The cold air wrapped around Mira as she stood at the edge of the woods behind her uncle's cottage, the trees shrouded in a thick mist that curled like fingers reaching out from the unknown. Her coat was thin, her boots muddy, but her thoughts weighed more than the weather. At twenty, she felt like a shadow in her own life—no past, no future, only the haunting questions that plagued her since childhood. Her parents' death in a fire had stolen more than just family; it stole truth.
She clutched the silver locket that always hung from her neck. It was the only relic left from her mother, burned but still intact, holding a photo of a woman she barely remembered and a man whose face had been scorched away by the fire. Her aunt and uncle never talked about the past. They only reminded her of the burden she was.
Tonight, the mist seemed heavier. She turned to leave when she heard it—the faint rustle of leaves not moved by wind, the low whisper of a voice too deep to be human. Her pulse quickened.
"She's here," said a voice from within the fog.
Four figures emerged from the haze like ghosts. Each step they took was too smooth, too calculated, and when they came into view, the world around her dimmed.
They were beautiful in an unearthly way. Not human—she knew that instantly. Their skin was flawless but pale, their eyes glowed with unnatural hues—gold, silver, crimson, and midnight blue.
The tallest stepped forward. His eyes were burning gold, and his expression was that of a lion eyeing its prey.
"So this is the girl," he said. "The bloodline hidden in filth."
Mira stepped back instinctively. "Who are you?"
"Monsters, some say," came a voice dripping with charm—Kaelen, with silver eyes and a teasing smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Others call us saviors. But you, Mira, will call us something else entirely."
Another man—lean, cruel, his midnight-blue gaze sharp as ice—moved closer. Lucien.
"She's weak," he said coldly. "No fire in her. I expected more from the last of her line."
And last came Darian. Crimson-eyed, he moved differently—like a shadow wearing a man's skin.
"She doesn't remember anything. Not her blood. Not the betrayal. Typical."
Mira trembled, not just from fear but from the weight in their words.
"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "I don't know you!"
Lucien sneered. "But your family knew us. Intimately. Especially her."
From the mist, a fifth figure arrived—curves wrapped in black leather, long dark hair flowing like ink, and a smile sharper than fangs. Selene.
She walked up beside the four men like a queen returning to her court. Her eyes narrowed on Mira with pure disdain.
"You shouldn't be here," Selene said. "This is my place. My story. You're just a forgotten chapter that should have stayed closed."
Mira looked from Selene to the four men. Their posture had shifted. They weren't just dominant now—they were guarded.
"You… you're with them?" Mira asked, her voice shaking.
Selene smirked and touched Varek's arm possessively. "I've tasted each of them, darling. They know what real power feels like. What makes you think you'll ever compare?"
Mira's heart sank. There was something twisted in their connection, something painful. And the way the men looked at her—it wasn't just curiosity. It was resentment. Deep, rooted hatred.
Kaelen's gaze turned hard. "You're not innocent, Mira. Your family has sins soaked in our blood. Don't expect mercy."
As they faded back into the mist, Mira dropped to her knees, shaking. What sins? What betrayal?
All she had were questions—and the four men who looked at her as both salvation and curse.
This was only the beginning.