If someone had told me this morning that I'd end the day with a glowing sigil burned into my palm, I probably would've laughed and asked if they'd been day-drinking.
But here I was, standing in the middle of a city alleyway that smelled faintly of rain and espresso, staring at my hand like it had just betrayed me.
The mark pulsed, soft, blue light flickering beneath the skin.
And I swear, it hummed.
"Okay," I muttered, shaking it like a wet matchstick. "Very funny. Who's doing the cosmic prank today?"
No answer. Just the distant hum of traffic and a streetlamp buzzing overhead. Rome, or at least my corner of it, was blissfully unaware that the universe had apparently decided I was its next experiment.
I wasn't new to weird stuff, to be honest. Ever since I was a kid, little things liked to follow me: sparks in the air when I got angry, flickering lights when I laughed too hard, street cats that somehow knew my name. My aunt called it "a wild spirit." My physics teacher called it "static electricity." I called it "please don't let anyone notice."
But this?
This was new.
The sigil flared again, a tiny burst of light like lightning trapped under glass and I felt it vibrate through my bones. Then, behind me, someone cleared their throat.
"Nice trick," a voice said, deep and smooth, with the kind of accent that made my stomach do a very unhelpful flip. "Most street performers stick to card tricks."
I turned, half ready to laugh it off, half ready to bolt.
The guy leaning against the wall looked like he'd stepped out of a movie I didn't remember auditioning for: black coat, silver chain, hair too perfect to be real. But it was his eyes that caught me gray, with faint golden rings inside them, like storm clouds reflecting sunlight.
"I'm not performing," I said, hiding my hand behind my back. "Just... experimenting."
He smiled. "With ancient runic energy?"
My heart skipped. "You've seen this before?"
"Only on people who shouldn't have it."
So. That was comforting.
He stepped closer, and the air shifted like static before a thunderstorm. The faint scent of ozone wrapped around us, tinged with something else. Magic.
I didn't know how I knew that word fit, but it did. Perfectly.
"Who are you?" I asked, trying to sound casual, though my pulse was auditioning for a drum solo.
"Call me Kael." He tilted his head. "And you, Elara Vance, just broke a very old rule."
"I didn't even know there were rules," I said. "Do I get a handbook, or…?"
Kael's smile faded. "The kind of magic you just touched doesn't belong in this world anymore. It was sealed away centuries ago. If it's resurfaced through you that means something's waking up."
I blinked. "Waking up? Like… in the mythological, dragon-snoozing sense or the apocalyptic kind?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze flicked upward, and I followed it just in time to see a hairline crack of light split the night sky open.
It was faint, almost invisible at first, but growing, spreading like veins of gold through dark glass. And beneath it, the air shimmered, rippling as if the sky itself were a curtain about to be torn down.
Kael's voice was low. "Both."
For a heartbeat, everything was silent. Then came the sound the deep, resonant echo of something ancient moving, like a door that hadn't been opened in a thousand years.
And as that impossible light washed over us, I had a single, absurd thought:
I still hadn't paid my rent.