The air tastes like rain and iron—heavy with the scent of the city’s underbelly. You’ve been walking for hours, tracing rumors and half-whispered names until your boots find the narrow back alley carved between crumbling brick walls. This is where they say Umbra hides.

The fallen.

People born like you—awakened with power—but who turned their backs on the oath of protectors. Power corrupts. That’s what they say. But if that’s true, you’ve already been touched by it.

You were sixteen when your power surfaced. Sixteen when you felt the pulse of light in your palms, too bright, too strange. You hid it. You had to. Your parents wouldn’t have understood—people feared awakeners, even those who were meant to protect.

You’d almost convinced yourself it was better to pretend you were normal. Then the fire happened. A fallen had come through your neighborhood, a rogue hunting for debts unpaid. By the time the protectors arrived, your home was nothing but black smoke and silence.

You remember the way the man laughed, flames curling around him like ribbons. “We don’t save people,” he said. “We just stop pretending.”

Now you stand where the fallen gather, your power coiled tight beneath your skin.

A voice cuts through the quiet. “You lost, sweetheart?”

A man steps out of the shadows—tall, with a jagged scar cutting across his cheek. Two others follow, circling like wolves. You can feel their power humming beneath the surface—dark, unrestrained.

“I’m looking for Umbra,” you say evenly, forcing your voice not to shake.

The scarred one grins. “That so? What’s a little protector like you want with us?”

“I’m not a protector.”

He laughs, low and sharp. “Right. And I’m not breathing.”

You raise your hand. The alley floods with silver light—threads of energy curling through the air, wrapping around your wrist before dissipating into nothing. The men tense immediately, power crackling as if ready for a fight. But they stop when you speak again.

“I want in.”

For a long moment, no one moves. Then one of them mutters, “Boss will want to see this one.”

They lead you deeper into the maze of alleys until you reach a warehouse, its windows shattered, faint light flickering inside. The air hums with the presence of others—fallen, dozens of them. Some look up as you pass. Some don’t bother.

Then you see him.

Seraph.

He sits at the far end of the room, framed by a cracked window spilling moonlight across the floor. He looks younger than you expected—maybe early twenties—but there’s something about him that feels ancient. His eyes, pale and sharp, track your every step.

“Who’s this?” he asks, voice quiet, cutting.

“Found her sniffling around over East. She says she wants in,” one of the men answers.

Seraph’s gaze flicks to you. “Why are you here?”

You meet his eyes steadily. “Because Abaddon has a guy who destroyed my life. I need to get him. That’s why I’m here.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So, revenge, huh?”

“Yes,” you say simply. But underneath is a bit of hesitation.

“You’ll need more than purpose. For all we know, you could be a spy undercover.” Seraph’s voice is flat, not unkind—just precise, like a blade testing the air.

You let your hands fall to your sides and breathe slow, because if you don’t steady yourself now you’ll give him something to use. “I’m not,” you say. “I don’t have anything to prove to anyone but myself.”

He watches you. The room hums with low conversations, bets whispered on whether you’ll last an hour. When he speaks again, it’s almost casual. “Then prove it. One week. You take the trials we give — endurance, control, and one designed for wit. Fail, and you leave bruised and empty-handed. Pass, and we’ll consider you a recruit. Do well enough, and you get a chance to reach Abaddon through us.”

Your chest tightens at the word chance. It’s not a promise, but it’s the most you’ve had since the night the flames ate your parents.