PROLOGUE
XAVIAN
The rain had turned the streets into a slick, indifferent mirror, reflecting the glow of lamps that buzzed overhead. I moved through the alley off the main road, my boots silent on the wet pavement, the kind of quiet that came from years of practice I no longer bothered to count. The city pressed in around me, all concrete and rusted metal, the air thick with the smell of exhaust and damp garbage. Bodies hurried past on the brighter streets beyond, hunched under umbrellas or hoods, their lives a blur of routine I had long since stopped envying. I did not belong here, in this world of fragile lights and forgotten corners, but belonging had ceased to matter. Survival was the only measure left.
The hunger stirred again, a low thrum in my veins that matched the rhythm of my pulse. Virelya hung at my side, sheathed but never truly dormant. The blade did not speak, not exactly, but it made itself known in whispers that scraped along the edges of my thoughts, urging, demanding.
Feed.
The voice was not mine, though it had woven itself so deeply into my mind that sometimes I forgot where one ended and theother began. Tonight, the pressure was sharper than usual, a gnawing ache that spread from my chest outward, tightening my muscles until every step felt like resistance. I had waited too long this time, pushed the interval further than was wise.
My target moved ahead, oblivious, his coat flapping in the wind as he cut through the side street toward the underpass. I kept my distance, blending into the shadows where the buildings leaned close, their walls stained with graffiti and the slow rot of neglect. The rain muffled sounds, turning the world into a haze of gray and black, but I could hear his footsteps splashing through puddles, the ragged draw of his breath. He was tired, perhaps from a long day, and that would make it easier. I felt no pity, no thrill. This was function, nothing more.
As he ducked under the overpass, the noise of distant traffic faded, replaced by the drip of water from cracked concrete above. He stopped suddenly, fumbling in his pocket for something. His head turned slightly, as if sensing the shift in the air, but he shook it off and kept walking. They were like that, always dismissing the instincts that might save them. I had learned to use it against them.
I struck when he reached the narrowest point. My approach was swift, a shadow detaching from the wall, my arm wrapping around his throat before he could cry out. He bucked against me, stronger than he looked, his elbow driving back into my ribs with a force that might have winded a lesser man. Pain flared, but I held fast, twisting to pin him against the cold concrete. His hands clawed at my forearm, but I barely registered it. Virelya was in my grip now, drawn free with a sound like silk tearing, the dark metal gleaming faintly in the dim light. The blade's hunger surged, flooding my senses, making my vision tunnel until all I saw was the pulse in his neck, the frantic beat of life ready to be claimed.
He gasped, his eyes wide with the terror of realization. "Please," he managed, the word choking out between struggles. I did not respond. There was no point in words. I drove his fate forward, the point finding the soft hollow beneath his ribs, sliding in with the ease. I felt the essence flow through the metal, into me, a rush of cold fire that silenced the whispers for a moment, replacing them with a hollow satisfaction that was not my own. His eyes glazed, his limbs going slack, and I lowered him to the ground, the rain pooling around us, mixing with the blood that seeped from the wound.
The kill was clean, efficient, over in seconds. But as always, the aftermath clung like a sickness. I straightened, wiping the blade on his coat before sheathing it, sated for the time being. This was the cost, the part that never eased. Each kill left me emptier, as if they carved out a little more of what remained inside me. I leaned against the pillar, breathing through it. The man's body lay there, eyes open to the sky, already forgotten by the world that would find him come morning. Another statistic, another unsolved end in a city full of them.
I left him there, slipping back into the night, my path weaving through the labyrinth of backstreets toward the derelict warehouse I called home. The city seemed quieter now, the rain a steady murmur that drowned out the distant hum of life. The hunger had settled, the whispers muted to a low drone, but I knew it would not last. It never did. The intervals grew shorter, the demands more insistent, and lately, the blackouts had become a thief in my own mind, stealing moments I could not afford to lose.
The warehouse loomed at the edge of the industrial sprawl, its windows boarded and broken, the chain-link fence sagging under years of neglect. I slipped through a gap I had cut long ago, the metal scraping against my coat, and made my way inside. The space was vast and empty, echoes amplifying thedrip of water from the leaking roof. I barred the door behind me, the sound heavy in the silence, and stripped off my sodden clothes, the fabric heavy with rain and the faint metallic tang of blood.
Naked in the chill air, I examined myself under the weak beam of a battery lantern. The veins in my arms stood out darker than they should, threads of black tracing patterns beneath the skin, retreating slowly now that the hunger was fed. I washed with water from a bucket, the cold biting into my skin, scrubbing until the evidence was gone. But the real stains were deeper, in the gaps where my thoughts frayed. I sat on the edge of the cot, blade laid across my knees, its surface smooth and unmarred, as if it had never tasted blood.
I lay back on the cot, staring at the cracked ceiling, willing sleep to come. The whispers had quieted, but the emptiness they left was almost worse, a void that echoed with the man I had been. Hours passed, or perhaps minutes; time blurred in the dimness.
And then, something shifted.
Virelya's presence altered, not with the usual hunger, but with a stillness I had never felt before.
The thrum in my veins paused, attentive, as if the blade had caught a scent on the wind. A pull tugged at me, faint but insistent, drawing my awareness outward, toward the heart of the city.
It was not the call of prey, not the demand for blood. This was different, a recognition that set my nerves on edge…
I sat up, hand closing around the hilt, the metal cool under my fingers. The silence held, profound and unnatural, and for the first time in years, the constant pressure eased just enough to breathe.
I did not understand it. Trap or hallucination, it made no difference; ignoring it felt like courting madness. The pullstrengthened, a thread pulling me toward whatever waited in the night. I dressed quickly, the rain still falling outside, and stepped back into the darkness. Virelya hung at my side, alert now, and I followed where it led.
1
MORGAN
The alarm on my phone buzzed insistently from the nightstand, pulling me out of a sleep that had been anything but restful. I reached over and silenced it without opening my eyes, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling in like an old friend. Mornings were always like this, a slow drag from dreams that lingered too long into the daylight. Last night's had been vivid again, fragments of a vast hall with stone walls that seemed to breathe, and a metallic hum that vibrated through my bones. I shook it off as I sat up, rubbing at my eyes. Dreams were just dreams, no matter how real they felt in the moment. No point dwelling on them when there was coffee to make and a shift to get through.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the wooden floor cool under my feet, and padded into the tiny kitchen of my apartment. The place was nothing special, a one-bedroom on the third floor of a building that had seen better days, with peeling paint in the hallways and a landlord who only showed up if the rent was late. But it was mine, and in a city like this, that counted for something. I flicked on the coffee maker, listening to the gurgle as it started up, and glanced out the window at the streetbelow. Gray skies hung low, promising more rain, and the usual morning rush was already underway: people hustling to bus stops, cars honking their way through intersections. Everything looked normal, but there was an undercurrent these days, a tension that hummed through the air like static before a storm.
The news had been full of it for weeks now, this string of killings that had everyone on edge. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the headlines while the coffee brewed. Another body found last night, this one in an underpass on the industrial side of town. The details were sparse, as always, but the pattern was the same: a single wound, clean, deep and deadly. A sword, of all things. In a city where muggings usually involved knives or guns, the idea of someone wandering around with a blade like that felt archaic, almost ridiculous if it weren't so terrifying. No witnesses, no clear motives, just bodies turning up in forgotten corners. The police were calling it a serial thing now, urging people to travel in groups after dark, but that didn't stop the rumors from spreading. Online forums were exploding with theories, everything from a cult ritual to LARP-er on bathsalts. I'd overheard a couple of neighbors talking about it in the lobby yesterday, their voices low, like saying it out loud might summon the killer himself.
I poured my coffee black, strong enough to cut through the fog in my head, and took a sip, leaning against the counter. The killings had changed things, subtly at first, but noticeably now. People didn't linger on the streets the way they used to; shops closed earlier, and the bars had that extra layer of caution in the air. I'd started carrying pepper spray in my bag, not that I thought it'd do much against someone swinging a sword, but it made me feel a little less exposed. Still, life went on. Bills didn't pay themselves, and panicking wouldn't help. I finished my coffee, rinsed the mug, and headed to the bathroom to get ready for work.
The cafe where I worked was a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment, through a neighborhood that mixed old brick buildings with newer high-rises trying to gentrify the place. I pulled on my coat, locked the door behind me, and stepped out into the damp morning air. The streets were busier than usual for this hour, people clustering at crosswalks, eyes darting more than they should. I fell into step with the flow, weaving around a group of office workers chatting about the latest news. "Heard they found another one," one of them said, a woman with a thermos clutched in her hand. "Sword wound again. What kind of psycho uses a sword?" Her friend shook his head, muttering something about the city going to hell. I kept my distance, not wanting to get pulled into the conversation, but their words stuck with me. It was the bizarreness of it that got under my skin, the way it didn't fit the usual urban nightmare.
Work was the usual grind, a small coffee shop tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat, the kind of place that attracted regulars and the occasional tourist. I tied on my apron and got behind the counter, the familiar rhythm of steaming milk and grinding beans pulling me into the day. My coworker, Lena, was already there, her dark hair tied back in a messy bun, scrolling through her phone with a frown. "Morning," she said without looking up. "You see the news? Another body. This one's close, like ten blocks from here."
I nodded, starting on a latte for the first customer in line. "Yeah, I saw. Underpass near the warehouses. Creepy as hell."
