall.
His hoodie was gone. So was the pain. In its place — power. Deep, primal power humming beneath his skin.
He looked down at his chest. The blood relic was fused to his flesh, its glow fading.
Something moved in the shadows.
He turned.
A girl stood there.
Silver hair. Red eyes. Cloaked in black.
Beautiful and terrifying all at once.
"You weren't supposed to survive," she said.
Her voice was soft. Melodic.
"But you did."
"Who… are you?" he croaked.
She stepped closer.
"I'm Selene. And you… are the last Nightborn."