The house smelled like fire when she walked in.
Not smoke. Not cooking. Something sharper. Earthier. Like ashes soaked in herbs. Like the memory of a forest that burned long ago.
"Tía?" Nova called.
There was no answer. Just the soft hum of the ceiling fan above the kitchen table and the gentle noise of beads swaying in the hallway doorway. Her aunt's latest project. Wooden beads threaded with dried citrus, cloves, and rusted keys.
Nova dropped her bag by the door and kicked off her shoes. The tile floor felt warm under her socks. Too warm. She moved into the living room and paused when she saw the windows covered. Heavy curtains were pulled tight, letting in slivers of orange sunlight that cut the space into lines.
Tía Lita sat cross-legged on the floor inside a chalk circle. Small bowls surrounded her, each filled with something old: ash, salt, red dust, and black petals.
She hummed.
Low, slow, rhythmic. Not a song with words. A vibration. A hum that seemed to come from the room itself rather than her throat. It moved through the walls and into Nova's ribs.
"Okay," Nova said quietly, trying not to sound unsettled. "What is this?"
Lita didn't look up. She kept humming, fingers moving through a bowl of burnt herbs—rosemary, maybe, or sage, or something older. The chalk ring pulsed faintly in the dim light.
Nova stepped back, her body reacting before her mind caught up.
"Couldn't you wait to do the witchy stuff until after I got food?"
Still no answer.
Nova rubbed her temples. The smell was stronger now—sharp and bitter. The smoke wasn't smoke. She turned, went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, found a half-eaten pear and a bottle of tea, then closed it.
When she returned to the living room, her aunt was standing.
The chalk was smudged. The bowls were covered.
"I didn't hear you move," Nova said.
"I didn't move loud," Lita replied, brushing dust from her skirt.
"Were you... doing something? With the eclipse?"
Lita tilted her head. "You felt it?"
Nova hesitated.
"No," she said.
A pause. Her aunt studied her closely, as if checking for cracks.
"You should stay away from the Eclipse Ring."
"I don't go there."
"Not now. But you will."
The hum returned for a moment—not from Lita this time, but from the floor beneath Nova. She looked down. The tiles remained still, but something inside her spine prickled, like a memory trying to surface.
She didn't like it.
She turned toward the hallway.
That was when the raven hit the window.
It struck with a sound she would never forget—bone and beak and blood, a dull thud like a fist hitting glass. Nova spun around. Lita was already moving.
They reached the window together.
Outside, the bird lay twisted in the dust. Its wing bent awkwardly. Its eye was open and blank.
It hadn't tried to fly through.
It had dove.
Straight at the house.
Nova's breath caught.
Her aunt murmured something in a language Nova didn't understand. Then she reached for the curtains and shut the last bit of light out.
Nova didn't truly sleep that night.
When she finally drifted off, her dreams shattered.
A sky ripped in two.
A circle of fire around a sunless void.
And a name—not her own, not anyone's—spoken by something that didn't have a mouth:
**Jace.**