Amara Nwosu had exactly seven hundred naira in her account. No airtime. No plan. Just a borrowed pair of heels that pinched her toes like a curse. But her chin remained high as she stepped into the glass tower that clawed at the Lagos sky cold, sharp, and impossibly tall, a monument to power she barely dared believe she could enter.
Kairo Tech was no ordinary building. It breathed with quiet life, humming with the energy of secrets and ambitions that stretched far beyond its sleek surface. The lobby's polished floors reflected her hesitant footsteps like a warning. As she looked up, the ceiling vanished into a dizzying expanse of glass and steel.
Amara's skin prickled the moment she crossed the threshold, as if the air itself had changed. It was heavier here, thick with a presence she couldn't explain. She swallowed hard.
A woman in a tailored navy suit appeared like a shadow, smooth and unreadable. "First time here?" she asked, her voice calm but sharp.
Amara nodded.
The woman handed her a keycard without a smile or any explanation. "Floor 77. He's waiting."
Amara blinked. "He?"
"The founder."
Her heart skipped. Damian Kairo. The billionaire recluse. Lagos' most whispered name. A man who built an empire in ten years without once showing himself to the world, except in fleeting rumors and cracked phone screens.
Now, he wanted her.
The elevator door slid open with a whisper. Inside, the panel gleamed black, with no buttons visible except one. Floor 77.
Amara pressed it with a trembling finger.
The elevator moved, but not like any she had ever been in. It was silent, too fast, and the walls seemed to shimmer faintly, like a mirage. She pressed her palm against the cool glass, watching the city fall away behind her in a blur of lights and shadows.
When the doors opened, the temperature dropped sharply. Amara's breath misted in the air, dissolving quickly. The corridor was dim, lit by pale blue strips along the floor, casting long shadows that seemed to dance and flicker.
The office door stood open, revealing a vast room shrouded in darkness, with walls of black stone veined with shimmering silver. A soft pulse of blue light coursed along the ceiling, like a heartbeat beneath the surface.
There was no desk. No chair. Just a man standing at the window, his silhouette tall and still against the sprawling cityscape.
"Miss Nwosu," he said without turning. "You're late."
She checked her watch. One minute late.
"Time is everything," he murmured, turning slowly. His eyes caught the light silver, not grey, flickering with something ancient and unreadable.
Amara swallowed.
"You've never worked in a corporate office," he said, voice smooth as silk but sharp as a knife. "No degree. No references. You applied with a borrowed email."
Her mouth went dry. "Still got the interview, didn't I?"
He tilted his head, curious. "Do you believe in fate, Miss Nwosu?"
"Fate?" She blinked.
"Magic. Destiny. The things that bind us before we even know it."
She stared, unsure whether this was part of the test.
"You've been having dreams," he said quietly. "Dreams of a silver moon and voices calling your name."
Her heart thudded, breath caught.
"How do you"
"I know many things," he interrupted, stepping closer. Shadows twisted behind him, alive and curling like smoke.
Amara's instincts screamed at her to run, but her feet were glued.
"Why me?" she whispered.
He paused, the room seeming to hold its breath.
"Because you're not what you think you are."
His hand brushed the black stone wall. It shimmered and rippled like water, revealing a vision: a pale moon floating over a dark lake, a crown forged from light, and a woman's silhouette made of stars.
Then the image vanished.
"I'm offering you a job," Damian said. "Not as my assistant. As the one who might decide the fate of two worlds."
Amara stared, breathless.
And for the first time in her life…
She believed.
The next morning, Amara stood in front of the Kairo Tech tower again,this time dressed to impress.
Her outfit was borrowed: a tailored white blouse tucked into navy blue trousers and a pair of nude pumps that miraculously didn't bite. Her hair was neatly packed into a bun, and a dash of coral lipstick colored her lips with more courage than she felt.
She exhaled slowly before stepping inside. The building was no less intimidating in daylight, still cold and silent and humming with its invisible pulse. But today, she belonged—at least on paper.
A badge was handed to her before she could speak. Floor 40. Corporate wing.
The elevator ride wasn't as strange as yesterday's. No mystical glow, no flickering shadows just the quiet drone of rising floors and her own wild thoughts. She tried to shake off what had happened the day before. Damian Kairo's cryptic words echoed in her mind.
"Because you're not what you think you are."
She told herself it had to be some eccentric billionaire act. A test. A power play. Maybe he liked to mess with desperate applicants for sport.
But that moon.
That lake.
Those dreams.
How could he have known?
No one knew. Not even her mother. Not even her ex-best friend. The dreams started when she turned nineteen always the same silver moon over water, the voice whispering her name like a lullaby made of light. Amara had long written them off as stress or longing. But now, she wasn't so sure.
She shook her head. Focus, Amara. New job. New chance. Don't blow it.
Floor 40 was sleek and glossy, filled with people in expensive clothes, tapping away on transparent screens and speaking in hushed, fast-paced tones. She tried to mirror their energy purposeful, competent, indifferent.
She spotted a break room and made a beeline for it. The coffee machine blinked with futuristic buttons. She pressed the one labeled "Dark Roast – Strong." The smell was divine. The taste, however…
She choked slightly. It tasted like burnt paper and regret.
A woman nearby raised a brow. "First timer?"
Amara wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and forced a smile. "Trying to acquire the taste. Gotta fit in, right?"
The woman gave a half-smirk and walked away.
"Great start," Amara muttered, tossing the cup.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of HR briefings and screen logins. No one mentioned her boss. In fact, when she asked a friendly-looking guy in Admin where the founder's office was, he frowned.
"Founder? You mean the board of directors?"
"No," she said carefully. "Mr. Kairo?"
The guy blinked. "Kairo… as in Damian Kairo? He hasn't been seen in public in years."
"But I… I met him yesterday."
The guy laughed awkwardly. "You sure you didn't meet a projection? They say the AI handles most high-level interviews now."
A chill swept down Amara's spine.
No. That was not an AI. That was a man. A man with silver eyes and shadows that moved.
But she said nothing more. Just nodded and backed away.
At noon, a message blinked onto her screen. No subject. No sender.
Conference Room 12. Now.
Her pulse spiked.
Conference Room 12. Now.
The message blinked twice before disappearing entirely from her screen like it had never been there.
Amara glanced around. No one else had moved. Everyone was glued to their workspaces, typing furiously, murmuring into ear-pieces, sipping that awful coffee as though nothing strange had happened.
She stood, heart racing. No directions. No map.
She walked the length of the hallway, counting doors. Most were numbered normally: 5, 6, 7… then suddenly, 11. Then 13.
No 12.
She doubled back.
"Looking for something?" A voice stopped her. A young man in an ash-grey suit stood beside a printer, looking far too casual for someone in this building.
Amara hesitated. "Conference Room 12?"
He smiled. "Ah. That one." He looked around, then stepped closer. "It doesn't appear unless it wants to."
"What?"
"Try knocking between 11 and 13."
She stared at him. Was he serious?
But when she turned, there was a blank section of wall between the two rooms. Smooth, dark marble, unmarked.
Taking a breath, Amara stepped toward it and knocked.
At first, nothing happened.
Then the wall shifted.
Lines glowed faintly in the stone, forming the outline of a door. It creaked open without a sound.
She turned to thank the man but he was gone.
The room was dim and circular, unlike the rest of the building's sharp corners and glass walls. It felt older, like it had always existed. The walls were carved with symbols moons, stars, crowns, runes she didn't understand. At the center, a single chair sat before a pool of still, silver water, glowing softly.
And standing by it "Damian Kairo".
Today, he wore black. Not the crisp kind, but something older, almost ceremonial. There was a strange metal clasp on his collar that looked like a crescent moon swallowing a sun.
"You came," he said without turning.
"I—got a message."
"No sender. No signal. Yet you obeyed."
"I thought it was… work-related."
He turned, and the room darkened around the edges.
"You think this is work, Miss Nwosu?"
Amara swallowed hard. "I don't know what this is."
He stepped closer. "I told you yesterday. You are not what you think you are."
She shook her head. "You don't know me."
"I know that the first time you dreamed of the moon, you woke up with a mark on your wrist. A mark that disappears during the day."
Amara froze.
No one knew about that. Not even her mother.
She glanced down at her left wrist. At this hour, it was bare. But at night—there it was: a faint outline of a moon, half-shadowed, glowing when she stood under moonlight.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want to keep you alive."
That was not the answer she expected.
He walked to the pool and motioned for her to sit. The silver surface began to ripple, and images flickered in the liquid: A war. A crown made of bones. A glowing woman fighting off winged shadows. Then Amara's own face, standing under a blood-red moon.
"You've been marked by something ancient. Chosen. And hunted," Damian said. "They will come. The moment your blood awakens."
"Who's they?"
"The ones who cursed the moon… and those who serve them."
Amara felt dizzy. Her knees buckled into the chair. "I don't understand."
"You don't have to. Not yet." He paused. "But when the moon turns red in your dreams… run."
The pool's light flared—blinding her and when it dimmed, Damian was gone.
So was the room.
She stood in the middle of a regular office hallway, beside a vending machine.
Her badge beeped softly, logging her return.
No one even noticed she had been gone.
That night, Amara couldn't sleep.
The hum of Lagos traffic, the buzz of the ceiling fan, even the rhythmic snore of her cousin in the next room all faded beneath the echo of Damian Kairo's voice.
"When the moon turns red in your dreams… run."
She clutched her pillow tighter. It had to be a trick. A test. Maybe some crazy initiation prank rich people played on new hires. But that didn't explain how he knew about the mark.
Or the dream.
That night, as the clock blinked 2:46 AM in pale green digits, Amara finally drifted into sleep.
And dreamed.
She stood barefoot in a shallow lake of silver water. Above her, the moon burned crimson. Her reflection shimmered but it wasn't her.
It was a woman cloaked in white, eyes glowing like stars, wearing a crown shaped like a crescent moon.
Behind her, shadows stirred dozens of hooded figures rising from the dark. One pointed a sword at her heart.
And just before it struck
Damian appeared, stepping between her and the blade.
His back to her. His hands glowing with silver fire.
She woke with a gasp, heart slamming, drenched in sweat.
And her left wrist burned.
She turned on the light and there it was.
The mark.
A glowing, silver crescent.
Alive.
Later That Morning,
Damian watched the security feed, his expression unreadable.
"She's awakening," a voice said beside him. It belonged to an older man, dressed in ceremonial black, a silver chain coiled around his fingers. "Too fast. The curse will accelerate."
"She's not ready," Damian said softly.
"Neither are you," the man replied. "If you break the oath"
"I won't." Damian's voice dropped. "I can't."
He leaned forward, watching as Amara entered the office building, her smile bright, her steps too fast, too deliberate like she was trying to be normal. Like she hadn't dreamed of death and prophecy.
"Do you feel it?" the older man asked.
Damian's hand tightened. "Yes."
The bond. The pull. The part of his soul that remembered her even when she didn't.
Back at Kairo Tech
Amara tried to focus.
She copied files. Answered emails. Drank awful coffee. Laughed at some intern's joke.
And pretended she wasn't spiraling inside.
The hidden room hadn't returned.
Damian hadn't summoned her again.
And yet… she felt watched.
Not in a creepy, stalker way but like the air shifted whenever she passed through it. Like reality bent just slightly when she moved.
At 2:00 PM sharp, a black envelope appeared on her desk.
No delivery. No name.
Inside was a note:
Tonight. Rooftop. Midnight. Come alone.
The elevator didn't stop at the rooftop.
Amara had to take the emergency stairwell, heels clicking like gunshots against concrete. She was half sure this was a bad idea. Maybe even suicidal.
But the letter had been in her handwriting.
She didn't remember writing it.
She reached the rooftop door. It was slightly ajar, a breeze curling through the crack. A hum in the air-electric, like stormlight on skin.
Amara pushed it open.
The Lagos skyline stretched like an ocean of stars. The moon was high and full, silver and swollen. The wind bit her cheeks, but something about the air felt… ancient.
And then she saw him.
Damian stood at the edge, coat fluttering like wings. He didn't turn as she stepped closer.
"I didn't write the note," she said, voice sharper than she intended.
"I did," he replied without flinching. "But it was written through you. You're beginning to remember… in fragments."
Her stomach twisted. "What am I supposed to be remembering?"
He turned slowly.
The wind around him bent in his favor, quieted like it bowed.
"You had a life before this one, Amara."
She laughed, short and brittle. "You mean like reincarnation? Past lives?"
"I mean like destiny." His eyes glowed faintly under the moonlight. "You were born under a lunar convergence that happens once every five hundred years. A Moon-Blessed."
"I'm just a girl from Ajegunle who needed a job."
"No." He stepped closer. "You're the reason I exist."
Her breath caught.
He looked at her as if he remembered a version of her she didn't know—one cloaked in light and crowned in power.
"I was sworn to protect you before you were even born," he said, voice low. "Before this city ever existed. Before my soul knew pain."
Amara's skin prickled. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he stepped even closer, "I've known you across lifetimes. I've seen you rise and fall. I've failed you once before. I won't again."
She stared into his eyes, and something inside her moved. A memory, maybe. A whisper. A name she didn't know but felt on the tip of her soul.
Then suddenly—a scream.
The air tore behind her.
A black shadow, seven feet tall and crawling with tendrils, erupted from the rooftop floor. It had no face—just a mouth that opened too wide, hissing her name like a curse.
Damian moved in a blur.
One hand outstretched, his veins glowing silver, voice sharp with command.
"Morkhal'a retien!"
The creature shrieked as a blast of moonlight shot from his palm and split the thing in two. It vanished like smoke.
Amara fell to her knees, trembling.
Damian dropped beside her.
"This is just the beginning," he said, his voice softer now, strained.
She looked at him, wide-eyed. "What was that?"
"A shadow from the cursed realm. It's been hunting you since you turned twenty-one. But it can't reach you fully not yet. Not while I'm here."
"I didn't ask for this," she whispered.
"I know," he said. "But fate doesn't care."
He stood.
"Tomorrow, you won't remember everything. Your mind will try to erase this. But the mark will grow stronger. And so will the danger."
He turned to leave but paused.
"I'll protect you, Amara. Even if it kills me."
Then he vanished into the night.
The alarm blared at 6:30 AM.
Amara groaned and smacked her phone until the sound stopped. Her head pounded like she'd been drinking which made no sense. She didn't go out. She hadn't touched alcohol in weeks.
She sat up slowly.
The dreams again.
Bits and pieces clung to her mind like broken glass: a rooftop, a man cloaked in shadowlight, a creature hissing her name. Silver fire.
Damian.
Her breath caught but just as quickly, the memory scattered like ash in wind.
"What the hell?"
She padded into the bathroom, rubbed her temples, stared at her reflection.
She looked… fine. Normal.
Except for the faint glow beneath her skin. Barely visible. Like her veins had soaked in moonlight.
And on her wrist
The mark.
A crescent moon, no bigger than a coin. Almost invisible in daylight, but when she ran water over it, it shimmered softly.
She pulled her sleeve down quickly.
It was just a dream.
Wasn't it?
⸻
At Kairo Tech, the world moved like clockwork.
Emails. Coffee. Meetings. A snippy manager named Priscilla who never smiled. No mention of rooftop invitations. No sign of Damian.
By noon, Amara was convinced she'd imagined it all.
Until she got to her desk.
A small box waited there. No name. No note.
Inside was a pair of moonstone earrings and a handwritten message in her handwriting.
When you feel lost, wear these. They will guide you back to yourself.
Her fingers trembled.
She hadn't written that.
But she remembered the pen. The ink. The exact slant of the letters like her hand moved on its own.
Somewhere Below
Damian stood behind mirrored glass, watching her.
"She's forgetting," said the older man beside him. "The mark is suppressing the visions."
"Temporarily," Damian replied. "The moonstone will trigger the memories when she's ready."
"She should know everything. She has a right."
"She has a life," Damian said bitterly. "And I've already stolen too much from it."
"Or saved it."
Damian didn't respond. His gaze stayed locked on her.
Amara Nwosu.
The girl he'd failed once. The girl fate marked as the moon-blessed key. The girl whose soul was bound to his by prophecy, by pain, by power.
This time, he wouldn't fail.
Even if she never remembered who he truly was to her.
The private training room beneath Kairo Tech didn't exist on any blueprints.
Its walls were made of obsidian, threaded with veins of silver that pulsed in sync with the moon's orbit. It wasn't just a room it was a conduit.
Amara stood in the center, barefoot on a glowing circle carved into the stone. She wore a simple black shift, no jewelry, no distractions. The air buzzed with energy.
Damian stood across from her, his coat discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His silver eyes watched her with calm intensity.
"I don't think this is a good idea," Amara said, shifting her weight.
"It's the only idea," he replied softly. "The longer your power sleeps, the more vulnerable you become."
She crossed her arms. "You keep saying I have power but I don't feel powerful. I feel confused."
He stepped closer, slowly. "Confusion is the threshold of awakening. The mind resists what the soul already knows."
"Poetic. Still not helpful."
Damian exhaled. Then he raised one hand. A gentle flick of his fingers—and the air around her shimmered.
The light in the room dimmed. The silver veins in the floor pulsed brighter. Amara's breath hitched as warmth curled up her spine.
"Close your eyes," Damian said.
She hesitated… then obeyed.
"Breathe."
She did.
"Now… picture the moon. Full. Cold. Endless."
She did. The image came easily. The same moon that haunted her dreams, hovered in her memory.
"Feel it," Damian whispered. "Let it in."
Something stirred.
Her chest tightened. The mark on her wrist burned. A wave of dizziness washed over her—and beneath that, something ancient shifted.
"I feel… heat," she murmured. "Everywhere."
"Don't fight it," he said. "Let it rise."
Her eyes snapped open. They glowed—silver, just like his.
Then the wind howled.
The walls of the chamber trembled. The veins of silver crackled. Amara gasped as a sudden force exploded from her chest—pure moonlight arcing into the ceiling.
Damian shielded his face but didn't move.
When the light faded, Amara collapsed to her knees, breathing hard.
"What was that?" she whispered.
"Your soul waking up."
She looked up at him, dazed. "It hurt."
"It always does, the first time."
Her fingertips still shimmered faintly. Her blood felt like fire and ice.
He reached out, hesitated—then helped her to her feet.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For what you're about to become."
A high-pitched hum filled the chamber, vibrating through the obsidian walls.
Amara was still on her knees, breath ragged, hands glowing faintly. Damian's arm was around her, steadying her, his eyes scanning the room.
Then he felt it.
The temperature dropped unnaturally. The silver veins in the floor flickered. The pulsing moonlight that had filled the space began to fade—as if something darker was clawing its way in.
"They found us," he said, voice low.
"Who?" Amara asked, trying to stand.
He didn't answer.
The wall to their right cracked—just once. Then again. A fracture split open like a wound, and from it spilled figures cloaked in pitch-black armor that seemed to ripple like smoke. No faces. No eyes. Just shadows shaped like men.
Moonhunters.
The ancient order sworn to destroy the moon-marked.
"Stay behind me," Damian said, stepping forward.
Three figures emerged. One stepped into the pulsing light, his voice like gravel dragged across stone.
"She's awake," the shadow hissed. "The Moon-Blood has risen. The Seals will break."
Damian's hand flared with light. A crescent-shaped blade formed in his grip, carved of mirrored energy.
"Not today."
The first shadow lunged.
Damian met it mid-air, steel and smoke clashing in a burst of sparks. Behind him, Amara scrambled to her feet, heart pounding, the mark on her wrist now glowing like fire.
The shadows swirled around them, striking with inhuman speed. But Damian moved like he had danced this dance a thousand times—cutting, blocking, casting shimmering sigils midair with one hand while slashing with the other.
Still, they kept coming.
One figure bypassed him entirely—charging straight for Amara.
She raised her hands out of instinct—and the air around her detonated in a silver shockwave. The figure screamed and crumpled before touching her.
She stared at her hands.
"I—I did that?"
Damian parried another strike. "Yes! And you'll do it again. Focus, Amara!"
She gritted her teeth. Raised her palm again.
This time, when she aimed, the light didn't burst—it shaped itself. Into a blade. A thin crescent like a sickle of moonlight.
She swung it just as the last shadow leapt—and split it in half with a scream that echoed through the stone.
Silence followed.
Smoke hissed and faded from the air. The fracture in the wall sealed itself with a low hum.
Amara collapsed again.
Damian rushed to her side, kneeling.
"Are you hurt?"
"No," she whispered. "But… what were those things?"
"Hunters," he said grimly. "Sent by the ones who fear your power."
Her eyes found his. "Why me? Why is everyone afraid of me?"
He hesitated. Then quietly answered:
"Because, Amara… you were born under the Broken Moon. You're not just moon-blessed. You're the Lunar Key. The last one born before the Moon itself cracked."
She stared at him.
And somewhere, deep inside, something finally clicked.