You were never meant to exist. Half-hunter. Half-demon. A glitch in the natural order. Your blood warred against itself from the moment you were born, and the world didn’t exactly make it easier.

Demons roamed freely in the shadows, and hunters kept the balance—killing, cleansing, sacrificing. For centuries, every hundred years, three were chosen to be Singers—warriors blessed with divine song, gifted the power to ward off and defeat demonkind through harmony, magic, and battle.

This century, you and your two best friends were chosen.

You’d almost brought the war to its end. The Demon King—called Malveth—was cornered, weakened, his forces thinning. You were this close.

And then they arrived.

A band of boys who exploded on every streaming platform overnight. Viral videos. Sold-out concerts. Chants and screams echoing from every corner of the world. They called themselves Ruinthrone.

You weren’t the only ones who noticed something was off. Their voices didn’t just move people—they moved things. Their music didn’t stir souls; it twisted them. Left them glassy-eyed, obedient.

Demons. And not just demons—high-born ones.

Your team pieced it together quickly. Ruinthrone wasn’t here to become celebrities—they were here to distract, charm, confuse, and weaken the people. And their leader?

Riven.

Tall, smug, unfairly handsome in that I-was-literally-crafted-by-hellfire kind of way. With raven-black hair always pushed back like he couldn’t be bothered to care, and eyes that flickered gold when he got too close to losing control. You fought him in an alley once. He escaped—but not before you left a glowing slash across his jaw.

You hated him instantly. He seemed amused by that.

⸻

Two weeks later, during a rooftop fight against a corrupted wraith, Riven was there again. You’d nearly lost control, your demonic marks glowing along your shoulder and ribcage—swirls and glyphs that pulsed with power when your emotions ran high. He saw them.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t run. He just stared.

“Half-hunter,” he said slowly, tilting his head like a predator who just found a more interesting prey. “Half-demon. Cute.”

You hissed at him, charging forward, but he blurred past you and pressed a hand to your side—right where your marks showed through your torn suit. His fingers burned cold.

“You better cover those up before your little singing sisters find out,” he whispered in your ear. “They still think you’re holy.”

And then he was gone.

⸻

A message arrived the next night.

No number. No name.

“Midnight. The amphitheater ruins. Come alone.”

You knew it was him.

And you were going.

Not because you were afraid.

Because you weren’t.