Darkness swirled behind Rael's eyes, thick and heavy, like trying to surface through black oil. He wasn't asleep. He wasn't dead. Just… stuck. Suspended somewhere between memory and muscle.
Then a voice. Distant. Muffled.
"…still unstable. But contained."
Light cracked through.
Rael's eyes opened slowly, adjusting to a dim, cold glow that wasn't firelight. He was lying on a crystal-smooth slab, etched with faint geometric glyphs that shimmered like moonlight on ice. The air smelled like incense and iron—old magic.
Above him, the ceiling arched in an unnatural curve, made of black stone veined with silver. The walls pulsed gently, like something alive was running beneath them.
He sat up too fast. Pain lanced through his spine. He hissed and braced himself with one hand—only to see that hand wasn't quite his.
The nails were still blackened. Faint sigils shimmered just beneath the skin—not carved, but grown. His skin tone shifted subtly every few inches, like light and shadow were having a quiet war across his veins.
He looked at his reflection in a polished metal plate beside the bed.
One eye was still his. Brown, tired, alert.
The other?
Blood red, the pupil thin as a slit, like a serpent or predator caught mid-hunt. It didn't just glow—it watched, even when he blinked. Something about it felt aware.
Rael reached up with a trembling hand and felt through his hair.
A silver streak cut through the left side, right above the red eye, standing out against the black like a scar of light. He pulled his hand back slowly.
His breath shook.
He recoiled instinctively, knocking the plate over.
From the far side of the room, someone stirred.
Rael turned, defensive.
A girl sat cross-legged at a stone table covered in notes and rune diagrams. Her cloak was embroidered with necromantic symbols, and her hair—silver-blonde, tied tight—framed a face too composed for someone their age.
Mira Voss.
She didn't look up from her sketches.
"You snore like a demon in heat," she said calmly.
Rael blinked. "What?"
"You've been unconscious for sixteen hours. That's the first sentence you get."
Rael opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned. "Where am I?"
Mira finally looked at him. Her eyes were a murky green, rimmed with dark circles like she hadn't slept either. "Mobile containment ward. Duskguard design. This one's… custom. For people like you."
He stiffened. "People like me?"
"People who set themselves on fire without knowing how," she said, scribbling a new rune on her paper. "Who bend aura fields on instinct. Who fight vampires like they're born to it."
Rael swung his legs off the bed, bracing against the wall. "You saw me?"
"I saw what used to be you," she replied, still not meeting his eyes. "The thing with the claws and the Twilight-fused pulse? That wasn't human."
Rael flinched.
Before he could speak, a door slid open at the end of the chamber—without sound, without hinges. A tall figure entered. Cloaked in black. Hood still drawn low.
Rael stood instantly, fists clenched, even as pain shot through his shoulder.
"Easy," Mira muttered, standing too, more cautiously. "He's the one who dragged you out. I think."
The figure stopped a few feet away.
He said nothing.
Rael narrowed his eyes. "You gonna explain what you did to me?"
Silence.
Then the figure moved—slowly, deliberately—pulling a small object from within his sleeve.
He set it on the edge of Rael's slab.
A small stone talisman.
Rael stared at it.
It was his uncle's. Charred around the edges. But intact.
He reached out—hesitated—then took it.
His throat tightened.
When he looked back up, the hooded figure was already halfway out the door.
Rael called after him. "Wait—who are you?"
The figure paused.
Just before stepping through the exit, he turned his head slightly—just enough for the firelight to catch the edge of his jaw.
But there was no reflection in his eyes.
Then he was gone.
The door shut.
Mira exhaled. "Creepy bastard. Doesn't even blink."
Rael sat back on the slab, holding the talisman tight.
He didn't know who that was.
He didn't know what he'd become.
But something inside him whispered:
You're not done yet.