Rehearsal days were supposed to be dramatic in a safe way.
People were meant to shout, cry, fake-die, and then go home to eat rice.
Not actually almost die.
Apparently, the universe had not received that memo.
⸻
The theatre hall smelled like dust, sweat, and dreams.
Students milled around—actors half in costume, tech crew dragging props, the director clapping sharply whenever anyone slowed down.
"From the top of Scene Three!" he yelled. "And this time, if you're going to cry, make it worth my emotional investment!"
Amara stood with the chorus at stage left, wearing all black, a red scarf tied round her wrist as a "symbol of the state" or whatever fancy metaphor the director was chasing this week.
Tola bounced next to her.
"I saw you," Tola whispered.
Amara blinked.
"Saw me what?" she whispered back.
"With the tall, suspiciously fine boy from the courtyard," Tola said. "Don't lie."
"It was coffee," Amara murmured. "Just talking."
"'Just talking,'" Tola repeated mockingly. "You had 'this might ruin my life' energy all over your face."
It might, actually.
Onstage, Antigone and her uncle/king were arguing about laws, loyalty, and dead brothers.
Amara tried to focus on the script, not on the memory of Lucian's eyes when he'd said I don't want to be him.
Director clapped.
"Chorus, wake up!" he barked. "You're not potted plants. You're the voice of the people. You see everything. You judge. From the line about 'law'—go!"
The chorus came alive.
Amara stepped forward with the group, chanting their lines in unison, body moving through the simple choreography.
They shifted closer to the centre of the stage.
Above them, the old rigging creaked.
The theatre had seen better years.
The tech crew had complained about it before, saying some of the overhead bars didn't feel stable.
But no one had fixed them.
This was still Nigeria.
Money went to projects that could be photographed, not to things like "safety".
As the chorus circled, Amara's skin prickled.
Not from nerves.
From something else.
A subtle wrongness in the air.
Like a shadow standing in the corner that shouldn't be there.
Her steps faltered.
"Amara, keep up!" the director snapped.
She swallowed and moved—but her senses stretched without her consent.
Automatically, she scanned the hall.
Lights.
Dust.
The faint hum of the AC.
Students at the back scrolling their phones while pretending to watch.
And there—
Near the back entrance.
A boy leaning against the doorframe.
Hands in his pockets.
Head tilted.
Watching.
Nothing unusual about that—
Except his aura was all wrong.
It wasn't like Lucian's cool, controlled presence.
This one was jagged.
Hungry.
Young.
His eyes met hers across the hall.
For half a second, his pupils flashed red.
Amara's chest seized.
Vampire.
Here.
On campus.
Watching her.
"'O wordless city,'" Tola hissed the chorus line beside her. "Say your part."
Amara forced herself back into the rhythm.
She couldn't afford to panic.
She needed more time.
More information.
The vampire at the door smirked.
His gaze flicked upward—toward the lighting rig above the stage.
Her stomach dropped.
No.
Her awareness shot up.
Up to the heavy metal bars, scratched and rusting.
Up to the cables and sandbags used as makeshift counterweights.
Up to one rope in particular that had been frayed for weeks.
She'd heard a tech guy complaining about it last rehearsal.
Now, she felt a tug.
Not physical.
Magical.
Someone was pulling on probability.
On friction.
On tiny, everyday forces.
Just… nudging.
Just enough.
The rope snapped.
Everything happened at once.
A heavy bar and its attached light fixture jolted sideways—then crashed down toward the stage in a deadly arc.
Students screamed.
The director shouted something incoherent.
Tola froze, right in the falling path.
Amara didn't think.
She moved.
Her hand shot out.
Her magic surged.
She didn't reach for a neat spell.
She grabbed the world and yanked.
The air above the stage thickened like syrup.
The falling bar hit the sudden drag and slowed, the trajectory warping.
It still fell—but not where it had been heading.
It slammed down just in front of Tola instead of on top of her, smashing a chunk of the stage floor and sending shards of metal and wood flying.
Tola stumbled back, shrieking, but alive.
Students scattered in chaos.
Amara's knees buckled.
Catching something that big, that fast, with raw power and no finesse felt like trying to stop a moving bus with her bare hands.
Pain lanced through her head.
Her vision blurred.
She forced herself to stay upright.
The vampire at the back door was already moving.
Not rushing.
Gliding through the panicking crowd.
Toward the side corridor leading to the backstage area.
Tola grabbed Amara's arm.
"Oh my God, Amara, are you okay?" she babbled. "Did you see that? It almost—"
"I'm fine," Amara lied.
Her heart battered her ribs.
The director yelled for calm, for everyone to get offstage.
People clustered, talking over each other.
No one was looking at the boy slipping away.
No one except Amara.
She squeezed Tola's hand.
"I need air," she said. "I'll meet you outside."
"Are you sure?" Tola asked, wide-eyed.
"Yes," Amara said.
She pulled free and headed toward the side corridor, blending into the chaos.
Her legs shook.
Her necklace burned against her skin.
This is stupid, she told herself. Following a vampire alone is stupid.
She did it anyway.
⸻
The side corridor was narrow and dim.
Sound from the theatre faded as the door swung shut behind her.
For a moment, she saw nothing.
Then he stepped out from a shadowed niche in the wall.
Same boy.
Close now.
He looked about twenty.
Dark hair.
Sharp cheekbones.
A grin that tried to be charming but didn't reach his eyes.
"Nice catch," he said. "I was hoping you'd do something interesting."
Her mouth went dry.
"So that was you," she said.
He shrugged.
"You'd be surprised," he said. "Sometimes all it takes is a little push, a little twist. Humans do the rest."
He was younger than Lucian.
Not just physically.
His aura had a restless, twitchy feel—like a newly turned vampire still drunk on strength.
"Why?" she asked, keeping her voice steady. "Why them?"
He tilted his head.
"Why not?" he countered. "They're noise. Bodies that move around you. Clutter."
He smiled, showing just a hint of fang.
"Besides," he added, "you weren't moving when I watched you before. This woke you up."
Before.
Her mind flashed:
The prickling sensation in lectures. The weird feeling during lunch two days ago when someone had stared for too long and she'd just thought it was a creep.
This wasn't random.
"You've been following me," she said.
"Studying," he corrected. "My aunt says we should 'understand our assets' before we use them. I was bored. So I played."
Anger burned through her fear.
"People could have died," she said.
He lifted a shoulder carelessly.
"People always die," he said. "Might as well be useful."
He took a step toward her.
She didn't back away.
"You're stronger than I expected," he said, eyes running over her like he was cataloguing a weapon. "Raw. Untrained. But strong. That stunt with the rig? Serena would be proud."
The mention of Serena sent a jolt through her.
"Don't say her name," Amara snapped.
He laughed.
"Sensitive," he said. "Cute."
He closed the distance between them a little more.
Her hand twitched with the urge to blast him into the nearest wall.
But the corridor was tight.
If she misjudged, she might bring the roof down.
"Who are you?" she asked, stalling.
He gave her a mocking half-bow.
"Caius Lucian," he said. "You can call me Cai. Or you can scream. I'll answer to both."
Lucian.
Her stomach clenched.
"You're his… what? Brother?" she asked.
"Cousin," he said. "More or less. We share blood where it matters."
Of course.
He took another step, close enough now that she could see faint veins at the edge of his eyes.
"You know, when they said you were special, I thought it was exaggeration," he said. "But watching you bend gravity for your little stage friends? That was impressive."
"Stage friends," she repeated, voice tight.
"You care too much," he said. "That's dangerous. For you."
Something clicked in her mind.
"You weren't trying to kill me," she said slowly. "You were testing me."
He grinned.
"Got it in one," he said. "If you died, that'd be information too. But this was more fun."
Her anger solidified into something cold.
"You think this is a game," she said.
He shrugged.
"For now," he said. "Later it'll be war. Might as well enjoy the warm-up."
He reached out.
Faster than human eyes could track.
His hand closed around her necklace.
He didn't yank.
Just held it, fingers brushing the metal.
The contact sent a shock through her.
Power.
Anchor.
Legacy.
His face changed.
"Oh," he breathed. "So this is hers. Serena's little toy."
He yanked.
The chain cut into the back of her neck.
Pain flared.
Her hand shot up, grabbing his wrist.
"Let go," she said.
"Or what?" he purred.
He leaned in, far too close.
She smelled iron, dust, something old beneath the fake cologne scent.
"Going to curse me?" he whispered. "Set me on fire? You don't even know half the words yet, princess."
Somewhere behind the fear, a grim little voice in her head said: He's underestimating you. Use it.
She relaxed her grip a fraction.
His smirk widened, thinking she'd given up.
"Here's a lesson," he said. "You don't have to kill someone to break them. You just have to take what they rely on. This little trinket? This is your anchor. Without it—"
She moved.
Fast.
Grandma's drills kicked in.
She didn't aim for his chest.
She aimed for his hand.
She pulled from her well and sent a focused burst of magic straight through her palm into his skin—a sharp, concentrated jolt.
Not a shield.
Not a push.
A burn.
Caius screamed.
Not loudly.
More like an animal sound forced through clenched teeth.
His hand jerked away from the necklace.
Smoke rose from his palm where she'd struck.
The flesh wasn't charred, but it was reddened, veined with glowing lines like she'd seared him from the inside.
He stared at his hand in outraged disbelief.
"You—" he snarled.
Amara didn't wait for him to finish the sentence.
She threw another spell.
An offensive jolt like she'd practiced on the spoon—but bigger.
Messier.
It hit him in the chest, sending him slamming back into the wall hard enough to crack plaster.
His head snapped sideways.
For a moment, the predator mask dropped.
He looked young.
Shocked.
She raised her hand for a third strike.
His eyes bled fully red.
He blurred.
One blink, and he wasn't against the wall anymore.
He was right in front of her.
She raised a shield on instinct.
His hand hit it like a hammer.
The barrier shuddered.
Pain shot up her arms.
"Enough playing," he hissed.
His other hand darted out, fingers like claws, reaching for her throat.
Time seemed to slow.
She could feel it all:
His hunger.
Her pulse.
The hum of the wards in her necklace.
The memory of her grandmother's voice: Offence is interruption. Buy yourself time.
She didn't try to blast him this time.
She tripped him.
Not physically.
Magically.
She yanked at the energy under his feet—the subtle connection between his body and the ground.
For a fraction of a second, it… misaligned.
Like the floor had tilted four degrees to the left and then snapped back.
Caius stumbled.
Just enough.
Her shield held.
Barely.
His hand scraped across it, nails throwing sparks of magic.
"What are you—" he began.
"Annoyed," a cold voice cut in.
They both froze.
Lucian stood at the end of the corridor.
He wasn't smiling.
He wasn't hiding.
His eyes were silvered, his mark blazing faintly under his shirt.
The air around him buzzed with barely leashed power.
Caius recovered first.
"Perfect timing," he said. "I was just—"
"What are you doing?" Lucian asked.
His tone was level.
Flat.
Dangerous.
Caius smirked.
"Testing the merchandise," he said. "Auntie said she's valuable. I wanted to see if that was true."
Lucian's gaze flicked over Amara.
She stood, hand still half-raised, shield shimmering faintly around her like heat haze.
Her necklace glowed.
A faint bruise was already forming on her neck where the chain had pulled.
Something inside Lucian snapped.
He moved.
One second he was at the end of the corridor.
The next he was in front of Caius.
He didn't touch him.
Yet.
But the air between them crackled.
"Stand down," Lucian said quietly.
"No," Caius said, matching his stare. "You don't give me orders. Auntie does."
"I'm not asking," Lucian said.
He took half a step closer.
The corridor felt suddenly too small to contain them both.
Amara could feel it—the clash of two old predatory forces.
Same blood.
Different intent.
Caius bared his teeth.
"Look at you," he said. "Playing bodyguard for the witch. How romantic. Are you going to kiss her after you deliver her to the Council?"
Lucian's expression didn't change.
"Leave," he said. "Now."
Caius laughed.
"Or what?" he taunted. "You'll hit me in front of her? Show her what our kind is really like?"
He brushed his still-smoking palm against the wall.
The burn was already healing slowly, but not as fast as it should.
He glared at Amara.
"She marked me," he said. "Made me bleed. We can't leave that."
Lucian's mark flared hotter.
"The next time you touch her," he said softly, "I will end you before you can spell your own name."
Caius's eyes narrowed.
"You're threatening family for her?" he asked.
"I'm warning you," Lucian said. "The Council wants her alive. In one piece. Your little games risk that. If you can't control yourself around her, stay away."
Caius scoffed.
"Listen to yourself," he said. "You sound like Darian in all those stupid stories. 'Don't hurt the witch, she's mine.' We know how that ends."
Amara flinched.
Lucian's jaw clenched.
"I'm nothing like him," he said.
Caius rolled his eyes.
"Keep telling yourself that," he said. "Maybe one day it'll be true."
He glanced at Amara again.
Predatory.
Assessing.
"We'll finish this later," he told her. "When big brother isn't hovering."
Then he blurred.
In a heartbeat, he was gone—out the far exit, into the world of noise and light.
Silence crashed down.
Amara realized she was shaking.
Her shield wavered.
She let it drop.
Her legs almost folded.
Lucian was at her side, steadying her elbow before she could fall.
"Don't touch me," she snapped automatically.
He pulled back at once.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"Nothing serious," she said.
Her neck throbbed.
Her head pounded.
Her body felt like it had been used as a power cable.
"You shouldn't have followed him," Lucian said, voice low.
Her temper flared.
"You shouldn't have let him stalk me in the first place," she shot back.
His eyes flashed.
"I didn't send him," he said. "I barely keep him contained."
"Not my problem," she said. "You said your family would move. You didn't say they'd start by trying to drop a lighting rig on my friends' heads."
"What he did was reckless," Lucian said. "I'll—"
"You'll what?" she cut in. "Ground him? Take his fangs away? He's a monster, Lucian."
"So am I," he said quietly.
Her breath hitched.
He didn't say it defensively.
He said it like a fact.
Like something he'd made uneasy peace with.
"You're…" she began, then stopped.
What?
Different?
Trying?
Dangerous in a slightly more ethical way?
"You're not like him," she finished lamely.
"Give me time," he said. "My blood is the same."
She shook her head.
"Blood isn't everything," she said hoarsely.
She remembered Grandma's words: Closeness is chosen. Ties are not.
"You chose to step in," she added. "No one forced you."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"I didn't do it for you," he said eventually.
She stared.
"Wow," she said. "Romantic."
His lip twitched.
"I did it because if he breaks you before we even understand what you can do," he said, "then we all lose. My family. Yours. The world."
"So I'm an asset," she said.
"Yes," he said plainly.
"That's all?" she demanded.
His gaze softened a fraction.
"No," he said.
Silence.
Down the corridor, the muffled sounds of students and staff dealing with the "accident" drifted faintly.
"We need to leave," Lucian said. "They'll be looking for you. You can't explain what you did."
Panic stirred.
He was right.
There was no way to explain slowing falling metal with a thought.
"Don't tell me what to do," she said automatically.
"Amara," he said, tone sharpening. "Listen. You are vibrating with magic. Anyone with even a scrap of sensitivity will feel it. If any witch-leaning humans are around, they might notice. You need to calm down. Or go home. Now."
The stubborn part of her wanted to argue.
Another part—the part that had nearly become vampire food five minutes ago—was tired.
She exhaled.
"Fine," she said. "But you're not walking me."
He nodded.
"I won't," he said.
She narrowed her eyes.
"And you won't send someone else to tail me either," she added.
He didn't react, but she felt the faint ripple of guilt.
"I can't promise that," he said.
"Then we're done talking," she said coldly.
She turned and headed toward the other exit, avoiding the main theatre entrance.
Behind her, Lucian didn't follow.
But she felt his attention on her until she stepped out into the noisy brightness of campus again.
⸻
By the time she got home, the sky was bruised with evening.
Her mother wasn't back yet.
Thank God.
Grandma was in the sitting room, shelling beans into a bowl, a soap playing softly on the TV.
As soon as Amara walked in, her grandmother's head snapped up.
She saw everything in one glance:
The bruised neck.
The haunted eyes.
The way Amara moved like her bones hurt.
"What happened?" Grandma asked, already rising.
Amara dropped her bag.
"A lighting rig almost fell on Tola," she said, voice shaking. "I stopped it. Kind of. And then…"
She swallowed.
"And then one of them came," she whispered. "Not Lucian. His cousin. Caius. He tried to… test me. Maybe kill me. I don't know. I hit him. He hit back. Then Lucian came."
Grandma's eyes flashed.
"Sit," she ordered.
Amara dropped onto the sofa.
Her grandmother placed cool hands on the sides of her face, studying her aura.
"Your channels are strained," Grandma murmured. "You pulled too hard."
"Did I do something wrong?" Amara asked.
Grandma's mouth tightened.
"You didn't die," she said. "You defended yourself. That's what matters."
Amara's throat closed.
"I was scared," she whispered.
"Good," Grandma said. "Only fools are not scared. Fear keeps you sharp. Panic kills. Which did you choose?"
"Fear," Amara said hoarsely. "Mostly."
"Then you did well," Grandma said.
She moved her hands to Amara's neck, fingers brushing lightly over the bruised skin.
Amara flinched.
"He grabbed your anchor," Grandma muttered. "Of course. They love trophies."
She closed her eyes.
Soft magic flowed from her palms into Amara's skin—cool, soothing, stitching frayed threads.
The pain eased.
"Lucian stopped him," Amara said quietly. "He was angry. Not at me. At Caius."
Grandma's mouth set in a thin line.
"Good," she said. "Let them fight each other. Less work for us."
Amara hesitated.
"I don't think he's like the others," she said.
Grandma's eyes opened.
Her gaze was sharp.
"Don't do that," Grandma said.
"Do what?" Amara asked.
"Start making excuses for monsters because one of them looks at you softly," Grandma said. "That is how Serena died inside long before she cursed them. She fell in love with one vampire and forgot what the rest of them were doing."
"He told me the truth," Amara said. "He didn't have to. He warned me about his family. He stepped in today. He—"
"He is still moving you toward their goal," Grandma cut in. "Breaking the curse. It doesn't matter if he uses chains or hand-holding."
The words stung.
Amara dropped her gaze.
"I know," she said.
"Do you?" Grandma asked quietly.
Amara's eyes pricked.
"He said he doesn't want to be like Darian," she whispered.
"And do you believe him?" Grandma asked.
Amara thought of Lucian's face in the corridor.
The quiet fury when he saw Caius's hand on her.
The shame when he said, My blood is the same.
"I believe he doesn't want to hurt me," she said.
"For now," Grandma said. "As long as his desire not to hurt you doesn't clash with his duty."
"What if it does?" Amara asked, voice small.
"Then we see which one he chooses," Grandma said. "And we act accordingly."
She sat back, hands in her lap.
"You cannot change him by loving him," Grandma said softly. "Serena tried that. It ended in blood. If he changes, it must be because he chooses to. For himself. Not for you."
Amara swallowed hard.
"I don't…" she began, then stopped.
She didn't even know what she felt yet.
Fear.
Hate.
Pull.
Curiosity.
All tangled.
"I don't love him," she said finally.
"Good," Grandma said. "Keep it that way as long as you can."
Amara leaned her head back against the sofa.
"I used offensive magic," she said after a moment. "Real offensive. Not just spoons. I burned him."
Grandma's eyes sparked with grim satisfaction.
"Show me," she said.
Amara held out her hand.
Rebuilt the feeling.
The focus.
The sharp, sizzling line she'd sent into Caius's skin.
A faint spark jumped between her fingers.
Grandma smiled faintly.
"Serena started with fire too," she murmured. "You're on the right path."
Amara closed her hand.
"What if they come here?" she asked quietly. "Not just watching. Really come."
Grandma's expression hardened.
"Then," she said, "they will find that hiding does not mean helpless."
⸻
Across the city, in a house filled with quiet tension, Caius stood in the middle of an ornate sitting room, scowling.
His hand had mostly healed.
But the faint glowing veins under his skin remained, like a scar only vampires could see.
Lucian's aunt circled him slowly.
"You provoked her in public," she said. "In a school. Surrounded by humans."
Caius rolled his shoulders.
"I was careful," he lied. "Nobody saw anything."
"Security cameras exist," she said. "Phones exist. Panic exists. All it takes is one shaky video of someone moving too fast or something falling too strangely and we have to waste time cleaning up your mess."
Caius huffed.
"She's strong," he said. "You should be thanking me. Now we know what she can do."
Her eyes flicked to Lucian, who stood near the doorway, arms folded.
"And you," she said. "Stepping in like that. I expected you to watch. Not interfere."
"If he'd killed her, we'd have nothing," Lucian said. "No key. No answers. Just an angrier witch network."
"And if he'd just broken her a little?" she asked. "Fear shapes people. She might have been more… cooperative after a taste of real danger."
Lucian's jaw clenched.
"She's not livestock," he said.
Caius smirked.
"Careful, cousin," he said. "You're starting to sound attached."
His aunt raised a hand.
Enough.
They fell silent.
"The heir is awake," she said. "Her power is surfacing faster than we projected. That is both good and bad."
"Good: she's not useless," Caius muttered.
"Bad: she will fight harder when we move," Lucian added.
His aunt nodded.
"Exactly," she said. "We will have to accelerate our plans. But not recklessly."
Her gaze sharpened.
"No one touches her without my permission," she said. "No more 'tests'. No more games. If the witches think we are picking them off piece by piece, they will scatter."
Caius sighed dramatically.
"So what do you want me to do?" he asked. "Sit at home and play chess while you and golden boy there flirt with the witch?"
She smiled coldly.
"I want you to go hunting," she said. "Just not for her. The witches are not the only ones watching. Humans talk. There were… ripples… after today's little incident on campus. Clean them."
He grimaced.
"Boring," he said. "But fine."
He stalked out.
Their aunt turned to Lucian.
"As for you," she said, "you will continue as you were. Slowly. Carefully. Gain her trust if you can. At least her curiosity. We need her close when the time comes."
"And if getting close makes her more dangerous?" he asked.
"Then control her," she said. "Or be ready to stop her."
He didn't ask how.
He didn't have to.
They both knew what "stop" meant in this context.
Permanently.
"Can you do that?" she asked quietly. "If it comes to it?"
He thought of Amara's face when she'd said, I won't just run.
He thought of Serena and Darian.
Of curses and blood.
Of choices.
"I don't know," he said.
His aunt's eyes sharpened.
"Then find out," she said. "Before she forces the answer."