Rain had fallen in heavy sheets the night before, leaving Lagos streets slick and glistening under the first rays of dawn. The air smelled of wet asphalt, fuel, and the faint metallic tang of something raw, something she would never forget. Nora clutched her father's hand tightly, her small fingers gripping his with a strength that surprised even him. Beside them, her mother hummed softly, trying to keep the journey to the village cheerful. A trip that should have been filled with laughter, excitement, and the warmth of family.
But fate had other plans.
A blinding set of headlights appeared out of nowhere. The sharp blast of a lorry horn cut through the early morning calm like a dagger. Nora froze, too small to process what was happening, and then the world seemed to shatter. Screams pierced the air. The crunch of metal, the splintering of glass, and the sickening thud of impact reverberated through her body. She was thrown, flung onto the wet asphalt, the rain soaking her thin clothes as if trying to wash away the terror.
Her little body shook uncontrollably, her mind unable to focus, only able to feel the absolute emptiness where her parents' warmth should have been. She tried to reach for them, but the space around her was filled with chaos—flashing lights, shouts, and the smell of fuel and blood mingling together in a way she would never forget.
And yet… beneath the fear, something strange throbbed in her chest. A steady pulse, almost alien, almost ancient. Not her own heartbeat, or at least not only hers. It hummed in rhythm with the terror around her but remained calm, measured, deliberate. It anchored her.
Hands pulled her from the wreckage, voices spoke words she did not understand, and the world blurred. The ambulance smelled of antiseptic and wet cloth. She cried herself to sleep, and when she woke, everything had changed. Her parents were gone. Her home was gone. Her childhood, in an instant, had ended.
⸻
The authorities would call it an accident. The neighbors would whisper of fate and misfortune. But inside the core of her being, the truth waited, quiet and patient: Nora Amadi's blood was not ordinary.
Somewhere far away, in lands of endless desert and towering marble spires, centuries-old eyes opened in response. Tal Al-Mahdi, King of the Ashur'Kai Realm, sat at the head of a long mahogany table, his mind ostensibly focused on strategies and contracts that controlled the human world. Yet beneath his control, something stirred. Something he could not name. A tug that was not physical, not audible, but felt deep in the marrow of his ancient bones.
Blood, he realized without knowing how, was calling to blood.
⸻
Back in Lagos, Nora was placed in St. Agnes' Children's Home, a modest orphanage tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. Its walls smelled of dust, old books, and faint disinfectant. It was small, crowded, chaotic, and yet filled with the kind of hope only children could muster. Nora learned quickly that survival demanded more than just obedience—it required patience, empathy, and a quiet cunning that she did not yet name.
She shared her meals, comforted the younger children when they cried, and quickly earned the trust of the caretakers. Her silence was not shyness—it was observation. She noted moods, predicted tantrums, and intuitively knew how to calm conflict before it even began. Other children called her the quiet queen of St. Agnes, and though she smiled faintly at the nickname, she understood it was not for vanity—it was for survival.
At night, when the lights dimmed and the orphanage settled into uneasy sleep, Nora would sometimes awaken with the pulse in her veins stronger than ever. It thrummed, insistent, like a reminder she did not yet understand: that she was alive for a reason, that her blood carried a purpose far greater than these walls.
Even then, she was aware—though not consciously—of something watching, somewhere far beyond her comprehension. A presence, patient and relentless, as old as time. One day, it would cross oceans and deserts, and when it did, the world she knew would crumble.
⸻
Life at St. Agnes was both merciful and cruel. The caretakers were kind but stretched thin. Food was scarce, so she learned self-restraint early. The other orphans were unpredictable; older children sometimes bullied her. But Nora had a calm confidence that kept most trouble at bay. She did not fight violently, but she did not submit, either. Something about her presence demanded attention, respect—even from those who were stronger or meaner.
By the time she reached her teens, she had grown into a girl whose natural beauty could turn heads, though she never sought it. Her skin glowed with an effortless radiance, her voice was soft but melodic, and her movements carried the kind of poise that made people pause. Yet beneath it all, she remained simple, humble, and wary of those who would use charm as a weapon. She had learned, early, that the world was cruel to the unprepared.
It was during these years that subtle signs of her bloodline began to appear. Other children would calm around her. Temper tantrums, fights, and tears somehow slowed when she approached. The caretakers sometimes whispered about her "grace" or "presence," never realizing it was something older, something far more dangerous than mere charm.
And on certain nights, when the air was still and the city beyond the orphanage quieted into shadows, Nora would feel it stronger than ever: a heartbeat that was not hers, a whisper in her veins, a force pulling her toward a destiny she could not yet name.
⸻
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Tal Al-Mahdi leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. The Ashur'Kai Realm's endless corridors of power and intrigue could wait. Something had shifted—a signal he had felt only once before, centuries ago, when his instincts had tried and failed to warn him of danger. His hunger, his control, his centuries of calm dominance over the Ashur'Kai, all faltered ever so slightly.
He did not know the source. He only knew the effect: the world had just changed.
And across continents, on a quiet street in Lagos, a small girl curled under a thin blanket at St. Agnes' Children's Home, her pulse steady, calm, yet somehow… extraordinary.
The threads of fate had begun to weave, the kind that could not be unraveled. And in the heart of the city, a girl who had survived the unthinkable was about to live a life that would drag her across continents, kingdoms, and centuries she had never imagined.
Her blood called for a king.
And somewhere, far away, that king had begun to listen.