Lila woke to the buzz of her phone on the rickety table, the sound slicing through the fog of a restless sleep like a blade through silk. Her studio apartment was dim, the early morning light barely seeping through the cracked blinds, casting slanted bars of gray across the peeling walls. Shadows clung to the corners, still and heavy, as if they'd been watching her all night, their whispers a faint hum in the back of her mind. She rubbed her eyes, the memory of the man in the coat lingering like a bruise, his knowing smile etched into her thoughts. The phone buzzed again, insistent, its vibration rattling the table's uneven legs. She reached for it, her heart sinking when she saw the unknown number on the screen, the digits glowing like a warning in the half-light.
No one called her. Marcus texted memes or shift changes, her landlord left voicemails about late rent that she deleted unheard, but calls? Those were ghosts from a past she'd buried deep, a life she'd clawed her way out of. She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the decline button, her pulse a dull thud in her ears. Curiosity—or maybe dread—won out, a reckless impulse that felt like stepping off a ledge. She answered, holding the phone to her ear without speaking, her breath shallow and tight.
"Lila Morgan," a voice said, smooth and cold, like polished stone worn smooth by a river's current. A woman's voice, unfamiliar but commanding, each syllable precise and weighted with authority. "You've been difficult to find."
Lila's grip tightened on the phone, her knuckles whitening. Her mouth went dry, but she forced her voice to stay steady, a practiced calm that hid the storm brewing inside. "Who is this?"
"You know who we represent," the woman said, her tone edged with faint amusement, as if Lila's defiance was a child's tantrum. "The council requires your presence. You will return to Blackthorn Manor by week's end. Non-compliance is not an option."
The words hit like a punch, sharp and sudden, stealing the air from her lungs. Blackthorn Manor—her family's estate, a sprawling fortress of stone and secrets nestled in a forgotten valley, the heart of the council's power. The place she'd fled at eighteen, swearing she'd never go back, its iron gates slamming shut behind her like a guillotine. Lila's pulse raced, a frantic rhythm that echoed in the shadows around her, but she kept her tone flat, defiant. "I'm done with the council. Tell them to find someone else to play their games."
The woman's laugh was sharp, devoid of humor, a sound like breaking glass. "You don't get to walk away, Shadowborn. Your absence has been tolerated long enough. The council expects you. Refuse, and there will be consequences—ones you will not outrun."
The line went dead before Lila could respond, the silence that followed heavy and suffocating. She stared at the phone, her breath shallow, her fingers trembling as she set it down. Shadowborn. The word echoed, a term she hadn't heard in years, one her family had whispered with equal parts awe and fear, a label that marked her as something rarer, something dangerous. She wasn't just a Morgan, not just a manipulator of shadows like her mother or Darian. She was a Shadowborn, her powers unpredictable, unstable, a force even the council couldn't fully control. And they knew it—had always known it.
She dropped the phone onto the couch and stood, pacing the small room, her bare feet cold against the worn hardwood floor. The shadows stirred, rippling across the walls like water disturbed by a stone, their edges fraying into jagged shapes—a claw, a crown, a figure with no face. She clenched her fists, willing them to still, her nails biting into her palms. She couldn't think with them moving, couldn't let them feed on her panic. But her mind was already spiraling, dragging her back to a memory she'd tried to forget, a wound that had never fully healed.
She was ten, standing in the cavernous library of Blackthorn Manor, the air thick with dust and the weight of centuries, the scent of old leather and wax polish cloying in her throat. Towering shelves loomed overhead, filled with leather-bound tomes her mother forbade her to touch, their spines etched with symbols that seemed to shift when she looked too long. Lila's small hands trembled as she stood before her family, their eyes sharp and unyielding, a tribunal of judgment. Her mother, Cassandra, sat at the head of a long mahogany table, her silver hair pulled tight in a severe bun, her gaze cutting through Lila like a blade, cold and unyielding. Her brother, Darian, sixteen and already cold, stood at their mother's side, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable but heavy with something dark—envy, resentment, or both. The council—seven figures cloaked in black, their faces half-hidden in shadow—sat in a semicircle, their presence a weight that pressed against Lila's chest, making it hard to breathe.
"Lila," her mother said, her voice low but resonant, a command that filled the room. "Show them."
Lila's throat tightened, her heart pounding so loud she thought they must hear it. She didn't want to. The shadows scared her, the way they listened, the way they hungered, their whispers a constant presence she couldn't escape. But her mother's eyes left no room for refusal, their pale blue piercing her like shards of ice. Lila raised her hand, her fingers trembling, and the shadows on the floor obeyed, as if they'd been waiting for her call. They twisted, forming a perfect spiral that spun slowly, then a wolf that prowled the room, its form so vivid she could almost hear its growl. The shadows shifted again, becoming a tree with branches that reached for the ceiling before dissolving into mist, leaving the room silent but charged with tension.
The council murmured, their voices a mix of approval and calculation, their words slithering through the air. "She's strong," one said, an older man with a scar across his cheek, his voice gravelly but laced with greed. "Stronger than expected."
"Too strong," another muttered, a woman with sharp features and eyes like flint, her tone laced with unease. "Unstable. Dangerous. The Shadowborn are always a risk."
Cassandra's lips thinned, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face before she masked it. "She is a Morgan," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut. "She will learn control, or she will learn the consequences."
Darian said nothing, but his gaze burned into Lila, heavy with something she couldn't name, a weight that made her feel small and exposed. She'd felt it even then, the way he watched her, like she was a puzzle he couldn't solve, a rival he couldn't afford to underestimate. His silence was worse than words, a judgment that lingered long after the room emptied.
Later, alone in her room, Lila had curled up on her bed, the heavy velvet curtains blocking out the moonlight. The shadows had wrapped around her like a shield, their whispers soft but urgent, as if trying to comfort her. She'd overheard her mother and Darian in the hall, their voices low but clear through the crack in the door. "She's not ready," Cassandra had said, her tone clipped, frustrated. "The Shadowborn are unpredictable. If she can't be controlled—"
"She will be," Darian interrupted, his voice hard, devoid of warmth. "Or she'll be dealt with. The council won't tolerate weakness, not even from her."
Lila had pressed her face into her pillow, her tears silent, her small body trembling. She didn't understand everything they said, but she understood enough. She wasn't just their daughter, their sister. She was a tool, a weapon, a liability. And if she failed them, if her powers slipped beyond their leash, they wouldn't hesitate to erase her, to snuff her out like a candle that burned too bright.
Lila blinked, the memory fading as she leaned against the wall of her apartment, the rough plaster cool against her back. Her chest ached, not with sadness but with the weight of choices she'd made, choices that had carved her life into sharp, lonely edges. She'd run from Blackthorn, from her family, from the council's suffocating grip, trading their gilded cage for a city where she could disappear. She'd built a life here, small and fragile but hers—a life of coffee stains and late shifts, of shadows kept locked away. Now they wanted her back, and she knew it wasn't out of love or forgiveness. They wanted her power, her Shadowborn strength, for reasons they hadn't deigned to share.
She crossed to the window, pulling the blinds aside with a rattle. The street below was quiet, the city waking slowly under a gray sky, its buildings shrouded in mist. No sign of the man in the coat, but she felt his presence like a shadow she couldn't shake, a weight that followed her through the streets. Was he one of them? A council enforcer sent to watch her, to ensure she obeyed their summons? Or something else, something worse, tied to the way the shadows had moved around him, alive and hungry?
Her phone buzzed again, a text this time, the screen's glow harsh in the dim room. She grabbed it, expecting another threat, but the message was short, from an unknown number: You can't hide forever. Come home, or we'll bring you back. The words were stark, unadorned, but they carried a menace that made her skin crawl, a promise of pursuit she couldn't outrun.
Lila's jaw clenched, her fear hardening into anger. She deleted the message, her hands shaking, the phone's plastic case creaking under her grip. Part of her wanted to run—pack a bag, catch a bus, disappear into another city, another life. She'd done it before, five years ago, when she'd slipped away from Blackthorn under cover of night, her heart pounding as she boarded a train with nothing but a backpack and a stolen wad of cash. But the council wasn't her family alone; they were a network, sprawling and relentless, their reach extending into every corner of the supernatural world. They'd found her here, in a city of millions, buried among the noise and chaos. They'd find her anywhere, no matter how far she ran.
The other part of her, the part she hated, wanted to go back. Not to submit, but to face them, to stand in the shadow of Blackthorn Manor and demand answers. Why now? What did they fear—or want—from her powers? What had changed in the five years since she'd left? The shadows in the room pulsed, as if echoing her defiance, their forms shifting into a jagged crown, then a pair of wings, then a figure with outstretched hands, its face blurred but resolute. For a moment, she let them move, let them mirror the fire in her chest, before snapping them back with a sharp gesture, the air crackling with their reluctant obedience.
She sank onto the couch, her mind a tug-of-war between fear and resolve. Running meant freedom, but it also meant fear, always looking over her shoulder, always waiting for the next call, the next shadow to move wrong. Returning meant answers, but it also meant stepping back into a world that had nearly broken her, a world of cold eyes and colder ambitions. She thought of her mother's voice, sharp as a blade, and Darian's calculating gaze, the way he'd looked at her like she was a threat to be managed. She thought of the council's cloaked figures, their murmured judgments, and the man in the coat, his smile a promise of secrets she wasn't ready to face.
A knock at the door jolted her upright, her heart leaping into her throat. The shadows flared, twisting into jagged shapes before she forced them still, her breath shallow and ragged. She crept to the door, her bare feet silent on the cold floor, and peered through the peephole, her pulse hammering. The hallway was empty, the dim light flickering, casting long, distorted shadows across the cracked plaster walls. She waited, listening, but heard nothing—no footsteps, no breathing, only the distant hum of the city waking beyond her window.
Cautiously, she opened the door a crack, the hinges creaking in protest. On the floor was a small envelope, black and unmarked, sealed with a wax stamp in the shape of a crescent moon, its edges gleaming faintly in the dim light. Her stomach twisted, a cold dread settling in her bones. She recognized that seal—had seen it on letters her mother received, on documents locked away in Blackthorn's vaults. It was the council's, unmistakable and undeniable.
She grabbed the envelope and shut the door, locking it twice, the deadbolt's click loud in the silence. Her hands trembled as she broke the seal, the wax crumbling like ash under her fingers. Inside was a single card, heavy and embossed with silver script that seemed to shimmer, as if infused with something more than ink. The message was brief, its words carved into her mind with brutal clarity: Blackthorn awaits. You have three days.
Lila stared at the card, her fear hardening into resolve, a fire kindling in her chest. They thought they could summon her like a dog, drag her back to their world of shadows and secrets with a snap of their fingers. They thought she was still the scared girl who'd run away, the child who'd trembled under their gaze. But she wasn't their pawn anymore, not their weapon, not their liability. She didn't know what she'd do—run, fight, or face them—but she knew one thing: whatever came next, she'd do it on her terms, not theirs.
The shadows in the room stirred, their whispers rising like a tide, forming a single shape on the wall—a girl, standing tall, her hands outstretched, her silhouette sharp and unyielding. Lila watched it, her lips curving into a faint, defiant smile, her gray-green eyes glinting with something fierce and unbroken. Let them come. She was ready.
But outside, in the gray dawn, the city stirred unaware, its streets a labyrinth of light and shadow. And in an alley two blocks away, the man in the coat stood motionless, his long silhouette blending with the dark. In his hand, he held the carved pendant, its symbols pulsing with a faint, unnatural light, a rhythm that matched the beat of Lila's heart. He tilted his head, as if listening to the shadows' whispers, and murmured, "She's awake." His smile widened, sharp and predatory, as he slipped the pendant into his pocket and vanished into the mist, leaving only silence in his wake.