The Girl Who Doesn't Belong
Rain slid down the café window in slow, lazy streaks, tracing the outline of Lila Matthews’ reflection as she stared out into the grayness. Her shift had just ended, but the thought of going home felt heavier than usual.
At twenty-two, Lila had expected more from life. Not fame or fortune, but at least something resembling peace. Instead, her days were a blur of overworked shifts, overdue bills, and a lingering sense of wrongness like she was living in someone else’s life.
She pulled her hoodie tighter and stepped into the cold drizzle, the air thick with a storm that hadn’t yet broken. The city buzzed around her, alive in ways she wasn’t. Horns blared, neon lights flickered, and strangers brushed past like she didn’t exist.
But it wasn’t the crowd that made her feel invisible.
It was the dreams.
For months now, her sleep had been haunted by the same recurring nightmare: black fire sweeping across an endless field, a crown crumbling to ash in her hands, and a man standing at the edge of the flamestall, cloaked in darkness, with eyes like silver ice.
She had never seen his face clearly.
But she always woke up gasping, his name on her lips.
Only she didn’t know what it was.
Later that evening, back in her tiny apartment, Lila lit a candle and curled up on her couch with a threadbare blanket. The wind howled outside like it was searching for something or someone. She picked up her sketchpad and drew without thinking, letting her hand move on its own.
When she finally looked down, her chest tightened.
It was him again.
The man from her dreams. His eyes were clearer this time piercing and emotionless but somehow familiar. Like he was part of her, like she’d known him once in another life.
A knock at the door made her jump.
She froze, glancing at the clock. 11:11 PM.
Her heart thudded. No one ever came this late.
Another knock. Louder.
She stood and slowly walked to the door. "Who is it?" she called, voice barely above a whisper.
Silence.
Then, just as she reached for the lock, her vision blurred. A searing pain shot through her head like lightning. She fell to her knees, gasping, clutching her temple.
Images exploded in her mind fire, blood, a throne made of obsidian, and a voice deep and commanding:
“The chosen has awakened. The heir must claim her before the dark consumes her soul.”
Then, everything went black.
In another realm, far beyond the veil of human understanding…
Dorian Blackwood stood at the edge of the Wyrmcliff, his black coat snapping in the wind. Below, shadows twisted across the land restless, hungry.
“She’s awakened,” his second-in-command said behind him. “The bond has begun to form.”
Dorian didn’t turn. His silver eyes burned with something unreadable.
“Prepare the portal,” he said coldly. “I’ll bring her back myself.
