The night the sky bled, I was standing on the balcony of my tiny apartment in the French Quarter, barefoot and half-dreaming, thinking I could ignore the storm rolling in. New Orleans has always had a flair for drama: thunder rattling the shutters, street lamps flickering like lanterns in a graveyard. But nothing in the city's history prepared me for this.
The moon normally silver and serene snapped crimson as if someone had carved it from fire and blood. The color reflected off the wet cobblestone streets below, turning the tourists and neon lights into a warped, scarlet reflection. My chest constricted, not from fear, but from something deeper, older. Something that whispered in a language I didn't understand but felt in my bones.
I stumbled back into my apartment, gripping the railing like it would hold me steady. The air inside was heavier than it had any right to be, thick with an invisible charge that made my hair lift and my skin tingle. Then the candles all of them, the ones I hadn't even lit flickered to life at once. Not gently. Not romantically. They snapped to brightness, like the room was alive.
I dropped to my knees, staring at the flames. "This isn't real," I whispered to myself. "I'm imagining it."
But I wasn't.
Pain flared in my chest. Sharp, scorching. Beneath my collarbone, a faint glow pulsed a crown-shaped mark I had never seen before. It wasn't just a mark; it was alive. And when I touched it, the fire in the candles surged higher, shadows bending and stretching toward me like they were curious.
It begins.
The words came not from my lips, but from somewhere inside me. The voice wasn't loud; it didn't need to be. It carried weight, like centuries of history pressing against my chest. My fingers trembled over the mark. My heart thudded so loudly I thought it would burst.
I hadn't slept well in weeks, but this wasn't exhaustion. I knew it instinctively.
By morning, the mark had faded into what looked like a faint birthmark, almost mundane if you didn't know better. I traced it with my fingers, shaky, half in denial.
The news on the television talked about "a rare lunar phenomenon" and "atmospheric distortion." Tourists were tweeting selfies under the blood moon, calling it magical. My laugh caught in my throat. "Magic?" I whispered. "You have no idea."
For weeks, I'd been having dreams or memories. Scenes that felt too real to dismiss. A cathedral ablaze, figures standing in a circle of bone and ash, a woman with silver eyes placing a crown on my head. A voice, older than time itself, saying, She is the last.
The last what?
I didn't know. But I was starting to suspect my mother did.
My mother had always been secretive. Photos from before I was five were gone. Questions about our family history were met with silence or cryptic warnings. And once, when I was thirteen, I caught her in the kitchen at 3AM drawing strange symbols in salt on the floor. When she saw me, she wiped them away so fast her hands bled.
"We don't belong to them," she said softly, a shadow in her eyes I didn't understand. I thought she meant men. Now I wasn't so sure.
At noon, the city felt ordinary again almost mockingly so. Tourists were laughing, street musicians strummed guitars, and the cafes smelled of coffee and beignets. But I knew better.
By exactly 12:12 PM, every glass in my kitchen shattered simultaneously. Not cracked. Shattered. I froze, my hands shaking. The shards glittered like red starlight on the countertop. And then I heard it again the voice, inside my head.
It is not about what you want.
I sank to the floor, trying to catch my breath. The front door creaked open not broken, not forced, just… open.
He stepped in.
Tall. Shadowed. Dark coat brushing the floor. Eyes molten gold. His presence made the room colder, heavier, but also… intoxicating.
"I've been waiting for you," he said. His voice was calm, deliberate, dangerous.
I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. Instead, I froze, captivated against my will.
"Who… are you?" My voice trembled.
"I am Kael Armand," he said, stepping closer. His eyes dropped to the faint mark beneath my collarbone.
"You… you know about this?" I whispered.
His expression darkened. "I know more than you can imagine. You are the last descendant of the Sovereigns."
The words hit me like a lightning bolt. Sovereigns. My bloodline. Something ancient, powerful, feared, hunted.
"I… I don't understand," I said.
"You will," Kael replied. "And soon, you will have no choice."
The rest of the day blurred. Shadows seemed longer, more fluid. Whispers followed me down the streets. The blood moon's glow still lingered in my vision, a reminder that something had awakened and it wasn't just me.
By evening, Kael had not left. He didn't explain everything. Only pieces, enough to terrify and intrigue me. Every sentence hinted at wars older than humanity, betrayals written in blood, power I wasn't ready to claim but couldn't ignore.
And yet, despite his danger, I felt drawn to him. My instincts screamed at me to stay away. My curiosity screamed louder to follow.
When he finally left, he placed a hand on my shoulder, icy and grounding. "The world is waiting, Seraphine. And you… are its reckoning."
The apartment was silent again. Except for the burning candlelight that hadn't gone out, and the faint pulse beneath my skin.
I couldn't sleep. Couldn't think. Couldn't ignore it. My blood was alive. My destiny was calling. And the night had only just begun.
By the time the first stars appeared, I knew one thing:
I was no longer just an art student. I was something else. Something ancient. Something powerful.
And the Sovereigns were watching.