CHAPTER ONE
The city never slept, but tonight, it was holding its breath.
Rain poured in cold sheets over Manhattan's south end, veiling streetlights in ghostly halos. Beneath the awnings of rusted scaffolding and flickering neon signs, people moved like shadows—umbrellas bowed against the wind, heads low, feet quick. But Raven Quinn didn't slow down.
She couldn't afford to.
Her boots slapped against wet pavement, the slap-squelch rhythm masked only by the thundering pulse in her ears. Behind her, the footsteps were growing louder. Closer. Whoever they were, they were good—silent, fast, and coordinated. She'd picked up on them three blocks back. Two men. Maybe three. One had a limp. The other breathed through his nose with a faint whistle, like a cracked flute. Not cops. Not pickpockets. Something worse.
Something patient.
Raven turned a corner into a grimy alley, one she knew like the back of her hand. A fire escape to the left. A chained gate to the right. A dented red dumpster, always smelling of vinegar and rotting meat.
Except tonight—
The alley was wrong.
The fire escape was missing. The dumpster had vanished. The gate, always half-hinged and crooked, was now… sealed. Solid black iron, etched with unfamiliar symbols.
She froze.
"What the hell?"
The air felt thick here. Heavy, like the moment before thunder. She could taste metal on her tongue. Her breath caught in her throat, and for the first time in years, Raven felt real fear slide down her spine like ice.
She turned to run—
Too late.
A man stepped into the alley behind her, tall and hooded, his silhouette sharp against the rain. He didn't speak. Another figure emerged from the shadows at the far end. And then another.
They were boxing her in.
Raven's gaze snapped back to the gate. She had seconds.
No time for logic. No time for fear.
She ran toward the iron door—and to her shock, it cracked open on its own.
A whisper, just beneath hearing, licked across her mind.
"You belong."
She shoved the door with all her strength, and it gave way like silk. No sound. No screech. Just darkness.
Raven slipped inside—and the world changed.
—------
The first thing she noticed was the absence of sound.
The rain. Gone. The footsteps. Gone. The city's ever-present hum—cars, sirens, voices—all gone. It was as if someone had wrapped her in cotton.
She turned to look behind her. The door was still open, but it didn't show the alley.
It showed nothing.
Just blackness, rippling like a pond disturbed by wind. Then it blinked out, sealing behind her with a sigh.
Raven backed away slowly. "Okay. Nope. This is fine. Just lost my damn mind."
The space around her shimmered faintly. Gold veins ran through black stone walls. The floor beneath her boots was smooth, almost glassy. And ahead—a hallway stretched out like the spine of some ancient beast. Narrow. Uneven. Lit by flickering lanterns with no flames inside.
The whisper came again, closer now.
"The blood remembers."
She spun. "Who's there?!"
Silence.
Raven's fingers twitched at her sides. She always kept a switchblade in her boot, but it felt laughably useless now. This wasn't a mugging. This wasn't even reality anymore. It was something older. Deeper. Like she'd stumbled into a place that remembered magic and had never forgotten what it was like to be feared.
Still—she moved forward.
The corridor twisted and narrowed. Symbols lined the walls—some pulsed faintly, others bled into the stone like they were trying to escape. The air buzzed faintly around her, like static before a lightning strike.
And then, she reached it:
A massive chamber.
Gold pillars. Black marble floors. A ceiling so high it disappeared into shadow. At the far end sat a platform—an altar carved from obsidian. And above it… a floating crown.
Delicate. Sharp. Burning faintly blue.
Raven stared.
She had never seen anything like it. And yet…
It was familiar.
Like something from her dreams. The ones she never told anyone about. The fire. The throne. The woman's voice whispering—
"When the mirror shatters… run."
Suddenly, the air shifted.
A gust of cold swept the room. Raven turned, expecting another whisper—but instead, a door opened.
This one wasn't strange or magical. It was made of heavy wood and iron.
A man stepped through it.
And the world stilled.
He was tall—easily over six feet—with the kind of presence that demanded silence. Dark tailored coat. Gloves. Sharp jawline. Raven-black hair slicked back. His face was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. Sculpted. Dangerous.
But his eyes…they were…
Silver. Cold. Watching everything.
He didn't speak. He just looked at her—like a chess master examining a piece that wasn't supposed to exist.
Raven took a step back.
"Who are you?" she demanded, voice shaking.
The man's gaze narrowed. "That's my question."
She squared her shoulders. "You don't get to interrogate me. I just fell through a damn—what is this place?! A set for some cult fantasy show?!"
He took one step closer. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Smooth.
"This chamber has been sealed for two decades. No one has entered. No one has touched the altar. Until you."
Raven glanced at the crown.
"I didn't touch anything."
"You were about to."
She opened her mouth to argue—
But then the altar began to glow.
The crown lifted slightly higher, and the blue flame grew bright. Symbols on the floor flared to life—tracing a pattern that coiled toward Raven's feet.
And then… the crown spoke.
Not in words. In memory.
Suddenly Raven saw it all:
— A burning palace.
— A woman running with a baby wrapped in silver cloth.
— A sword breaking.
— A door slamming shut.
— And a name.
Raven.
Her name.
When she gasped, her knees hit the floor.
The man—no, the king, because that's what he had to be—reached for her, but the flames coiled between them.
Raven's head snapped up.
"What is this place?" she whispered.
The man studied her like she was a puzzle he both hated and needed to solve.
"This," he said, "is Elarion. And you… should not exist."