Chapter 1: Rebirth Beneath the Veil of Shadows

The sound of footsteps echoed in the narrow alleyway like the ticking of a countdown clock.Fast. Heavy. Unrelenting.

He's still behind me.

The boy's breath tore from his lungs in ragged bursts as he stumbled through the darkness, one hand clutching his side where a jagged pain flared with each step. Cold air sliced through his thin hoodie, his body slick with sweat despite the night's chill. His sneakers slapped wet pavement, his heart pounding louder than the wind, louder than the thunder rumbling in the distance.

He didn't know how long he'd been running—minutes? Hours? Days? Time had lost meaning, blurred by adrenaline and fear. All he knew was that if he stopped, even for a moment, he would die.

I don't want to die.

His mind screamed it over and over, a child's plea in an adult body. He wasn't a hero, wasn't brave. He had no grand story, no final stand. He was just a boy—a nameless face in a crowded city, with nothing remarkable to remember him by.

His legs were burning. The muscles in his thighs screamed with every movement, but he forced himself onward, deeper into the tangled maze of backstreets and shadows. His lungs felt like they were tearing apart, and the stitch in his side had grown sharp enough to bring tears to his eyes.

He didn't dare look back.

If I look, he'll be closer. If I look, I'll trip. If I trip…

A flash of memory burst behind his eyes—the first time he saw the man. That crooked smile. That blank stare. Not angry, not frenzied. Just empty. The kind of emptiness that didn't belong in any living thing. The kind that said: You're already dead. You just haven't fallen yet.

Why me?

There had been no reason. No motive. No connection. Just one wrong turn on one wrong night. That was all it took to be marked. The police wouldn't believe it. Who would? That a stranger had locked eyes with him once on a train platform and decided he belonged to him now—like some sick animal choosing a toy.

He had tried to report it. Tried to ask for help. But nobody listened. Nobody ever listened.

The boy veered suddenly, turning into another alley—a mistake. Dead end.

He skidded to a halt, gravel scattering beneath his feet. A wall loomed ahead, too high to climb in his condition. Behind him, the footsteps stopped.

Silence.

Not the comforting kind. The wrong kind. The kind that makes your skin crawl, makes your heartbeat feel like it's betraying your position. The kind of silence that means someone's smiling just out of sight.

He turned slowly, the wall pressing cold against his back.

And there he was.

The man stepped into view like a shadow slipping from the dark—tall, soaked by the rain, face half-hidden beneath the rim of his hood. He carried no weapon. He never did. That was the worst part.

"You run pretty well," the man said, voice soft, almost amused. "But you don't hide well. You don't think well. You panic too easily."

The boy couldn't speak. His voice had died somewhere between the alleys and the fear.

"You're not the first one," the man continued, stepping forward, calm and casual. "But you're special. I think you knew it the first time we met. That look in your eyes… terrified, but curious. Like you wanted to know how it would feel."

"No," the boy whispered. "No, I didn't—please—"

The man tilted his head. "Then learn."

The boy tried to run. It didn't matter that there was nowhere to go—instinct screamed move. But the man was faster. Too fast.

Pain exploded across his ribs. He didn't see the blow. Just the aftershock—body hitting concrete, vision blurring, blood in his throat. Another strike—his leg. Something snapped. A scream, raw and animal, tore from him as he crawled, tried to drag himself away.

The man didn't speak now. He just watched—studied—enjoyed.

The pain kept coming. Not sharp like a knife. Blunt. Crippling. Hands twisting joints, stomping bones, snapping fingers one by one. The boy couldn't scream anymore. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. He was drowning in pain.

His vision darkened. Not from unconsciousness, but from something else. A cold, creeping void curling at the edge of his soul.

Is this what dying feels like?

It was slow. It was cruel. And somewhere in the agony, in the horror, the boy stopped struggling.

Not because he accepted it.

But because he felt something else—beneath the pain, beneath the fear—a weight pulling him away from this world. A whisper in his ear. A name not his own.

A voice that wasn't human, echoing like silk in his skull:

"Little shadow… shall we begin again?"

There was no pain anymore.

Just… silence.

But it wasn't peace. It wasn't light or comfort or the calm he once heard people speak of when they described the afterlife. It was colder than death, thicker than darkness. It was the void—and he was falling through it.

There was no wind, no direction, no end. Only the weightless descent, slow and endless, as if his soul had been plucked from his body and dropped into some vast, unknowable space beyond reality.

The echo of the man's voice was gone. So was the pain. But what remained was worse—the feeling of being watched.

Something was in the void with him.

Something ancient.

Something wrong.

It started as a pressure in the back of his mind. A shivering, alien presence brushing against his consciousness—like a hand trailing down his spine, cold and skeletal. Then the void shifted, the blackness thinning just enough to reveal something massive moving through it.

He couldn't comprehend its shape—not fully. It was not bound by flesh or form. It was a colossal silhouette, a living abyss of writhing tendrils, wings that blotted out the stars, and countless luminous eyes—each one glowing faintly like moons behind a veil of smoke. They stared directly into him, and he felt as though his thoughts were laid bare.

His soul screamed.

There were no words, no voice, no spoken command—yet its presence was overwhelming, ancient beyond mortal years, vast beyond reason. He was nothing here. A flickering candle caught in the breath of a god.

Terror flooded him.

He couldn't breathe—though he had no lungs. He couldn't run—though he had no legs. Every instinct in his being recoiled from the shadow, begged for escape, for retreat, for a return to death if only to hide from this impossible force.

But the being did not devour him.

It simply looked.

And in that gaze, a thousand thoughts were pressed into his mind—not as words, but impressions.

"You are not yet unmade."

"You have wandered far from the coil of flesh."

"You were hunted, broken, discarded… but you are not beyond purpose."

The boy—if he could still be called that—trembled in the presence of the god. His thoughts stammered, fragmented by fear, but one desperate question screamed above the rest:

Why me?

The shadow-being tilted what might have been its head, and he felt something shift—a ripple in the fabric of the void. The being did not answer, not directly. Instead, he saw a flicker of a new world through its eyes: a sky carved by twin moons… a land steeped in divine light and ancient magic… a name whispered by unseen lips.

Lunaria.

The name was not his. Yet he knew it would be.

Suddenly, the void surged around him. The god reached forward—not with hands, but with a wave of overwhelming gravity, folding space around his fragile soul. He was being pulled, forced through a tunnel of shadow and sound, faster and faster, as if being compressed into something smaller than light, something more mortal.

He felt pain again.

But it was different this time—raw, physical, primal. His form was changing. His soul was shrinking, twisting, reshaping to fit a new shell. His thoughts blurred with sensation—pressure, heat, blood, noise.

Then he felt the walls around him—tight, fleshy, wet. A thudding heartbeat pulsed overhead like a distant drum, and his limbs twitched in confusion. He couldn't speak. Couldn't see. Couldn't understand what was happening.

Where am I—what is this—what is—

The world outside grew louder. There were muffled voices, sharp cries, something pushing him, dragging him forward. His small form spasmed, cramped in a place not meant to hold thought. Panic clawed at him again—newborn and unprepared.

He was being born.

His soul screamed again—not from pain, but from the horror of helplessness. He had no power here. No voice. No body that would respond the way he wanted it to. He could only feel—a blinding rush of sensations too large for his mind to handle.

The pressure mounted—his form twisted, squeezed by muscle and instinct. Warm fluid flooded past his face, and his tiny fists clenched. A final push, a suffocating moment where everything tightened to the point of breaking—

And then the world changed.

He was pulled into cold air. Light. Screams. Movement.

His first breath burned.

He didn't even know it was a breath—only that something sharp filled his lungs and forced sound from his throat. A cry—high-pitched, raw, and involuntary. It echoed in the chamber like a curse.

He couldn't stop it.

He was alive again.

The world was cold.

Even swaddled in the remnants of blood and amniotic warmth, the air bit into her newborn skin like winter's breath. A raw cry escaped her lips again—high, broken, panicked. Her tiny chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate gasps.

But through the blur of sound and stinging light, a soft warmth cradled her.

She was lifted—arms, trembling but gentle, pulling her against a warm chest, skin to skin. The scent of iron and old linen clung to the air, but beneath it was something sweeter—milk, warmth, life.

A woman's arms.

Her arms.

Tears slid down her cheeks before she understood why. Instinct. Memory. Pain not her own. The body remembered what the mind could not yet hold.

The woman holding her was weak—her breath uneven, her skin pale and slick with sweat, chest heaving with effort. Strands of damp chestnut hair clung to her face, and her thin shift was soaked red where life had drained from her womb.

But her eyes… her eyes were alight.

Tired, yes. Fading. But bright with something almost divine.

Love.

"You're… so beautiful…" her voice was hoarse, each word a labor. But she smiled as if nothing else in the world existed. "My little moonlight…"

The baby—Lunaria, though she had not yet heard the name—squirmed weakly, eyes fluttering open. The room she saw was small, dusty, lit only by the weak flicker of a dying oil lamp. Cracked stone walls, a weathered cot, discarded linens. No grand banners. No servants. No ceremony.

Just shadows and silence.

"You're the only good thing I've ever done," her mother whispered, voice trembling. "You're… you're everything."

She pressed a kiss to Lunaria's brow—gentle, hesitant, like she feared her touch might harm something so fragile. Tears slid down her cheeks, mixing with sweat and blood.

"I'll name you… Lunaria," she breathed, her voice cracking. "Like the moonflower… delicate but strong… my precious little bloom in the dark."

Lunaria couldn't speak, couldn't understand fully—but she felt it. The name, the warmth, the love in that moment. For a few fleeting heartbeats, her tiny heart knew peace.

But the peace did not last.

The door exploded open.

Wood splintered against stone as heavy boots pounded into the room, and the warmth in her mother's arms turned to ice.

She clutched Lunaria tighter, shielding her bare body with shaking limbs. Her eyes went wide with fear—not surprise. She had known this would come.

"Stay away!" she hissed through bloodstained lips, pulling Lunaria close. "Don't touch her!"

The man who stepped in wore a noble's coat—rich fabric embroidered with gold, though his face was lined with cruelty rather than nobility. The Duke. Lunaria's so-called father.

Behind him came others—a woman with powdered hair and a sneering mouth, a younger man with cold eyes, a girl no older than twelve with a bored, detached stare. The Duke's wife. His legitimate children. His perfect family.

"You damn wench," the Duchess spat. "Still clinging to your bastard brat?"

The Duke said nothing. His eyes—flat and contemptuous—locked on the child in her arms. "That thing is mine, is it?"

"She's mine," the mother snapped, desperate. "You took everything—let me keep her!"

He laughed. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just as though it were a joke told too many times.

"You were a toy," he said. "Nothing more."

And then, without warning, he stepped forward and struck her across the face.

Lunaria wailed.

Her mother crumpled sideways, one arm still cradling her protectively even as blood spilled from her split lip. "Don't… don't hurt her…"

The Duchess rolled her eyes. "Just kill her already."

"Wait," the younger man said, sneering. "Let's have some fun first."

They didn't hesitate.

The Duke kicked her. Ribs cracked beneath his boot. The mother screamed, curling tighter around her baby, but they kept going—blows, kicks, fists, laughter echoing off the stone.

Lunaria screamed and screamed, voice raw from terror. Her mother's hands shook, her body spasming, but still she held her daughter close. Still she whispered, broken and sobbing—

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry, my little moonlight…"

Blood soaked Lunaria's face. Her mother's blood. Her warmth turned slick, her heartbeat slowing beneath the baby's cheek.

Another blow. A cough of blood. A final, gasping breath.

And then her arms went limp.

Her mother… was gone.

Lunaria screamed alone now, held only by a corpse.

The Duke finally stepped forward again. He peeled the child from the cooling body, indifferent to the blood smearing his hands.

"She's mine now," he muttered, as if that meant something.

The others were already leaving, laughter still echoing behind them.

And Lunaria cried into the void once more.