Dead bodies lay everywhere. Blood soaked the ground, thick and dark like spilled ink. The coppery scent clung to the air, heavy and suffocating. Sera didn't know where she was or how she'd gotten there. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she stepped cautiously over the mutilated remains of men and beasts alike. In the distance, snarls and growls echoed across the torn battlefield.
She followed the sounds, confusion gnawing at her. The last thing she remembered was talking to Cleo in her room. Then that sudden, searing pain on her back, and now this. A foreign land, bathed in crimson, where war's solid remainder was ruin.
As Sera moved closer, the sounds grew louder, sharper, and more feral. She found herself at the edge of a clearing, her breath catching as she spotted the source. Two figures clashed at the center—if she could even call them men. They were giants, fierce and graceful, their power radiating with every movement.
The first one had long jet-black hair tied back in a neat bun. He was tall, with a masculine build, and moved like the wind itself—smooth, silent, and deadly. His body flowed with practiced rhythm, turning each strike into a fluid motion. It wasn't fighting. It was art. Sera's eyes widened as realization dawned—she recognized the technique. Shinto, a rare, ancient martial art technique passed down through vampire bloodlines. It was defensive but ruthless. A technique built on observation, timing, and devastating precision. It was almost beautiful to watch… until she saw the damage it caused.
His opponent, however, was not like him. Not even close. Towering and broad, covered in coarse brown fur, the other fighter looked like a nightmare brought to life. A werewolf. Not in a full shift, but close. Half-man, half-beast. Amber eyes glowed in the moonlight, intelligent and burning with rage. He moved with primal force, muscles rippling under his skin, each strike heavy and deliberate.
It was a dance of extremes—grace against brute strength. The vampire dodged and twisted, redirecting energy, striking fast. The werewolf tore through the ground with his claws, retaliating with explosive power. Sera stood frozen, unable to move or look away. How was this happening? She had never left Aethermere. She had never seen a werewolf or vampire before. And yet… it all felt familiar. Too familiar.
The vampire's fang glinted as he landed a blow. The werewolf growled and lunged. And then—
They stopped.
Both turned in unison, heads snapping toward her. Their gazes locked on hers, piercing and knowing. It was like they saw her soul, like they recognized her.
They ran.
Straight for her.
Sera spun around, trying to run, but her legs barely moved. The air thickened around her like tar. The forest blurred. Her breath quickened, heart slamming in her chest. She was running but going nowhere. They were gaining—
Then, a rift opened in the air before her. Light poured through, and a hand reached out, grabbing her wrist and yanking—
"Sera, my child. Get up." A voice, familiar and soft, drifted through the air.
She blinked.
"Sera, open your eyes." Another voice. Sharper this time. Cleo's.
Her eyes snapped open, vision blurry with white light. The room came into focus slowly. Her mother stood on one side of the bed. Cleo on the other. Both wore matching worried expressions.
"What happened?" she croaked. "My head is pounding."
"You passed out," Cleo said quickly. "We heard you talking in your sleep. It sounded... awful and scary."
"You were burning up," Elira added. Her voice was calm, but her eyes looked shaken.
"I'm okay," Sera lied. "It was just a weird dream."
But even as she said it, she didn't believe herself. That wasn't just a dream. Something about it, about that place and those two men, had felt real. Like a memory buried deep beneath her skin.
"What was it about?" Cleo asked.
Sera hesitated. "A battlefield. Werewolves and vampires. So many bodies… only two left fighting. The vampire fought like he was dancing. And the wolf… he was huge. Powerful. And angry. I felt like I'd been there before, like I was part of it somehow."
A flicker of something passed through Elira's expression. Sera caught it.
Recognition.
Before she could speak, the door creaked open. Doctor Cade walked in, lanky as ever. His gray, shaggy hair half-covered a long, tired face. His gray eyes blinked slowly behind deep sockets.
"How are we doing, Sera?" he asked in a voice that always sounded bored.
"Just a headache now. What happened to me?"
He glanced at her mother, and again Sera saw it—something silent pass between them. "We couldn't find anything specific. Could've been a flare-up, maybe an infection. Magic mishaps are common around here, especially when the younger witches and wizards are in training."
His voice was smooth, even. But his eyes—they didn't match. He knew something. So did her mother.
"I've given your mother a cream. Use it if the pain returns."
He left without another word.
Sera didn't push. Not yet.
"Okay," Elira said, brushing Sera's hair back. "Let's get you back to your room. You need rest."
Cleo helped her to her feet.
"So… does this little fainting episode earn me some leeway on the no-Cleo week thing?" She asked, giving her best pitiful look.
Cleo pouted in support. "Please, Miss E. She almost died. Doesn't that count for something?"
Elira gave them both a hard stare. Then, her mouth twitched into a reluctant smile.
Sera let out a squeal and hugged her tight. "Thank you! Thank you, thank you!"
"Eighteen-year-olds are a headache," Elira muttered.
"But you still love us," both girls chimed in unison as they left.
Elira watched them go, her smile fading. She exhaled slowly, hands clenched.
Yes, she loved her daughter. More than anything.
But would Sera ever forgive her… if she knew the truth?
Elira didn't know. And she didn't want to find out.
She'd live with the guilt. As long as it kept her daughter safe.
That night, Sera couldn't sleep.
She tossed and turned, her body sore, her mind racing. The dream clung to her like fog—dense and confusing. But there was something new… something under her skin. She could feel it. Like heat… like something waiting.
She finally drifted off.
And the dream returned.
But this time, she was standing on the same battlefield—only now it was quiet.
The bodies were still there, but they were frozen. Time itself felt paused. She looked around, heart pounding.
Then… a whisper.
"Sera…"
She spun. No one.
"Sera… child of the line…"
A figure stepped forward from the shadows. Cloaked in gray, hood pulled low. The voice was neither male nor female, echoing like it belonged to the air itself.
"You were not supposed to wake yet."
Sera stumbled backward. "Who are you?"
"The one who remembers" was the figure's reply. The mark has made a choice. Balance will tip."
Suddenly, pain shot through her back—the same searing pain from before. She fell to her knees, screaming. The battlefield flickered, became fire, then forest, then stone ruins.
"The past awakens in you. The time is near."
Then, a blinding light.
She sat up in her bed, gasping. Sweat clung to her skin, and her heart thundered in her chest.
"Sera?" Elira called faintly from the hallway.
"I'm fine!" she yelled back automatically, but she wasn't sure she believed it.
She stood slowly, walked over to the mirror in her bathroom, and turned around to glance at her shoulder.
Nothing.
Just smooth, unmarked skin.
Her fingers hovered over the spot where the burning sensation had been so vivid—so real. But there was no sign of it now. No glowing crescent. No trace at all.
Had she imagined it?
She leaned in closer, eyes scanning every inch of her reflection. Still nothing.
The door creaked open behind her.
"Sera, what's—" Elira stopped mid-sentence, watching her daughter examine herself in the mirror.
"I thought I saw something," Sera said quietly. "Felt something. But… it's gone."
Elira's face remained unreadable for a moment too long.
"Sometimes dreams cling to the waking world," she whispered, stepping inside. "Come. You need rest."
Sera hesitated, then nodded, casting one last glance at her reflection before following her mother out.
Behind them, unnoticed, a small shimmer of light danced across the mirror's surface—brief and gone before anyone could question it.