The boat drifted slowly down the marsh river, its wooden frame creaking softly with each shift of the current. Dawn had not yet reached the horizon, but faint streaks of silver brushed the sky, warning the night that its time was nearly over.
Elara sat hunched over the old leather-bound book Mara had given her—her mother's book. Every page she turned felt like opening a wound she didn't know existed.
Lucien sat beside her, propped against the boat's side. He still looked pale, but the shadows around his eyes were lighter. His breathing steadied with each minute, though exhaustion clung to him like a second cloak. Mara sat at the back of the boat, steadying the oars with practiced hands.
"Elara," Mara said softly, watching her from beneath gray lashes, "that book is older than even your mother. Handle it with respect."
"I am," Elara whispered, though her hands shook as she turned the next brittle page.
Lucien's voice—low and rough from strain—drifted toward her.
"What does it say?"
Elara swallowed. "I… I can barely read some of it. The ink is faded. The language is old."
Lucien watched her for a moment, then nodded toward the page. "Read aloud. Sometimes hearing it brings clarity."
She took a shaky breath and read the line written in her mother's looping script:
"The Healer of First Light is born once in an age. The bearer holds the power to break the darkness… or feed it."
Elara froze.
Lucien leaned closer. "Feed it?"
Mara answered from behind them.
"It means your blood can destroy the god the priests worship… or bring him fully into this world."
Elara stared at the page, horrified. "So I… I could bring that monster here?"
Mara nodded gravely. "If the priests get what they want from you, yes."
Elara's stomach twisted. She squeezed the book shut, but the truth lingered like smoke.
Lucien placed a steadying hand on her arm. "You won't let that happen. And neither will I."
The warmth of his touch surprised her—but she didn't pull away.
They traveled in silence for a while.
The sky slowly bled into pink and silver. Birds began to call softly from the reeds. Fog hovered above the river like a thin blanket.
Elara felt the bond flicker inside her chest—faint, as if testing itself after the previous night's turmoil.
Lucien noticed. "Your mark has calmed."
Elara brushed her fingers over it through her cloak. "Because you're calmer."
Lucien exhaled. "The connection is… stronger than I expected."
Mara cleared her throat. "You two share more than blood and magic now. Fate stitched itself between you. Not even death undoes a bond like that."
Elara stiffened. "Is that supposed to comfort me?"
"No," Mara said simply. "But you must understand it."
Lucien's gaze flicked toward her again—soft, unreadable.
Elara turned back to the book.
She flipped the next page and found a drawing—one her mother had sketched with surprising precision.
A glowing symbol:
A circle.
A flame.
A single drop of light.
Elara touched the faded ink gently. "This is the mark on my chest…"
Mara leaned forward slightly. "Yes. The symbol of First Light."
Lucien's voice lowered. "What does it say beneath it?"
Elara read the tiny handwriting at the bottom of the page:
"Light bound to darkness cannot be controlled. It can only be guided."
Lucien lifted his head. "Guided by whom?"
Elara shook her head. "I don't know."
Mara's jaw tightened. "By you both. Together."
Elara's heart thudded. She tried not to look at Lucien, but she felt his gaze anyway—steady, weighing something unspoken.
Before she could turn to the next section of the book, the boat suddenly jerked.
Lucien snapped upright despite the pain. "Mara—stop."
Mara dug the oars into the water, slowing them.
Elara clutched the book to her chest. "What happened?"
Lucien's eyes swept the riverbank. His posture shifted—alert, predatory. The shadows under the boat stirred faintly, responding to his tension.
"We're not alone," he said.
Mara hissed softly through her teeth. "Already?"
Elara felt her heart jump into her throat. "Is it the priests?"
"No," Lucien said. "Something else."
A twig snapped in the reeds.
Lucien stood, steadying himself with one hand on the rim of the boat. "Mara, keep us still."
Mara froze the oars.
Another sound—like wet feet dragging through mud.
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "Elara. Stay behind me."
Elara's pulse hammered. She slid instinctively closer to him, clutching the book.
The reeds parted.
A tall figure stepped out onto the shallow riverbank.
She wasn't a priest.
She wasn't a villager.
Her skin was paper white, her hair black as raven wings, and her long cloak dripped river water as though she had risen directly from the marsh.
Her eyes—icy, sharp—landed directly on Elara.
Mara whispered, horrified. "A Shadecaller."
Lucien's entire body went rigid. "What is she doing here?"
The Shadecaller spoke in a silken voice that echoed as if layered over itself.
"Elara Wyn," she said. "Child of First Light. Your power stirs the dead things awake."
Elara clutched the book tighter. "Who are you?"
The woman smiled faintly.
"I am not your enemy."
Lucien stepped forward, shadows curling protectively. "Then why stalk us?"
The woman tilted her head, eyeing him with dangerous curiosity. "Because I smell the bond on you, cursed one. The priests do not know its depth. But I do."
Lucien's eyes darkened in warning.
Mara muttered under her breath, "Spirits protect us…"
The Shadecaller continued, "The priests have only begun their hunt. They will call upon darker forces next—forces even your bond may not shield you from."
Elara swallowed. "What darker forces?"
The Shadecaller's smile vanished.
"The Blood Seraph."
Mara grabbed Elara's arm. "No. That creature cannot be awakened."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "They wouldn't dare summon it."
"They already have," the Shadecaller said.
Silence fell like a hammer.
Elara stared at her. "What is it?"
The Shadecaller stepped closer, and the river beneath her feet rippled with cold.
"An ancient being born of blood magic and hatred," she said. "It hunts healers. It devours Light."
Elara's stomach dropped.
Lucien stepped between them, voice sharp. "You expect us to believe this?"
"I expect nothing," the Shadecaller said calmly. "But understand this—"
Her eyes gleamed.
"—the Seraph knows your scent, Elara Wyn. It will not stop until it rips your heart from your chest."
Elara's breath faltered.
"Why warn us?" Lucien demanded.
The Shadecaller's eyes flicked toward Elara. "Because balance matters. And because if the Seraph rises fully, the marshlands—and every soul within—will drown in blood."
A cold wind whipped through the reeds.
"We must go," Mara said urgently. "Before anything else finds us."
Lucien nodded, grabbing the oars. "Elara, sit."
But the Shadecaller raised her hand. "One last thing."
Elara froze.
The woman extended a thin finger toward her.
"Your mother's book will help you understand the bond," she said. "But not in time."
Elara swallowed hard. "In time for what?"
The Shadecaller's eyes turned pitch black.
"In time to survive the Seraph."
Then—
Her body dissolved into mist.
The fog swallowed her.
And she was gone.
Elara sat trembling, clutching the book as if it could shield her from what she had just heard.
Lucien returned to her side. "Elara."
She looked up, chest tight. "Is this true? Will something else come for me?"
Lucien didn't lie.
"Yes."
Her breath trembled. "And this Seraph… it wants to kill me."
Lucien's expression hardened with lethal certainty.
"Then it will die first."
Elara stared at him.
Not because of the promise—
but because of the quiet fierceness behind it.
Her fingers brushed the mark glowing beneath her cloak.
And for the first time, she realized:
The priests were not the greatest threat.
The Vessel was not the greatest threat.
Even the god seeking to rise again was not the greatest threat.
The Blood Seraph was.
And it was already hunting her.