Lyra had never believed in curses. Not really. Superstitions were for stories, for people who wanted to be scared. But now, lying in the creaking attic of her aunt's Victorian house, she wasn't so sure.
The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. Moonlight spilled across the room, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny spirits. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, convinced it was just her imagination.
Then she saw it.
A shadow moving against the flow of the moonlight, tall, angular, and impossible to ignore. At first, she thought it was a trick of her tired eyes. But the figure solidified into something tangible—something terrifying.
A voice, soft yet commanding, echoed through the room:"You shouldn't be here."
Lyra's heart slammed in her chest. She spun around. A boy stood in the doorway, tall and impossibly still. His dark eyes locked onto hers, unsettlingly calm, as if he'd been waiting.
"Kieran," he said, as if that alone explained everything. "You're in danger."
Before she could respond, shadows surged across the floor, twisting into shapes that clawed at the walls. Lyra's scream tore through the silence.
"Don't fight it," Kieran commanded. "Focus on me!"
Her vision blurred. The shadows recoiled, then disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared.
"You're marked," Kieran said quietly, the words slicing through her fear like a blade.
Lyra stared at him. "Marked? By what?"
He shook his head. "By something old… and very dangerous."