CHAPTER ONE — “The Man in My Dreams”

It started with fire—right in the middle of morning assembly.

Seraphina stood inside the packed gymnasium, surrounded by rows of students in identical uniforms, the air stiff with boredom and cheap floor polish. Everyone’s voices had just died down as the principal stepped forward to deliver his usual Monday speech, his tie a half-wilted mess that flapped with each breath he took.

She wasn’t listening.

She was watching the way his mouth moved without meaning. Tuning out the buzz of whispers, the scuffle of shoes, the faint hum of the ancient ventilation system.

And then—

Everything changed.

One moment she was locked on the sway of the principal’s tie, the next—heat. A rush of it, fast and sharp, rising like a wave out of nowhere. Then the air around her cracked like lightning splitting a storm.

Flames.

Not real flames—at least not in the normal sense. But they tore across her vision, bold and red and violent, licking at her like memory turned alive.

The gym disappeared.

She was somewhere else entirely.

A cathedral. Towering and wide, hollow as a lung—but burning.

The sky beyond the arched windows had turned pitch black, smoke curling through the fractured glass. Stained glass figures melted and cracked, raining shards down on stone floors beneath her. The bells overhead screamed like they were warning the world itself.

It was chaos. Terrifying, yes—but something else too. It felt familiar.

Then she saw him.

Just beyond the altar, standing tall in the smoke.

A man.

Wings as black as coal stretched wide behind him, catching what little light there was like velvet in shadow. He looked like something ancient, like he didn’t quite belong to the world he stood in—but didn’t mind breaking it.

His eyes found hers.

Violet. Vivid. Like they saw everything she was trying to keep buried.

“Seraphina,” he said.

He spoke her name like it belonged to him.

Like he’d been carrying it for a long, long time.

He raised his hand toward her.

She didn’t know what would happen if he touched her.

She didn’t wait to find out.

She screamed.

—

When she woke up—if it could be called waking—she was flat on the gym floor, breath caught in her throat, the lights above spinning in and out of focus. Her body felt heavy. Her skin was cold.

A teacher’s voice was calling her name from far away, but it didn’t reach her.

All she could hear was the echo of his voice.

Seraphina.

And then black.

—

That was the last time she set foot in her old school.

—

Two weeks later, she stood in front of Duskmoor Academy, fingers wrapped tight around the handle of her worn-out suitcase.

The building looked like it had been carved straight from storm clouds—gray stone, spiked towers, and windows so dark they almost looked painted on. Everything about it felt quiet but watchful, like the school had a thousand eyes tucked behind its walls.

The air smelled like wet stone and pine. A thick mist clung to the trees just past the gate. Wind curled around her ankles, tugging at the hem of her coat.

The headmistress had told her this place was for “students with sensitivities.”

Seraphina had another word for it: exile.

No one—not the doctors, not her parents, not the counselor who’d stared at her too long and written “emotional hallucination” in her file—could explain what had happened in that gym.

But Seraphina didn’t need their explanations.

She knew what she saw.

She hadn’t fainted because of stress.

She hadn’t imagined him.

She was being haunted.

—

That first night at Duskmoor was colder than she expected. Her new dorm room had high ceilings, stone walls, and a wide window that looked out toward the woods. Her roommate hadn’t arrived yet, and the space felt too big for one person. Too quiet.

Seraphina sat on the edge of her bed, blanket over her legs, watching the rain tap lightly against the glass. The sound was almost like fingers. Soft. Repetitive. Like something trying to get her attention without force.

She hadn’t told anyone about the dreams.

Not even her parents.

Not about how her wrist still tingled.

Not about the shape that sometimes flickered on her skin when the light hit it just right.

Not about the way she felt every time she closed her eyes, like something—or someone—was waiting.

She hadn’t truly slept in days.

Because every time she let herself fall—

He was there.

The man with the wings.

—

Eventually, exhaustion overpowered fear.

Her head hit the pillow.

The room slipped away.

And the dream began.

—

This time, it wasn’t fire.

It was light.

She stood barefoot in a chamber that glowed from the inside out—walls lined with stone that shimmered with violet veins. The air around her pulsed softly. Floating candles drifted overhead like stars shaken loose from the sky.

Her feet touched smooth stone, cool and steady beneath her. The silence was heavy but not empty. It felt like the room was waiting for something.

Then he appeared.

The same man.

Same black wings.

Same unreadable gaze.

But something in him felt different now. Closer. Familiar in a way that made her chest tighten.

He stepped toward her like he belonged there. Like she belonged there.

“I’ve waited lifetimes to touch you again,” he said.

His voice was a strange mix of velvet and thunder—soft but unshakable.

She didn’t move.

When he reached for her, her fingers lifted on instinct.

Their hands met.

A rush of warmth shot up her arm, blooming from skin to bone.

And as she looked down—

A mark appeared in her palm.

A glowing spiral, alive with energy, wrapped in jagged edges. It pulsed once—twice—like it had always been there, just waiting for his touch to wake it.

And then—

—

She woke up with a gasp.

Her lungs pulled in too much air. Her chest ached. Her fingers trembled.

She threw back the blanket and flicked on the lamp beside her bed.

The room looked the same.

Quiet. Still.

But when she turned her hand—

The mark was still there.

Faint.

Glowing.

Real.

Not a dream.

A rune.

And it hadn’t gone away.