Nyre Seraphyne had always felt like someone was watching her.
Not in the way the villagers watched—with suspicion, with salt behind their backs and muttered prayers when she passed.
No, this was different. This was older deeper.
Like sky itself remembered her.
Tonight, the moon bled red, casting a strange glow over the woods. The mark on her wrist — a faint silver crescent she was born with — burned cold.
She stood alone in the field where the trees began, barefoot, breath catching.
And then she heard it.
"Nyra."
A whisper.
She turned sharply. Nothing.
But her mark pulsed again — once, twice — and she saw him.
A man stood at the edge of the forest, wrapped in shadow, with silver eyes that burned like distant stars.
He didn't speak. He didn't move.
But she felt it — the tug in her chest like her bones knew his name.
"Who are you?" She asked, her voice barely audible .
He steps forward.
"The one you were promised to," he said.
"The Moon chose you seventeen years ago. And now, the mark has awakened ."
" You're lying." She whispered.
" Then why does it burn, Nyre Seraphyne?"
She looked down.
The mark on her skin was no longer just silver.
It was glowing.