Lucian's eyes snapped open, his breath shallow and frantic as if he'd been running for his life. His skin was damp with sweat, and his heart hammered against his ribs in time with the rhythm of a nightmare that clung to his mind like smoke.
The image was always the same. A vast, desolate wasteland, burned and scorched, stretching endlessly toward the horizon. The sky bled with molten reds and oranges, like the very heavens themselves were on fire. The air felt thick, suffocating, and the distant sound of crackling flames echoed through the silence, growing louder with each passing second.
But it was her. Always her.
A woman stood in the center of the inferno. Her eyes burned like molten lava, glowing with an intensity that would have made anyone else turn away in fear. Her features were sharp and regal, framed by a cascade of fiery red hair that moved as if it were alive, flickering in the wind like the flames themselves.
"Lucian..." she whispered, her voice a mixture of command and tenderness, as if calling him home, urging him to come closer. "Embrace your birthright. You are mine, my son."
Her words echoed in his head, resonating with a power that stirred something deep within him. It was as if her voice was pulling at his very soul, awakening something buried inside him—something dark, something dangerous.
Lucian's body tensed. He wanted to run, to flee from her, but his legs refused to move. The ground beneath him began to crack, the earth splitting apart like a wound, the flames licking higher as if reaching for him. She stepped forward, her figure growing larger, her presence overwhelming.
And just before the fire swallowed him whole, Lucian woke.
The oppressive heat, the swirling winds, the burning skies—everything vanished in an instant, leaving him gasping for air.
His bedroom was cold. Still. Silent. His sheets were tangled around him as if he had been thrashing in his sleep. The faint glow of the city outside filtered through his window, casting long shadows across the floor.
Lucian sat up, his hand instinctively pressing against his chest. The mark was there, just beneath the fabric of his shirt, a faint, throbbing sensation that seemed to pulse with life, just like it had in the dream.
His pulse quickened as his fingers brushed against the skin where the mark lay. The sensation was familiar now, almost comforting, though the memories of his nightmare clawed at the edges of his mind.
He couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a dream. Something had changed. Something had awakened inside him.
Lucian swung his legs off the bed and stood, his head swimming with confusion. He glanced at the clock—it was just past three in the morning. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to clear the fog in his mind.
The apartment around him was quiet, the soft hum of the city outside the only sound to break the silence. He needed air.
He grabbed his jacket, slipped on his shoes, and headed for the door. As he walked into the hallway, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, as if he were being watched.
But there was nothing there. Only the empty, dimly lit corridors of the building. He shook it off, but the unease lingered, gnawing at the back of his mind.
The city of Elmsbrook was a place of contradictions—modern and ancient, vibrant yet haunted by a lingering shadow. It was the kind of place where neon lights flickered above rain-slicked streets, and the low hum of city life hid the murmurs of something darker, something older.
Lucian had lived in Elmsbrook for years now, but the city had always felt like a stranger to him. He knew its streets—had walked them countless times—but he never truly belonged. His life here was simple, quiet, almost... detached. He didn't need anything more than the routine he had carved out for himself.
The Black Swan, the bar he worked at, was nestled on a side street that few ventured down unless they knew exactly where they were going. Its old, weathered sign hung crookedly above the door, swaying slightly in the wind. Inside, the atmosphere was dark and moody, illuminated by the soft, amber glow of hanging lamps that cast long shadows over worn wooden tables. The bar was always half-empty, especially on weeknights, which suited Lucian just fine. The less interaction, the better.
His role behind the bar was simple—mix drinks, serve the regulars, and keep the peace. But there was always an edge to the place, an undercurrent of tension that Lucian had grown used to. It wasn't just the usual strange characters who came in and out; Elmsbrook was filled with rumors. Whispers of strange occurrences, disappearances, and sightings of things that couldn't possibly be real.
Lucian had heard it all. Stories about ghostly apparitions in the old district, a woman seen wandering the alleyways at dusk, eyes glowing like fire. Talk of creatures stalking the streets at night, and ancient symbols appearing on the walls of forgotten buildings. But for Lucian, these were just stories. He had enough to deal with in his own life, and as far as he was concerned, the supernatural belonged to the realm of fantasy and superstition.
The sound of the door chimes rang through the bar, and Lucian looked up to see a lone figure enter. He didn't know the man—tall, with a dark trench coat, and eyes that gleamed with an unnatural brightness. Something about the man's presence was unsettling, but Lucian didn't give it much thought. He just nodded at him, gesturing toward the empty seat at the bar.
"Whiskey," the man muttered, his voice low and gravelly, eyes scanning the room with an intensity that suggested he was searching for something—or someone.
Lucian set to work without hesitation. He had learned over the years to let his customers be, to keep his head down and his thoughts quiet. The Black Swan had always been the same—a place to forget, a place to drown sorrows or escape from whatever ghosts followed each person through the door.
There were nights when the strange things seemed almost ordinary. The occasional shadow that lingered too long by the stairs. The soft click of heels on the floor when no one was there. The feeling of being watched, even in the quietest moments. Lucian had learned to ignore them, though. Life was better when you didn't question everything around you.
But tonight, things felt different.
As Lucian placed the whiskey glass before the mysterious man, he felt the familiar pull again—the tug at the back of his mind. It was a sensation that had become more frequent lately, as though something deep inside him was trying to wake up, something ancient, something powerful.
The man's eyes locked onto Lucian's, and for the briefest moment, time seemed to freeze. There was something about the stranger's gaze—something that sent a chill running down his spine.
Lucian quickly looked away, breaking the stare, though the feeling lingered. He turned to wipe down the bar, the hum of the city outside mingling with the soft murmur of conversation and clinking glass.
The stranger drank in silence, then slid a few bills across the counter. Without another word, he left as quietly as he had come, vanishing into the night. Lucian watched the door swing shut behind him, his unease growing.
The bar was quiet again after the stranger left. Lucian stood behind the counter, wiping down glasses, his thoughts restless. His fingers moved mechanically, cleaning and stacking as his mind lingered on the strange encounter.
The door swung open again. This time, it was different.
A couple stumbled in, their laughter loud and brash, breaking the quiet like a crack of thunder. Lucian recognized them as regulars—Rowan and Ellis. They were often the first to show up on weekends, always loud, always looking for trouble. Rowan was built like a boulder, with a thick neck and tattoos snaking up his arms, while Ellis, thinner and wiry, had a permanent sneer plastered across his face. They'd been drinking for hours, and it was clear that tonight, they were in one of their moods.
Rowan grabbed a chair and slammed it down next to the bar, nearly knocking over a half-empty glass on the counter. Ellis leaned over, eyes narrowing, as he ordered a round of whiskey. Lucian could already feel the tension in the air, the way their body language shifted. It was that same familiar feeling—the moment before the storm.
"You got a problem, bartender?" Rowan slurred, leaning in, his face inches from Lucian's. The alcohol on his breath was suffocating.
Lucian's gaze was steady, his jaw tight as he handed over their drinks without a word. He'd dealt with this before. But tonight, something inside him felt different. His heartbeat quickened, a strange pulse resonating in his chest. The mark beneath his shirt seemed to throb in time with the rising tension.
Ellis, never one to let a moment go without escalating it, leaned across the bar with a mocking grin. "What's the matter, tough guy? You gonna serve us, or are you just gonna stand there looking like someone pissed in your cereal?"
The words were trivial. Harmless. But Lucian could feel the heat rising in his chest. It was a slow burn, starting in his gut and spreading to his arms, his fists clenched by his sides.
"Back off, Ellis," Rowan muttered, his voice suddenly quieter, though his posture remained aggressive.
But it was too late. The spark had been lit.
Ellis shoved Rowan, knocking his drink to the floor, the glass shattering into a thousand pieces. The sound was sharp, and in that moment, the entire bar seemed to hold its breath.
Lucian stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Enough. You're not ruining my shift."
But as he spoke, the air around him seemed to thicken. His breath came in sharp bursts, and with every word, the ground beneath him felt as though it was trembling. It wasn't just anger anymore—it was something else. Power. Something untamed.
Ellis took a step forward, raising his hand as if to shove Lucian out of the way. Lucian's instincts kicked in before his brain could catch up.
He reached out, grabbing Ellis by the wrist. It wasn't just a hold; it was a vise, and the moment his fingers made contact, a shock of energy crackled through the room. The lights above flickered, casting strange shadows on the walls.
"Let go of me!" Ellis barked, but Lucian's grip tightened. The temperature in the bar rose abruptly, and Ellis winced as if the heat itself was burning him. The air felt like it was thickening, swirling around them like a storm about to break.
For a heartbeat, Lucian didn't know what he was doing. He only knew that the energy coursing through him was too powerful to control. He was angry, no—furious—but it wasn't just the argument. It was something deeper, something primal. The power inside him had been simmering for weeks, and now it was threatening to boil over.
The glassware behind the bar rattled, and then, as if responding to the surge of power, the shelves began to creak under an unseen pressure. Lucian's breath hitched, realizing what was happening. He wasn't just holding Ellis. He was making the world around him bend.
"Lucian," a voice called, sharp and clear. It was Kara, one of the regulars, standing at the far end of the bar, her eyes wide in shock.
The distraction was enough. Lucian snapped out of his trance and quickly released Ellis's wrist. The bar returned to its normal state, the lights dimming back to their steady glow. The hum of conversation resumed as if nothing had happened.
Ellis stumbled backward, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and rage. Rowan, too, seemed to hesitate, his earlier bravado now replaced with confusion.
"Get a grip, man," Rowan muttered, his voice quieter now. He grabbed Ellis by the arm, pulling him away from the bar. "Let's get out of here."
Lucian didn't say a word as they left, the door swinging shut behind them. The bar fell into an eerie silence once more.
But Lucian couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. The air around him still felt charged, heavy with something that wasn't quite right. He stood motionless for a moment, staring at his hands, half-expecting them to be glowing with some kind of otherworldly fire.
The night had settled into its usual rhythm, the low hum of the city outside creeping through the cracks in the Black Swan's walls. Lucian stood behind the bar, wiping down the counters with mechanical precision, his mind still reeling from the encounter with Rowan and Ellis. The bar was nearly empty now, save for a couple of people nursing their final drinks, their conversations soft and distant.
He couldn't shake the feeling that something inside him had shifted. The anger, the way it had distorted the air around him—it had felt real, like it was pulling the world out of place, bending it to his will. But that wasn't possible, was it?
He had always been good at keeping his emotions in check. A stoic, solitary figure behind the bar. But tonight, there was an undercurrent of power, an unsettling sensation that lingered at the edges of his consciousness.
As he finished cleaning the last glass, he rolled his shoulders, attempting to dispel the tension that had built up. His shift was over, and it was time to go. The streets outside were dark, the city lights casting long shadows on the wet pavement, and the cool night air hit him with a welcome chill as he stepped out the back door.
The alley behind the bar was silent, save for the distant rumble of traffic and the faint echo of footsteps. Lucian stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, his breath visible in the cold air. He walked quickly, eager to leave the bar behind, but the feeling of unease wouldn't release him.
What was that?
His footsteps echoed in the alley, and he could feel the weight of the mark on his chest, as if it were alive, throbbing faintly beneath his shirt. He had tried to ignore it earlier, tried to push it out of his mind, but it wouldn't go away. Something was happening to him, something that felt unnatural.
Lucian paused, suddenly aware of the heat rising in his hands. It wasn't the usual warmth of his body after a long night of work; this felt different—foreign. He pulled his hands from his pockets, staring at them in confusion.
His left hand—his palm—was marked with what looked like burn scars, the edges still faintly red and raw, like fresh scorch marks that hadn't quite healed. His right hand wasn't any better; small, blackened spots dotted his fingers, the skin raised and slightly blistered.
He inhaled sharply, turning his hands over, studying the marks in disbelief. These weren't normal burns. They looked... unnatural. The edges of the scars seemed to shimmer, as if the burn itself was alive, the darkness within them swirling in a subtle, hypnotic pattern.
Lucian's stomach turned as his gaze fell to the faint glow that had started to radiate from beneath his shirt. It was subtle at first—a dull, almost imperceptible light that hummed just below the surface of his skin. But as he pulled his shirt up, it became undeniable: a faint, eerie glow was emanating from the center of his chest, where the mark had been growing stronger in recent days.
The glow pulsed gently, like the rhythm of a heartbeat, but there was something ominous about it. Something that stirred deep in his gut, as though it were calling to him—beckoning him to understand, to accept what it meant.
"What the hell...?" Lucian whispered under his breath. He had seen the mark before, but never like this. Never with this faint, glowing intensity. His hand reached out, instinctively drawn to the source of the light, but he stopped himself just before he touched it. The energy felt wrong, like it was burning from the inside out.
He glanced around the alley, half-expecting someone to be watching him. But the shadows were deep and empty. Only the distant sound of the city could be heard, and Lucian's own erratic breathing.
Was this some kind of hallucination? Had he finally lost his mind? But the pain in his hands, the warmth in his chest—it felt too real. The glow was undeniable. Something had triggered it. He knew that much.
Lucian stepped back, his mind racing. The air around him seemed to thicken, as if the weight of his discovery was pressing down on him. He looked at his hands again, and the burn marks seemed to throb with an unnatural pulse, as if they were alive. A sudden thought crossed his mind—a dangerous, impossible thought—but he couldn't ignore the evidence in front of him.
The dreams. The mark. The power that seemed to wake inside him...
He hadn't believed it at first. He hadn't wanted to. But now, there was no denying it. He had always felt like an outsider in this world, but he could no longer ignore the fact that he was tied to something far older, something more powerful than he could ever have imagined.
With a final glance at the glowing mark on his chest, Lucian took a deep breath and pulled his shirt back down. The glow faded, but the burn on his hands remained, the raw scars a constant reminder of what was happening to him.
He needed answers. He needed to understand what was changing inside him.
As Lucian turned to head home, the weight of the mark heavy on his chest, he couldn't help but feel that something much bigger than him was stirring in the darkness.
And it wasn't going to be ignored any longer.