The rain came down in sheets, slicing across the cracked windshield of the last bus pulling into Blackthorn Station. The driver, a skeletal man with hollow eyes, barely glanced at the lone passenger stepping off. He slammed the door shut, gears grinding as the bus groaned and rumbled back into the night.

Elian adjusted the hood of his coat, the fabric heavy with rain. For a moment, he simply stood there—silhouetted beneath the flickering streetlamp, his breath fogging into the cold autumn air.

Blackthorn was smaller than he remembered. Or maybe the years had simply peeled away any illusions of grandeur. Rows of dark brick buildings lined the street like watchful sentries. Storefronts were shuttered; neon signs buzzed and glitched. The kind of town people passed through but never stayed.

Perfect.

He dragged his duffel behind him, boots crunching over gravel, and made his way toward the only building with lights still burning: The Hollow Oak Inn. A bell chimed as he pushed open the door.

"Evening," said the woman behind the front desk. She looked to be in her early forties, with sharp cheekbones and pale gray eyes that watched him a bit too carefully.

"Room for one," Elian said, voice low.

Her name tag read Marla. She hesitated just a beat before sliding the guestbook across. "Passing through?"

"Something like that."

The pen scratched as he signed a name—though not his own. He never used his real name. Not anymore.

Marla handed him a rusted key. “Second floor. Room seven.”

He nodded, taking the key, but he felt it immediately—the faint tremor beneath his fingertips as their hands brushed. The energy in her was low, but undeniable.

A witch. Low-tier, untrained.

He said nothing.

Blackthorn wasn't on any map for good reason. It sat on the edge of old ley lines — fault lines of power that stretched like invisible roots across the world. Places like this drew all kinds: witches, warlocks, seers, those with gifts they didn't understand—or those who abused them.

Elian climbed the narrow staircase, aware of the creaking steps beneath his weight. The hallway was dim, wallpaper peeling like sunburned skin. The number seven was barely visible on the door.

Inside, the room was simple. One bed. One desk. One window.

He dropped the duffel onto the mattress and pulled out the contents: an old leather-bound book, bound with a lock that required no key; a slender blade wrapped in cloth; and a vial of something black and shifting.

His phone buzzed. A message flashed on the screen.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:
“You shouldn’t have come back.”

Elian’s jaw clenched. They knew. Already.

He powered the phone off, removing the SIM entirely. Tossed both into the metal waste bin and lit a match. The faint chemical stench of melting plastic filled the air.

Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle. Thunder growled somewhere distant.

He approached the window and pulled aside the curtain. Across the street, under the dull glow of another failing streetlight, stood a figure. Still. Watching.

Not human.

Elian recognized the aura immediately: faint gold laced with threads of oily black. A Lesser Shade—an early scout.

"So it begins," he muttered.

He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a slow breath. The power inside him stirred—a dormant storm he'd kept leashed for years. The temptation to unleash it was always there, humming under his skin like electricity before a lightning strike.

But not yet.

A knock came at the door. Soft. Polite.

He grabbed the blade, the cloth falling away to reveal silver etched with old runes. Quietly, he moved to the door.

"Who is it?" His voice was steady.

"It's Marla." A pause. "I… just thought you might want some tea. Cold night."

She wasn’t lying. At least not fully.

Elian cracked the door, watching her eyes flick to the blade before she masked her surprise.

“Thanks,” he said, not taking the tray she offered. “But I don’t drink tea.”

Another beat of silence stretched between them.

“You should leave town,” she whispered. “Before the others arrive.”

He studied her. She was frightened, but not for herself.

“For someone you just met, you seem oddly concerned.”

Marla's lips parted as though to explain, but then she stiffened. Her eyes darted over his shoulder.

Elian spun, blade at the ready—just as the window exploded inward, showering glass across the room. The Lesser Shade slipped through like smoke, forming into something vaguely human: hollow eyes, gaping mouth, arms that stretched unnaturally long.

Elian didn't hesitate.

The blade sang as it cut through the creature’s arm, black ichor splattering the walls. The Shade shrieked, withdrawing, but Elian moved with practiced precision—drawing a sigil in the air with his free hand.

Symbols burned briefly, pulsing gold.

The Shade convulsed, screeched one last time, and imploded—leaving only a stain of black mist that dissipated into nothing.

Marla stared, wide-eyed.

"You—you're one of them," she whispered.

Elian turned to face her, his eyes dark. "No. I'm not."

He stepped closer. "But they're coming. And next time, it won't be a scout."

Marla’s voice trembled. "Then why are you here?"

Elian’s expression hardened.

"Because I’m done running."