Chapter One

A Life Once Ordinary

Ethan Vale had always preferred the rhythm of the predictable. The hum of his alarm clock at 6:45 a.m., the soft clatter of his coffee maker sputtering to life, the muted gray of Seattle’s perpetually overcast sky pressing against his apartment window—these were the threads that wove the fabric of his days. At twenty-eight, he’d settled into a life that didn’t demand much of him: a data entry job at a logistics firm downtown, a modest one-bedroom in Capitol Hill where the rent was just shy of outrageous, and a routine so steady it could have been set to a metronome. He wasn’t unhappy, exactly—just comfortably numb, like a man who’d learned to live inside the lines of a coloring book someone else had already filled in.

That morning, though, something felt off. It wasn’t the weather—another drizzle-soaked Thursday in late October, the kind that made the city feel like it was sulking—or the fact that he’d overslept by ten minutes, forcing him to skip his usual toast. No, it was subtler, a faint itch at the back of his mind, like a word he couldn’t quite recall. He chalked it up to exhaustion. The past week had been a slog of overtime, his supervisor piling on extra spreadsheets with the enthusiasm of a kid dumping LEGOs on the floor. Ethan rubbed his eyes as he shuffled into the cramped kitchen, the linoleum cold against his bare feet, and reached for the coffee pot. The first sip burned his tongue, sharp and bitter, grounding him in its familiarity.

He didn’t notice the flicker at first. It came as he stood by the sink, staring absently at the rain-streaked window. A sudden pulse of light—brief, blinding—flashed across his vision, like a camera bulb popping in his skull. He blinked hard, gripping the counter as the world tilted. For a moment, he saw not the drab brick wall of the building next door, but a vast, scorched plain, cracked and glowing with veins of molten red. Smoke curled upward, thick and acrid, and a sound like distant thunder rumbled in his ears. Then it was gone, leaving him gasping, the kitchen’s fluorescent glow snapping back into place.

“What the hell,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his chest. His heart thudded unevenly, a staccato beat against his ribs. He shook his head, attributing it to caffeine on an empty stomach, and grabbed his coat. He couldn’t afford to be late again—not with Mr. Hensley breathing down his neck about “commitment to the team.” The vision, if he could even call it that, lingered like a smudge on a lens, but he pushed it aside. He had a bus to catch.

The 8:12 to downtown was crowded as usual, a press of damp coats and murmured complaints. Ethan squeezed into a spot near the back, clutching the pole as the bus lurched forward. He plugged in his earbuds, letting the low drone of an indie playlist drown out the chatter. Normally, this was his bubble, a thirty-minute cocoon before the fluorescent purgatory of the office. But today, the music couldn’t settle him. That itch in his mind had grown, spreading into a faint hum, like static from a radio station just out of range. He shifted uncomfortably, the vinyl seat creaking beneath him, and glanced out the window. Rain streaked the glass in rivulets, blurring the city into a watercolor smear of gray and green.

Then it happened again. The flicker. This time, it wasn’t just light—it was heat. A surge of warmth flared in his chest, sudden and sharp, as if someone had struck a match against his sternum. His breath caught, and the bus dissolved around him. He was standing—no, floating—above that same cracked plain, the air shimmering with heat haze. Flames licked at the edges of his vision, orange and gold, curling like tendrils reaching for him. A voice, low and resonant, whispered something he couldn’t make out, the words slipping away like smoke. His hands trembled, and he clenched them into fists, only to realize they weren’t empty. In his right palm, a spark danced, tiny but alive, pulsing with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.

“Ethan? You okay?”

The voice—real this time—jerked him back. He blinked, the bus snapping into focus. A woman in a yellow raincoat was staring at him, her brow furrowed. He realized he’d dropped his phone; it lay on the floor, earbuds tangled beside it. His hands were still clenched, and a faint sheen of sweat coated his forehead despite the chill.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he managed, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. He bent to retrieve his phone, his fingers shaky. The woman nodded, unconvinced, but turned away. Ethan pressed himself against the window, the cool glass a lifeline as he willed his pulse to slow. What was happening to him? A panic attack? He’d never had one before, but he’d heard they could feel like this—racing heart, disorientation, the sense that reality was slipping. He resolved to google it later, maybe book a doctor’s appointment if it didn’t stop.

Work offered no reprieve. The office was a maze of beige cubicles, the air thick with the hum of printers and the stale scent of burnt coffee. Ethan sank into his chair, the ergonomic cushion doing little to ease the tension coiling in his shoulders. His monitor glowed with rows of numbers—shipping codes, delivery schedules, the kind of data that usually numbed his mind into submission. Today, though, it felt like staring into a void. The hum in his head had dulled but not vanished, a persistent undertone that made his skin prickle.

“You look like death,” came a voice from the next cubicle. Lila, his coworker and the closest thing he had to a friend here, leaned over the partition. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, and her glasses perched precariously on her nose. “Rough night?”

“Rough morning,” Ethan replied, rubbing his temples. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Better not be contagious. I’ve got a date tonight, and I’m not canceling for your germs.” She grinned, tossing a pen at him. He caught it reflexively, the motion steadying him for a moment.

“Lucky guy,” he said, tossing it back.

“Girl, actually. And yeah, she’s out of my league, so I need all the luck I can get.” Lila’s teasing eased some of the knot in his chest, and he managed a genuine chuckle. She was one of the few people who made this place bearable, her sharp wit a counterpoint to the monotony.

The day crawled by, each hour punctuated by the clack of keyboards and the occasional cough from across the room. Ethan tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting back to the visions. The scorched plain. The fire in his hand. By lunch, he was restless, his leg bouncing under the desk. He slipped out to the break room, hoping a vending machine sandwich might anchor him. As he fed a crumpled dollar into the slot, the hum spiked again, louder this time, a buzzing that vibrated in his teeth. He gripped the machine, steadying himself, when the lights overhead flickered.

Not just flickered—pulsed. A wave of heat rolled through him, and the air crackled. The sandwich dropped into the tray with a thud, but Ethan barely noticed. His vision blurred, and he was back on that plain, the ground trembling beneath his feet. The flames were closer now, licking at his ankles, and that voice returned, clearer this time: “Awaken.” It wasn’t a request—it was a command, deep and ancient, resonating in his bones.

He stumbled back, crashing into a chair. The break room reappeared, empty save for him, the lights steady once more. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the frantic thump of his heart. “Get it together,” he whispered, forcing himself to stand. He grabbed the sandwich and retreated to his desk, ignoring the curious glance Lila shot him as he passed.

The afternoon was a blur. He typed on autopilot, his fingers moving while his mind churned. By 5:00 p.m., he was out the door, the promise of his apartment’s quiet pulling him like a lifeline. The bus ride home was uneventful, the visions mercifully absent, though the hum remained, a low simmer in his skull. He climbed the stairs to his third-floor unit, the familiar creak of the wood a small comfort. Inside, he kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag, and collapsed onto the couch, the worn cushions sagging beneath him.

Dinner was a microwave burrito, eaten standing over the sink while rain tapped a steady rhythm against the window. He tried to distract himself with TV—a mindless sitcom about roommates and bad dates—but the laugh track grated on his nerves. The hum was growing again, insistent, and with it came a restlessness he couldn’t shake. He paced the small living room, all twelve feet of it, his socks scuffing the threadbare rug.

Then the power surged. Not in his chest this time, but in the apartment. The lights flared, the TV blipped off, and a sharp pop came from the kitchen as the microwave sparked. Ethan froze; his breath shallow. The air felt charged, heavy, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. He took a step toward the breaker box, intending to check it, when the heat returned—fiercer, wilder, a furnace igniting in his core.

He doubled over, a cry escaping his lips as the room spun. The visions crashed into him full force: the plain, the flames, the voice— “Awaken, now!”—and this time, he saw more. Shadows moved across the burning landscape, humanoid but wrong, their edges blurring into the smoke. A figure stood apart, cloaked in darkness, its eyes glowing like embers. Ethan reached out instinctively, and the spark in his hand flared into a flame, bright and searing. He screamed, the sound raw, and the fire leaped from his palm, striking the coffee table.

The real world snapped back as the table erupted. Flames licked at the cheap wood, smoke curling upward in thick plumes. Ethan staggeredback; his mind blank with panic. “No, no, no—” He grabbed a blanket from the couch, beating at the fire, but it only grew, defiance in its crackling roar. The smoke alarm shrieked, piercing the haze, and he stumbled to the kitchen, filling a pot with water. He hurled it at the blaze, the hiss of steam mingling with his ragged breaths as the flames died down, leaving a charred ruin in their wake.

He sank to the floor, the pot clattering beside him, his hands trembling. The apartment reeked of smoke and wet ash, the alarm still wailing. He pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the world to make sense, but all he could see was that flame—his flame—dancing in his grip. The hum was gone now, replaced by a hollow silence, but the heat lingered, a ember smoldering in his chest.

A knock at the door jolted him upright. “Ethan? You okay in there?” It was Mrs. Carter, the elderly widow from 3B, her voice muffled but urgent. He scrambled to his feet, kicking the pot aside, and opened the door a crack. Her gray curls framed a worried face, her eyes darting past him to the smoky chaos.

“Fine,” he croaked, coughing. “Just… a kitchen mishap. I’ve got it under control.”

She didn’t look convinced, sniffing the air. “Smells like a fire. You sure you don’t need me to call someone?”

“No, really, I’m good. Thanks, though.” He forced a smile, closing the door before she could argue. Leaning against it, he slid back to the floor, his head in his hands. The apartment was a mess—blackened table, soaked rug, a faint haze still clinging to the air—but that wasn’t what terrified him. It was the certainty, cold and sharp, that this wasn’t over. Whatever had woken inside him wasn’t done with him yet.

He didn’t sleep that night. Curled on the couch, a blanket pulled tight around him, he stared at the ceiling, the rain’s steady drum his only company. The visions replayed in his mind, each detail etched deeper: the plain, the fire, the voice. Awaken. He pressed a hand to his chest, half-expecting to feel that heat again, but there was nothing—just the thud of his heart, too fast, too alive.

By dawn, the rain had stopped, leaving the city draped in a muted hush. Ethan rose, stiff and hollow-eyed, and surveyed the damage. The table was a lost cause, its surface blistered and cracked. He dragged it to the curb, the morning air biting at his skin, and returned to clean the rest as best he could. The motions were mechanical, a desperate grasp at normalcy, but his thoughts churned. He couldn’t go to work like this—not with his nerves frayed and his hands still trembling. He texted Lila a vague excuse about being sick, then sank back onto the couch, staring at the spot where the fire had been.

That’s when he noticed it: a faint mark on his palm. Not a burn, but a shape—swirling, intricate, like a rune etched in gold beneath his skin. He traced it with a finger, his breath hitching as a flicker of warmth pulsed through him. It wasn’t painful, not like before. It felt… alive. A part of him.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right outside his door. A shadow passed the window, too quick to catch, and then a knock—sharp, deliberate. Ethan tensed, his pulse spiking. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Mrs. Carter again? No, this felt different. He stood, hesitating, the mark on his palm tingling as if in warning.

“Ethan Vale?” The voice was low, smooth, edged with something he couldn’t place—authority, maybe, or danger. “We need to talk.”