Ivory_Smart_2462

When a global mutation crisis grants people extraordinary abilities, Elias finds himself with one of the rarest gifts—healing. But instead of being a hero, he becomes the most wanted man on the planet, hunted by governments, mercenaries, and power-hungry elites who see him as a tool for immortality.  

Determined to live on his own terms, Elias flees, using his abilities to help those in need while staying under the radar. But survival gets complicated when a cold, lethal ex-mercenary named Kieran Wolfe offers him protection—for a price.  

As enemies close in and secrets unravel, Elias must decide: keep running, or place his trust in a man who might just be more dangerous than those hunting him.

The enigmatic healer

The chamber pulsed with shadows, shifting and restless, folding over themselves like living silk. A single torch burned at the center of the room, its flame an eerie black-blue, flickering without warmth. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp stone and something metallic—something ancient.

A robed figure stood before the altar, motionless. Their hood obscured their face, but the presence radiating from them was unmistakable—powerful, unyielding, old beyond comprehension. Around them, others knelt in silence, their breaths shallow, synchronized, waiting.

A voice finally broke the hush, slithering through the chamber like curling smoke.

A ripple moved through the gathered shadows. Some figures stiffened, others exhaled in unison, a collective breath carrying the weight of something inevitable. The words carried no urgency, yet the gravity of them settled into the bones of all who listened.

From the farthest edge of the room, another voice answered, low and composed. "Then time is running out."

A slow, deliberate movement from the robed figure at the altar. "Time is an illusion. We do not run out of what we command."

Silence. The weight of the words hung thick in the air. Then a shift—one of the kneeling figures rose, their movement precise, reverent. The flickering light kissed the edges of their face, revealing sharp angles, lips pressed into an unyielding line.

"The Order of Ash grows restless. They seek her blindly, stumbling through the dark, but even the blind may find their mark."

"They are tools," the figure at the altar murmured. "Blunt, but useful. When the time comes, they will be discarded."

A pause. Then, the one who had risen spoke again, quieter this time. "And if she remembers?"

For a long moment, the chamber seemed to hold its breath. The darkness, once restless, now lay utterly still. The blue-black flame danced, casting flickering shapes along the stone walls, creating illusions of things that were not there.

The figure at the altar finally moved, stepping forward, their robe whispering against the stone floor. "She will not remember. Not yet. But she will feel it."

Another silence, stretched thin like a thread about to snap. Then, a hand emerged from the robe—pale, long fingers lined with symbols etched into the skin itself, glowing faintly with something deeper than mere light.

The kneeling figures bowed their heads in silent understanding. No more words were spoken, but the air itself thrummed with something unseen, something alive.

In the farthest corner of the chamber, a shape moved—a figure draped in crimson, separate from the others, watching. Eyes gleamed from beneath their hood, catching the light of the unnatural flame.

They had seen the signs. The shifting tides. The pull of something greater than the fragile schemes of men.

The girl did not yet understand what she was.

But soon, she would. And when she did—

The world would remember why it had once feared the name **Aurelya.**

**The darkness around**

The darkness around