Amara woke to the sound of rain.
The steady patter against the hospital window filled the sterile room like a heartbeat — constant, unyielding. For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming. The world seemed to tilt between sleep and something deeper, a space where whispers echoed just behind her thoughts.
She turned her head slowly. The skyline of Manhattan glimmered through the glass — half-shrouded by storm clouds, half-lit by restless lightning. The city below moved like a living thing, a river of lights winding through shadow.
Her pulse was unsteady. The monitor beside her bed kept rhythm, steady but fragile. She tried to move, but her arms felt heavy, as though gravity had deepened around her.
"Easy," came a voice from the door.
Dr. Kensington stepped inside, his white coat catching the reflection of the monitors. His expression was composed, but his eyes were tired. "You're safe," he said softly. "You collapsed during your father's last conference call. Do you remember anything?"
Amara blinked. Fragments of the night returned — the strange pull at the back of her mind, the heat under her skin, the feeling that something ancient was listening through her heartbeat.
"I saw… light," she murmured. "Like fire. But it wasn't here. It was—" she hesitated, "—somewhere else. A place buried."
Kensington nodded, scribbling something on his tablet. "Neural activity spikes. Your father mentioned this before. He said it might be a residual psychological reaction to your travels."
She looked at him sharply. "My travels didn't cause this."
The doctor's pen stilled.
She sat up slightly, her voice trembling but clear. "It felt like something was reaching for me. And when I tried to push it away… it spoke."
Kensington's gaze flickered. "Spoke?"
Amara's eyes drifted to the window. Lightning flashed, and for an instant, her reflection wasn't her own. The eyes staring back glowed faintly bronze.
"Yes," she whispered. "It said my name."
The lights in the room flickered. The heart monitor skipped a beat. Kensington froze, eyes darting to the display — the readings surged erratically, then steadied as suddenly as they'd changed.
"Could be the storm," he muttered, though his voice betrayed unease. "Power's been flickering all over Midtown."
But Amara barely heard him. Something inside her was shifting — not pain, not fear, but recognition. The warmth that spread through her chest wasn't human. It felt like someone else's heartbeat had aligned with hers.
She gripped the sheets tightly. "Where's my father?"
Kensington hesitated. "He's… in conference. High-security communication blackout for now."
"Tell him I need to see him."
"I'll try, but—"
"I need to see him," she repeated, her tone sharper than she intended. The words carried a weight that made the lights dim again.
Kensington flinched slightly. "Of course. I'll inform his office."
When he left, Amara sank back into the bed, staring at the ceiling. The rain had intensified, drumming harder against the glass.
Then — faintly — she felt it again.
A voice, low and heavy, like an echo through stone.
"Child of the covenant…"
Her breath caught. "Who's there?"
"He offered himself. The flame accepts the blood."
She pressed her hands to her ears. "Stop!"
But the whisper wasn't outside her. It was inside, curling through her veins, weaving with her pulse. She saw flashes — images not her own: her father kneeling in the dark, light consuming him, symbols of molten gold etching across his skin.
Her body convulsed. The monitors screamed.
Nurses rushed in, shouting her name, but she barely heard them. The hospital room melted into white light — walls bending and dissolving. In their place, she saw something vast: the containment chamber in Jos, broken open, the armour standing free amid shattered glass and rising dust.
And then — her father's voice, distorted but clear:
"Covenant accepted."
The light faded as suddenly as it came. Amara gasped and collapsed back onto the pillow, drenched in sweat.
"Miss Roman!" one nurse called, gripping her wrist. "Stay with us!"
But she was staring at her reflection again. In the darkened window, her eyes were faintly aglow — just for a second — before returning to normal.
Her voice was faint but sure. "He's changed."
"What?" the nurse asked.
She didn't answer.
Outside, thunder cracked so violently the building trembled. Power flickered again — and when it returned, a new figure stood at the doorway.
It was Marcus Vale, her father's head of security. His black suit was soaked from the rain, his face expressionless but pale.
"Miss Roman," he said evenly. "Your father has issued a direct order."
Kensington returned from the hall, clearly agitated. "She's not stable enough for any travel—"
Vale ignored him. "Dr. Kensington, you'll receive compensation for her care. But her transport is being handled by the company. Effective immediately."
Amara's stomach turned cold. "Transport? Where?"
Vale's gaze met hers — a flicker of hesitation there. "Home, Miss Roman. Your father insists."
"Home?" she echoed, almost disbelieving. "I am home."
Vale didn't reply. Two more men entered, carrying security cases and medical restraints disguised as support cuffs.
Kensington stepped forward. "This is outrageous. She needs monitoring, not relocation. Whatever is happening to her—"
Vale's expression didn't waver. "The order came directly from Chief Roman. Authorization code: Covenant One."
The doctor froze at the word. "Covenant?" he whispered.
Amara's eyes widened. She didn't understand how, but she felt the word — its weight, its connection. Her father's voice echoed faintly in her mind again, not with warmth, but command.
"Come home, my daughter. It's time."
Tears welled in her eyes. "What did he do?" she whispered.
Vale stepped closer, softening his tone slightly. "Miss Roman, your father just wants to see you. Please — don't make this harder."
The nurses protested, but security moved efficiently. Within minutes, Amara was on her feet, wrapped in a grey coat, the storm's wind slapping her face as they escorted her through the hospital's private exit.
She looked up at the skyline — the towers glimmering through the rain — and for an instant, the lightning flashed again, illuminating her reflection in a passing window. Her eyes, bronze once more, glowed faintly against the dark.
Somewhere in the upper floors of a skyscraper far above, her father watched through another pane of glass, his own reflection no longer entirely human.
He turned to his assistant, voice calm, resonant, almost divine.
"Prepare the plane," he said. "My daughter comes home tonight."