Zyra Everhart never believed in fate. Fate was for people who refused to take control of their own damn lives. And yet, as she crouched beside the lifeless body sprawled in the alley, she felt fate pressing its cold fingers against her spine.
The corpse was a man, mid-thirties, his throat slit from ear to ear. Strange symbols were etched into his flesh—symbols Zyra had seen before. A shiver ran down her spine as she traced the markings with her gloved fingers.
A metallic scent hung heavy in the air, mixing with the stench of damp brick and rotting garbage. The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for a car, its cobblestone path slick from the earlier rain. The body lay awkwardly against the wall, eyes wide in a frozen stare, lips parted as if he had tried to scream. He had died in fear.
"This makes three this week." Elias Draven's voice pulled her from her thoughts. Her former partner stood behind her, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trench coat. The dim alley light cast shadows across his sharp features.
"Same ritualistic carving. Same precision."
Zyra exhaled slowly, forcing herself to take in every detail. The symbols were too precise to be the work of an amateur. Each line was deliberate, etched with something razor-sharp. The wounds had not bled much—meaning he had been drained before the symbols were carved.
Her stomach tightened. This wasn't just murder. It was a ritual.
"It's not random," she muttered.
"It never is." Elias crouched beside her, his gaze flicking over the body before settling on her. "You know what this means."
Zyra clenched her jaw. She knew. It meant her past was catching up with her. The life she had tried to leave behind—the one filled with secrets, shadows, and blood—was clawing its way back.
Elias shifted his weight, studying her carefully. "You're out of this game, Zyra. You don't have to get involved."
She stood, brushing off her leather jacket. The weight of her silver dagger pressed against her hip, a familiar comfort.
"You think I have a choice?"
Elias hesitated before shaking his head. "No. I don't."
Neither did she.
The night stretched on as the crime scene was processed. Officers moved in and out of the alley, their voices hushed, their expressions grim. Zyra watched as the forensic team took samples, but she already knew they would find nothing useful. The killers she was dealing with didn't leave evidence. They didn't need to.
Elias crossed his arms as he stood beside her. "We should talk to the Captain. Let him know what we suspect."
Zyra snorted. "And tell him what? That this is the work of a cult? That it's supernatural?" She shook her head. "No one's going to believe that."
"Then what's your plan?"
She looked at the symbols again, tracing them in her mind. They were old, ancient even. And there was only one place in Eldoria where she could get the answers she needed.
"I need to visit someone," she said, turning on her heel.
Elias grabbed her wrist. "Zyra, be careful."
She nodded once, then disappeared into the night.
The rain had picked up, cold droplets sliding down the back of her neck as Zyra pulled up her hood. The city of Eldoria was alive with its usual chaos—neon signs flickering above dark alleyways, the sound of distant sirens wailing, the hum of nightlife pulsing beneath the surface.
But Zyra moved with purpose, cutting through backstreets until she reached her destination.
The bookstore looked abandoned, its wooden sign creaking in the wind. Moonlight Tomes was a place most people overlooked, but Zyra knew better. It held secrets in its dusty pages, and more importantly, it housed the only person who might know what the symbols meant.
She pushed open the door, the chime barely audible over the storm outside. The air inside was thick with the scent of parchment and aged ink. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with books that held knowledge best left undisturbed.
From behind the counter, an elderly woman looked up. Her silver hair was pulled into a loose braid, her piercing blue eyes sharper than they should have been for someone her age.
"Zyra Everhart," she mused, her voice smooth as silk. "It's been a long time."
Zyra stepped closer, pulling a photograph from her pocket—the crime scene, the body, the symbols. She placed it on the counter. "Tell me what this means."
The woman picked up the photo, studying it with a frown. Her fingers brushed over the markings, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"This…" she whispered. "This is forbidden magic."
Zyra's heartbeat quickened. "Explain."
The woman met her gaze, a warning flickering in her eyes. "These symbols… they belong to the Shadowborn."
Zyra felt the blood drain from her face. The Shadowborn—the dark, ancient beings who ruled the other side of the veil. The ones she had spent her whole life avoiding.
The woman exhaled. "You've stepped into something dangerous, child."
Zyra clenched her fists. "I didn't step into it," she said. "It's been hunting me."
The old woman's eyes darkened. "Then you already know who you need to see."
Zyra did. And she hated it.
Because the only person who could tell her why the dead were rising again…
Was Damen Valerian.
Prince of the Shadowborn.
And the last man she ever wanted to see.