Serena's name was a ghost by the time Amara was born.
The world had turned, and turned again. Kingdoms fell. Empires rose. Vampires faded into legend, then into stories, then into jokes told at sleepovers when the power went out.
"Don't go outside at night oh," aunties would say, laughing. "Vampire will catch you."
People laughed because they didn't believe.
Amara didn't believe either.
Not in vampires.
Not in witches.
Not in curses.
She believed in NEPA taking light at the worst time, in lecturers giving surprise tests, in Lagos traffic that could swallow a whole afternoon. She believed in grades, deadlines, and the small quiet ache of feeling like she was always… slightly wrong.
Too much. Too different. Too off.
She just didn't know why.
⸻
On her eighteenth birthday, nothing happened.
No lightning. No glowing marks. No secret power bursting out of her fingers.
She woke up to her grandmother banging on her door in their cramped three-bedroom flat.
"Amara!" Grandma Risi's voice was sharp but fond. "Stand up, jare! You think because today is your birthday you will sleep till noon?"
Amara groaned, dragging a pillow over her face.
"Grandma," she mumbled, "it's Saturday."
"And so?" Grandma shot back, already opening the door without waiting. "You think witches rest on Saturday?"
"Witches?" Amara blinked sleepily, pillow still halfway over her face. "Grandma, abeg, not this thing again."
Her grandmother stood in the doorway, wrapper tied tightly around her waist, gray hair braided back. Her eyes, however, were sharp. Too sharp. The kind of eyes that saw more than they should.
"You're eighteen today," Grandma said, ignoring the protest. "This is not 'this thing again'. This is the thing."
"The thing," Amara echoed flatly.
"Yes," Grandma said. "The day your power should wake."
Amara sat up, hair wild, big T-shirt sliding off one shoulder.
"Grandma, we live in Ogun State, not some fantasy kingdom," she said. "There is no power inside me except the one PHCN will still take later."
Her grandmother's mouth twitched.
"If you like joke," she said. "Magic does not care whether you believe or not."
Amara had heard all these stories before.
How their family was "special."
How their bloodline was "old."
How once, long, long ago, they had been royalty in a hidden place no history book mentioned.
A witch court.
A princess who had broken the world.
A curse that had changed everything.
All fairy tales.
Pretty ones. Scary ones. But still.
"Grandma," Amara said gently, "you know I love you."
"Hmm." Grandma folded her arms.
"And I love your stories," Amara continued. "But they're just that. Stories."
Grandma's gaze cooled.
"Is that what you think?" she asked softly.
Amara hesitated.
The right answer was no.
The honest one was yes.
"Grandma, if any of it were real, don't you think something would have happened by now?" Amara said. "You said when I turned eighteen, I would feel… something. Hear something. The earth, the sky, whatever. I feel only hunger. And maybe stress."
Grandma stared at her for a long moment.
Then she turned away.
"Dress up," she said. "We will talk later. Your mother is coming by this afternoon. She has news."
News.
That sparked more anxiety than any mention of magic.
Amara's mother, Lara, rarely had "small" news. It was always big, dramatic, life-shifting news. New job. New man. New problem. New plan.
"Okay," Amara sighed. "I'll be down in twenty minutes."
"You have ten," Grandma said. "And don't wear that your torn jeans. Today is sacred."
She left, muttering something in a language Amara had never properly learned. Not Yoruba. Not English. Something older, threaded through her childhood like background music.
Amara flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
"Power should wake," she mimicked softly. "Honestly."
Still, as she brushed her teeth, she caught herself listening.
To what?
She didn't know.
The hum of the fridge. The distant honk of okadas. The shouting of children in the street. The neighbor's radio playing old Afrobeats songs.
Nothing cosmic. Nothing witchy.
Just… life.
By the time she pulled on a clean pair of high-waist jeans and a black crop top that would definitely annoy her grandmother, she'd convinced herself the day would be normal.
She was wrong.
Just not for any reason she expected.
⸻
The university campus always felt like a different world.
Noise, heat, movement—students everywhere, lecturers striding past with files, vendors calling out, selling snacks and drinks. The dusty paths, the not-enough-trees shade, the way the sun seemed sharper inside the gates.
Amara adjusted her backpack and walked toward the Faculty of Arts building, her phone buzzing with messages.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABYYYY 🎉🎂 – from Tola.
Don't forget we have test in Performing Arts on Monday, I'm serious oh 😭 – from Femi.
Where is my birthday girl? I'm hungry. Come with money. – from Tola again.
She smiled despite herself.
Her friends didn't know about any "witch bloodline". To them, she was just Amara: chaotic, dramatic, always late, good with words, terrible with time.
It was easier that way.
As she crossed the open courtyard, someone brushed past her shoulder.
It was like touching live wire.
Her entire body jolted.
Heat shot up her arm, then turned cold, then back to heat. For a split second, the world went too bright. The chatter of students warped, stretching and distorting. Every heartbeat around her—hundreds of them—echoed in her ears like drums underwater.
She stumbled.
"Sorry," a male voice said automatically.
She turned.
And saw him.
He was standing in the middle of the courtyard as if the background noise didn't touch him. Tall. Dark hair. Skin pale in a way that didn't quite match any tribe she knew. Sharp jawline. White shirt, sleeves rolled up, black trousers, hands in pockets like this was a photoshoot and not real life.
His eyes—
She couldn't place the color exactly.
Not brown. Not black. Not light.
Something like storm clouds mixed with mercury.
He looked at her with a small crease between his brows, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
"You okay?" he asked.
Amara realized she'd been staring.
She swallowed, forcing her brain to work.
"Yeah, I—" Her voice came out too high. "I'm fine. You just— I mean, you bumped. It's okay. I— sorry."
Why are you apologizing? her brain screamed.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
Not ghost, she thought dimly. Something worse.
Because when he touched her, for that one second, she'd felt something in him that wasn't… normal.
Something cold and deep and old.
Something that felt like the mist from Grandma's stories.
"Maybe I am a ghost," she said before she could stop herself.
He blinked.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Not loudly. Just a low, surprised chuckle.
"I doubt that," he said. "You look very… alive."
Her cheeks warmed.
"Thanks," she muttered.
"Lucian!" someone called from across the courtyard.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Three other people were standing there—two guys and one girl, all slightly too polished, too composed, like they'd stepped out of a different world into this one and were still adjusting.
They watched him with a kind of casual focus that made Amara's skin prickle.
Family, maybe. Or friends.
"Coming," the boy—Lucian—called back.
He looked at Amara again.
"Be careful where you walk," he said, tone light but eyes still searching her face. "The ground here is tricky."
She frowned. "It's flat."
"For you," he said.
That made no sense.
Before she could question it, he stepped past her, his shoulder just barely brushing hers as he moved away.
Another jolt.
Shorter, this time. Sharper.
Her breath caught.
She turned to watch him.
He joined the three others. They spoke in low voices, too low for her to catch over the noise of the campus.
But she felt something.
Not electricity this time.
Attention.
Like being watched from behind a slightly open door.
The girl with them—tall, sleek braids, red lipstick—looked over, following Lucian's line of sight. Her eyes—dark, sharp—landed on Amara.
And narrowed.
Amara looked away quickly, pretending to check her phone.
Her heart wouldn't slow down.
Relax, she told herself. He's just one fine boy with weird eyes. That's all.
But her skin hummed where he'd touched her.
And somewhere, deep in her chest, something tiny and stubborn pressed against an invisible wall.
⸻
That evening, the power went out just as they lit the birthday candles.
"God punish NEPA," Aunt Bisi muttered.
Amara laughed, because her mother, auntie, and grandma were all arguing about who sang the birthday song too fast, and it felt normal.
Safe.
"We thank God for your life," her mother said, kissing her forehead. "My baby girl is eighteen."
"I'm not your baby girl, I'm a grown woman," Amara said, cutting the cake.
"You'll be my baby when you are eighty," Mum said. "So better accept your fate now."
They ate. They joked. They gossiped.
They did not talk about magic—until later.
When the visitors left.
When the dishes were washed.
When the house was dim and quiet, lit only by one rechargeable lamp on the table.
Grandma Risi sat down opposite Amara, her hands folded around a cup of tea she wasn't drinking.
Her mother leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly.
Aunt Bisi disappeared into her room, intentionally or not leaving them alone.
Amara's chest tightened.
"Okay," she said. "This feels… serious. Who died?"
"Nobody," her mother said sharply. "Don't say that. God forbid."
"Then what?" Amara asked.
Her grandmother didn't speak at first.
She just stared at Amara like she was trying to memorize her face.
"You felt nothing today?" Grandma asked finally. "No… pulling? No strange dreams? No voices?"
Amara hesitated.
She thought of Lucian.
Of the way touching him had felt like stepping half a second too far into the wrong kind of dream.
But that had nothing to do with magic.
Just weirdness.
"I felt normal," she said. "Just me."
Her mother exhaled, long and tired.
Grandma's shoulders slumped.
"Then it is as I feared," she murmured.
Amara frowned. "What do you mean?"
Her grandmother looked up, eyes suddenly hard.
"Your power didn't wake," she said. "Because I locked it."
The room spun.
"What?" Amara said.
Her mother closed her eyes.
"Mom," she said to Grandma, voice tense, "we agreed we'd explain this together."
"There is no easy way," Grandma snapped. "She is eighteen. The world has eyes again. The Lucian line has moved. There is no more time for soft corners."
"Lucian," Amara repeated, cold trickling down her spine.
She remembered the boy's strange eyes. The way he'd said her name without knowing it. The way his family had looked at her.
"Who is that?" she asked. "And what do you mean you locked my— my power? I don't even have any power."
Grandma Risi's gaze pinned her in place.
"You do," she said quietly. "You are the last direct descendant of Serena of Lyris. The witch princess who broke the vampires and cursed the world."
The air felt too thin.
"This is… one of your stories," Amara said weakly. "You've told me this before. The witch princess. The mist. The curse. It's just—"
"No," Grandma said sharply. "It is not 'just story'."
Her mother rubbed her temples.
"Amara," Mum said softly, "sit down."
"I am sitting," Amara snapped. "What else do you want me to do? Fly?"
Her grandmother ignored the sarcasm.
"I was there," she said.
Amara stared.
"What?" she whispered.
"Not in Serena's time," Grandma said. "Don't look at me like that. I am not that old."
Despite the tension, Amara almost laughed.
"I was there," Grandma continued, "when your mother turned eighteen. When her power woke. When the world almost saw us again."
Something like shame flickered across Mum's face.
"I wasn't careful," she said quietly. "I thought I could use it in small ways. Help people. Fix little things. But humans are… humans. They gossip. They fear what they don't understand."
"You were almost killed," Grandma said flatly. "If not for the wards, the people in that village would have burned you."
Amara's stomach turned.
Mum's voice thinned.
"They called me demon," she said, half-laughing without humor. "Said I was possessed. Said I was a sign of the end times."
"And that," Grandma said, "is why I locked your power before it could wake. To hide you. To protect you from both sides."
"Both sides?" Amara echoed. "Humans and… what? Vampires that don't exist?"
Grandma's lips tightened.
"The vampires did not die when Serena cursed them," she said. "They hid. They adapted. Some learned new tricks. Some found witches they could bribe or threaten into binding spells. One of those spells became the daylight ring."
The room felt colder.
"Daylight… ring," Amara repeated.
Her mind flashed to Lucian standing in the full glare of the afternoon sun, pale and calm, not burning, not sweating.
"Serena cursed them to burn under the sun," Grandma said. "But there are always loopholes. The old Lucian line found one. They kept their strength. They kept their hunger. And they started hunting in the shadows, watching witch bloodlines. Waiting for one thing."
Amara's throat was dry.
"For what?" she whispered.
"For you," Grandma said. "For the one who can undo what Serena did. The chosen heir. The witch strong enough to break the curse—and free them."
The room spun again.
"That's ridiculous," Amara said, but weakly now. "I can't even keep my data subscription alive till the end of the month. How will I break ancient curses?"
Her mother stepped closer.
"Amara," she said, "think. Have you ever felt… out of place, even among us? Like you were meant for something else, but nobody gave you the manual?"
"That's just being a uni student," Amara said.
"Answer the question," Grandma said softly.
Amara swallowed.
"Yes," she whispered. "All the time."
"And today," Grandma pressed, "on campus. Did you feel anything strange? Anyone?"
Lucian's hand brushing hers lit her nerves up again.
She hesitated.
"Just… this guy," she admitted. "He bumped into me. It felt weird. Like… static. But that's nothing. It's just—"
"His name," Grandma cut in. "Did you get his name?"
Amara hesitated.
"No," she said. Then, reluctantly: "Someone called him. Lucian."
Her mother's hand flew to her mouth.
Grandma closed her eyes.
"Then it has begun," she murmured.
"No," Amara said. "No, wait. You can't just say 'it has begun' like Nollywood village priest and not explain."
Her heart clattered against her ribs.
"Amara," Grandma said quietly, "the Lucian family is the last surviving core of the ancient Night Legion royal line. Direct descendants of the vampire general who betrayed Serena."
Amara's mind flashed—images from stories she'd half-listened to as a child. A vampire with silver eyes. A witch princess screaming under a broken sky.
"Darian," she whispered. She hadn't known she remembered the name until it was on her tongue.
Grandma nodded.
"After Serena cursed them," she said, "the Lucian line almost died out. But they are stubborn. Cunning. They learned to hide their nature. To build wealth and influence on top of fear."
"And they all have the same last name?" Amara asked weakly. "What, they just write 'Lucian' on JAMB form? 'Course of study: Bloodsucking 101'?"
Her mother almost smiled despite herself.
"Some things change," Grandma said. "Surnames. Passports. Countries. But the blood stays the same. Their line always circles back to power. To human structures that allow them to feed quietly. To schools and cities where witch blood might surface."
A horrible pattern clicked in Amara's head.
"The new family that donated money to the university… for that big arts building…" she said slowly.
Grandma's eyes sharpened.
"Exactly," she said. "The Lucian Foundation."
Amara laughed.
It sounded wrong.
"Grandma, you're telling me the fine boy on my campus is part of a vampire dynasty hunting me so I can break their curse," she said. "Do you hear how that sounds?"
"Yes," Grandma said calmly. "It sounds like the truth."
Her mother rubbed her forehead again.
"Listen to me, Amara," Mum said. "We didn't tell you before now because we wanted you to have a normal childhood. But normal is over. If the Lucians are here—and if you felt what I think you felt when you touched him—they've found you."
"Found me how?" Amara demanded. "I don't glow in the dark. I don't float. I have no magic. You locked it, remember?"
"Yes," Grandma said. "But blood calls to blood. Even through seals. Your power is asleep, not gone. And a vampire old enough, strong enough, close enough to the original line will sense it. Even if he doesn't understand what he's sensing yet."
"So what do we do?" Amara whispered.
Her grandmother looked at her mother.
Her mother looked like she'd been waiting years to avoid this exact moment.
"We have two choices," Grandma said.
"Run," Mum said quietly.
"Or fight," Grandma finished.
Amara let out a shaky breath.
"Okay," she said. "Run where?"
"We have other enclaves," Grandma said. "Old safehouses. Hidden places where witch bloodlines still gather in secret. We can send you abroad. Change your name. Erase your trail. Hide you properly this time."
"And leave school?" Amara said. "Leave everything? My life? My friends?"
"Your life is more important than your semester," Mum said sharply.
"And if we fight?" Amara asked.
Grandma held her gaze.
"Then I unlock your power," she said. "Fully. No more seals. No more hiding. You learn what you are, fast. You learn how to use it. And we prepare. Because if they want you…" Her eyes hardened. "They will come. Hungry."
Amara's heart thundered.
She thought of Lucian's eyes.
Of the way he'd said, You look very… alive.
She thought of the quiet watchfulness of his family.
She thought of Grandma's stories of Serena—of a love that became a curse that became a rule.
No witches with vampires.
No witches loving monsters.
No mercy.
Amara had never broken a rule she understood the reason for.
But now, looking at her grandmother's lined, fierce face and her mother's tired, scared eyes, she realized something:
This wasn't just about her.
If the Lucians broke the curse, vampires would walk in the sun again.
The world would never be ready.
Her pulse slowed.
"What if I don't want to run," she said quietly.
Mum's eyes filled with tears.
"Amara—"
"What if I'm tired of feeling like I'm waiting for something without knowing what it is?" Amara pressed. "If there's a reason I feel like this—if there's actually… power in me—I don't want to die without even touching it."
Silence.
Her grandmother sat up straighter.
"Are you sure?" Grandma asked. "This is not small decision. Once power wakes, you cannot go back to pretending. The world will never look normal again."
Amara thought of the way the world had tilted for one second in the campus courtyard.
It hadn't felt normal then either.
"I'm sure," she said.
Her mother turned away, hand over her mouth.
Grandma's voice softened, then sharpened, like steel wrapped in cloth.
"Then listen well, Amara of Lyris," she said. "Because from this moment, your life stops being only yours."
She stood slowly, joints creaking.
She walked to the small cabinet in the corner the one Amara had never seen opened, not once in eighteen years.
Grandma pulled a key from the knot of her wrapper.
"Your mother is the daughter of the last High Seer of our line," Grandma said as she unlocked the cabinet. "You… are something rarer."
The door swung open.
Inside, wrapped in faded cloth, were old objects: a book with no title on the cover, a crystal that seemed to glow faintly from within, a knife with a blade so dark it almost swallowed the light.
And a necklace.
A simple chain of silver, holding a small, clear stone that caught the lamp's glow and refracted it in strange, shifting patterns.
Grandma lifted the necklace with reverent hands.
"This belonged to Serena," she said.
Air left Amara's lungs.
"No," she said. "There's no way that'
"Her last anchor," Grandma said. "The only piece of her we could carry forward after the Court fell. Passed down mother to daughter, waiting for the one who would need it."
She walked back to the table and held it out.
"For the witch who was never meant to love a vampire," Grandma whispered, "and for the one who will be tempted to."
The lamp flickered.
Something deep inside Amara shivered.
She reached out.
Her fingers brushed the stone.
And this time, when the world tilted it didn't stop.