REBORN UNDER INK AND MOONLIGHT

The machine hummed like a restless heartbeat, the needle gliding across skin as Ayla Cross filled the curve of a raven’s wing with black ink. The smell of antiseptic and cedar oil wrapped around her, the familiar perfume of creation. Outside, rain streaked the windows of The Runed Den, her little shop tucked between a pawn store and a bakery that stayed open too late.

 Most nights, this was peace — just her, her art, and the soft crackle of vinyl from the corner speaker. Tonight, though, the air felt charged, restless. Her hands never trembled, but she’d dropped her needle twice. Every shadow seemed to lean closer. Even the ink looked darker than usual, as if it had been mixed with starlight instead of pigment.

  “Almost done,” she told her client, forcing a smile.

The woman nodded, oblivious. Ayla wiped away the last smear, signed the edge of the design with her trademark swirl — a crescent moon hidden in the feathers — and peeled off her gloves. The woman admired the tattoo in the mirror, paid, left a generous tip, and disappeared into the rain.

  Silence fell.

  That was when Ayla noticed it — the faint shimmer crawling across the floor, a reflection that wasn’t from any light source. It rippled toward her feet, silver as mercury, then vanished.

  Her pulse spiked. “Not again,” she whispered.

  It had been happening all week — lights flickering, her tattoos tingling, her dreams filled with a voice whispering words she couldn’t understand. She’d chalked it up to stress and caffeine, but deep down she knew better. Something inside her skin had started to wake up.

  The doorbell chimed.

  A man stepped in, soaked from the storm. His jacket clung to him, dark with rain, and when he pushed back his hood, Ayla forgot how to breathe. His eyes were silver — not gray, not blue, but liquid silver, reflecting the shop’s light.

  “Sorry, we’re closed,” she said automatically, though her voice lacked conviction.

  He studied her, head tilted slightly, as if he’d been expecting her refusal. “You’re Ayla Cross.”

  Her stomach tightened. “Depends who’s asking.”

  He smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. “Kian Vale. I need a tattoo.”

  “Come back tomorrow.”

  “I can’t.” He took another step forward, and the smell of him — rain, smoke, and something feral — flooded the room. “It has to be tonight.”

  Something in his tone made her chest ache. Against her better judgment, she locked the door behind him. “Fine. What are we doing?”

  He removed his jacket, baring his left shoulder. A long scar cut diagonally across his collarbone, healed badly. “I need you to cover this,” he said. “With this symbol.”

  He slid a small scrap of parchment across her counter. The lines on it looked hand-inked, old — a crescent nested inside a circle of runes.

  Ayla’s throat went dry. She’d seen that symbol before. In her dreams.

  “Where did you get this?”

  Kian’s gaze sharpened. “You’ve seen it.”

  “I asked first.”

  For a heartbeat, the air between them pulsed like static. Then he said quietly, “It’s a family mark. An old one.”

  “Family, huh?” She traced the runes with a gloved finger, feeling them hum under her touch. The paper almost felt alive. “You sure this isn’t some cult thing?”

  Kian’s mouth twitched. “Would it matter?”

  “Only if it glows afterward. I charge extra for magic.”

  He didn’t laugh, but something softened in his face. “Just make it look right.”

  She set up her tools again, pretending her hands weren’t shaking. As the needle began its rhythm, the room filled with that steady buzz — her heartbeat in mechanical form. Ink seeped into skin, and with each line, a low vibration coiled up her arm. The lights flickered.

  “Do you feel that?” she whispered.

  Kian’s jaw tightened. “Keep going.”

  Her tattoos — the ones across her own arms — began to shimmer faintly through the gloves. The crescent on her wrist pulsed in sync with the design she was drawing on him.

  “Stop,” Kian said suddenly, voice rough. “That’s enough.”

  She lifted the needle. The symbol was unfinished, but it glowed faintly before fading into his skin.

  “What the hell was that?” she demanded.

  Kian pulled on his jacket. “You shouldn’t have touched it with bare hands.”

  “I didn’t—” She looked down. Her gloves were gone, torn somewhere in the process. Tiny silver lines were crawling from her wrist to her fingertips, spreading like veins of light.

  He met her gaze, calm but tense. “Then it’s started sooner than I thought.”

  “What has?”

  “The runes recognize their own.”

  A crash of thunder drowned her next breath. When she looked back, Kian was gone — door swinging open, rain spilling in.

  Ayla stood frozen, her hand glowing faintly under the fluorescent light, the scent of silver and smoke still hanging in the air.

  She whispered, “What did you do to me?”

  The answer came not in words but in a pulse under her skin — a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.

  And outside, somewhere in the storm, something howled.