The clock struck 3:00 AM when Elara awoke in a cold sweat.
Not from fear. From longing.
The dream was still fresh on her lips—his voice, that face shadowed in moonlight, the scent of smoke and pine. A stranger, yet somehow familiar. He whispered her name like a secret meant to be kept between graves. She had never met him in her waking life. But her soul recognized him.
And every night, he came closer.
She sat up in bed, sheets tangled around her legs, heart racing. Her dorm room at the Academy felt colder than usual, despite the dying embers in the hearth. Outside, a storm brewed over the bloodwood trees, thunder pulsing like a heartbeat in the sky.
Elara slipped from bed, barefoot, and padded toward the mirror. Her reflection looked back at her, disheveled and pale, but her eyes—they shimmered with a hunger she didn't understand. Or maybe refused to.
Something about this city, Ashbourne, twisted time and blurred reality. Since she arrived, the nights had grown longer, the shadows darker, and dreams had started leaking into her days. Her mentor, Lady Vaelle, had warned her of the city's curse. "Ashbourne consumes the weak, Elara," she had said. "Do not let the dead feed off your desire."
Too late.
Tonight, the dream hadn't faded. It still hummed beneath her skin like a warning—or a promise.
The next day passed like a distorted reel of memory. Rain tapped against the classroom windows. Professors droned on about alchemy and politics, but Elara barely listened. Her fingers traced invisible symbols onto her notebook, her thoughts drifting back to the stranger.
During lunch, whispers followed her in the hallway.
"The girl with the curse."
"She talks to shadows."
"Don't meet her eyes. She sees things."
Elara had grown used to them. Most of them feared what they didn't understand. That had always been the way of the world.
But someone else watched her that day—someone who wasn't afraid.
She felt his gaze before she saw him. A weight. A pull.
She turned.
And there he stood.
At the end of the hall, dressed in black with a single blood-red thread running down his coat. Eyes like obsidian fire. Skin pale as marble. He leaned against the wall as if the world belonged to him.
Her heart stopped.
It was him.
The boy from her dreams.
She confronted him after dusk.
Ashbourne's East Wing was all but deserted by then. The candelabras cast flickering shadows on the ancient stone walls.
"You," she breathed, cornering him beneath the great staircase. "Who are you?"
He didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled—dark and slow, like a predator indulging a game.
"You already know."
"You've been in my dreams."
"And you've been in mine."
His voice held the same smoky timbre as in the dream—low, dangerous, addictive.
She took a step back. "That's not possible."
"Isn't it? In Ashbourne, even the dead dream."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you dead?"
"Not yet."
He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the cold aura that surrounded him. And yet, he radiated heat. A contradiction that made her head spin.
"Then what are you?" she whispered.
He leaned down, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, his breath warm on her cheek.
"Yours."
She jerked back like she'd been burned.
He didn't stop her. Just tilted his head, watching her like she was the most fascinating puzzle he'd ever touched.
"Stay away from me," she snapped.
He smiled. "You already called me. I just answered."
Then he vanished.
Not walked away.
Vanished.
That night, Elara lit a single candle in her room.
Not because she feared the dark. But because she feared what waited inside it.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, books and symbols spread around her. Summoning spells. Warding charms. Old parchment that stank of iron and age. If he was some creature of the Veil, she'd find a way to keep him out.
She muttered incantations beneath her breath. Drew salt circles. Burned sage. But none of it stopped the warmth curling in her gut when she thought of his eyes, his voice.
This wasn't just magic.
This was fate.
She didn't sleep. Instead, she watched the candle burn low.
And when the flame finally died...
He was there.
Not outside. Not in a dream.
In her room.
"You can't ward off what you summoned, Elara," he said, standing at the foot of her bed. "You called. I answered."
She stood slowly, heart in her throat. "I didn't mean to."
"Your soul did."
He stepped closer.
She could see the scars on his neck now, half-hidden by his collar. Symbols carved deep into flesh. Symbols she recognized from her books—ancient bindings. Prison marks.
"Who did that to you?"
"The ones who feared what I would become."
"And what is that?"
He smiled, slow and sad. "Your mirror."
Then he kissed her.
Soft at first. Cold lips that quickly warmed against hers. She didn't pull away.
Couldn't.
His hands tangled in her hair, her fingers gripped his coat like she could fall through the floor without him. The air around them sparked. Time twisted. And for a second, Elara felt like she had always known him. Always loved him.
He pulled away too soon.
"You're not ready yet," he whispered.
She blinked, dazed. "Ready for what?"
"To remember."
Then he was gone again.
Elara collapsed onto the floor, breath shallow. Her lips still tingled from his kiss. Her heart screamed for answers.
Who was he?
What did he mean by remember?
And why did it feel like her entire life had been building to this moment—to him?
Outside, the storm broke. Thunder cracked the sky. Ashbourne trembled.
And far beneath the Academy, buried in the catacombs where the oldest graves lay forgotten...
A candle flickered to life.
One lit only by blood.
One that burned in the Devil's name.