"Happy birthday!"
The collective shout shattered the quiet elegance of the late-night hour. It was eleven o'clock. Inside the sprawling luxury villa, Petra Marlowe stood with her hands clasped to her chest, a radiant, breathless smile gracing her delicate features. Above her, a massive crystal chandelier hung like a frozen waterfall, its brilliant cascade of light painting her in a heavenly glow. Beside her, Victor Marlowe watched with a soft, adoring smile. Though he stood barely over five feet seven inches, his commanding presence left no doubt as to why he was the most powerful man in Northridge City. Today was his greatest treasure’s eighteenth birthday.
Around them, some twenty-odd guests—a mix of Victor's lifelong associates and Petra's closest classmates—chattered happily.
"You look absolutely stunning, Petra!"
"As if she doesn't look stunning every day."
"Honestly, did you see Felix Grayson's face earlier? The guy is practically drooling. Who knew the school's most untouchable guy could look so lovesick?"
"Only for Petra! He doesn't even look at the rest of us."
Petra's cheeks flushed crimson at the mention of the name.
"Why isn't Felix here anyway?" one of the girls teased, nudging her shoulder. "He only has eyes for you, but we'd at least like some eye candy."
"It's just a small family gathering," Petra murmured, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I didn't want to trouble him."
"Trouble him? He's a Lampbearer. The dark doesn't scare him."
Their hushed giggles caught Victor's attention. "What's the secret, girls?" he asked, stepping over with a warm, indulgent grin. "Mind if I join the conversation?"
The classmates quieted down, suddenly conscious of the formidable mayor's presence.
"Petra, who is this Felix Grayson?" Victor asked, his eyes twinkling with gentle curiosity. "You've never mentioned him to me."
"He's... just a friend," Petra whispered, her blush deepening.
"A friend?" Victor raised an amused eyebrow. "They mentioned he's a Lampbearer. I didn't realize your academy housed such exceptional talent."
"Oh, Felix is incredible," one of the girls blurted out, eager to share the gossip. "They say his grandfather is a major figure in Dawnspire—"
BOOM.
A massive detonation ripped through the night outside. The floorboards groaned, and the heavy crystal chandelier overhead rattled violently, its glass droplets clashing like tiny swords. Laughter died instantly. Every eye in the room darted toward the high glass windows.
"Victor, what was that?" a business associate asked, his voice tight.
Victor's smile vanished, replaced by an uneasy frown.
A few hundred yards away, perched on the precipice of a six-story roof, a young man in his early twenties sat dangling his legs over the edge. Had Ethan Kane been there, he would have recognized him instantly—the same silent watcher who had urged him to get to work during his first terrifying night in the fields.
Behind the man, a single, half-meter Glowrig thrummed, casting a faint, amber dome that barely kept the oppressive dark at bay. He held a pair of military-grade binoculars to his eyes, a thin wire running from his ear to a tactical receiver. Through the lenses, the brilliantly lit Marlowe villa stood out like a solitary jewel in a sea of ink.
"Begin," he whispered into the mic.
Back in the muddy trenches of the Nightharvest, Ethan was forced to accept a terrifying reality: Warren Calloway truly couldn't see the dimensional ripple.
He desperately wanted to ask the Duskwardens if they could see it, but the urge died in his throat. The wardens' primary rule was absolute: Do not seek the unknown. Besides, if even the wardens were blind to it, it meant something was fundamentally wrong with him. The oily, freezing weight of the Voidseep that had pooled in his hand was proof enough. Until he understood what he was turning into, he had to keep his mouth shut.
"Kane, you piece of shit," Warren hissed, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and raw fear. "If you try to spook me like that again, I'll carve you up the second this shift ends."
The dark did strange things to men, and the thought of Ethan seeing things he couldn't was driving him mad.
"My eyes played tricks on me," Ethan lied, forcing his voice to remain steady as he rubbed his temples. "I didn't sleep off yesterday's shift. Exhaustion."
"You bastard..." Warren raised a heavy, dirt-caked fist, but a glance toward the nearby Duskwarden made him lower it. Unlike his hot-headed brother, Hayes, Warren possessed a shred of restraint. Still, Ethan's "hallucination" had rattled him to his core.
Ethan returned to his task, staring down at the shallow pit he had dug, waiting for the sluggish, metallic sheen of Inkslag to slowly seep from the fractured stone. It gave him time to think. First, the shimmering tear in the dark. Then, the feverish dream of it burrowing into his flesh. And finally, the manifestation of the Voidseep in his palm. Was he unique? He had no one to ask. Flint Voss might have answers, but trust was a luxury Ethan couldn't afford.
And then there were the Duskwardens. They weren't trained soldiers; they were born different. Inheritors of bloodlines and gifts that gutter rats like Ethan could never fathom. Was his transformation something similar? Could he... actually become one of them? For a fleeting second, his heart hammered with desperate hope. To wear those pristine white robes, to walk with authority, to escape the filth of the slums forever...
He looked down at his raw, calloused hands, caked in wet clay and scarred by years of scraping by. Then he looked at the silent, majestic figures of the Duskwardens guarding the perimeter. A self-deprecating smile touched his lips. A rat in the mud dreaming of the heavens. Survival was his only currency.
"What the hell are you smiling at now?" Warren growled, watching him with growing unease. He was seriously starting to wonder if his partner was losing his mind.
Ethan kept the bitter smile on his face. "Just thinking about the hot meal I'm buying tomorrow."
Indeed, survival came first. And surviving meant putting this bastard in the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ethan noticed Flint Voss. The veteran wasn't digging. The Duskwardens didn't seem to care, either; a man with Flint's connections and experience always enjoyed certain privileges. Flint stood at the absolute edge of the ward's light, casually lighting a cigarette. He took a long drag, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke into the pitch-black abyss.
"Happy birthday, princess," Flint murmured to the dark.
Around the Marlowe estate, four massive Glowrigs stood anchored at the corners of the property, creating a flawless square of protective light. But outside that boundary, the dark began to warp. A stone archway, two meters tall and wide, materialized out of the shadows. Inside the frame, a corridor of strange, golden light shimmered.
A figure stepped through the portal, crossing into the estate's courtyard. Three others followed.
"Fuck me, talk about a waste," a stocky, bald man muttered, staring at the high-output Glowrigs and the brilliant chandelier visible through the villa's glass facade. The sheer volume of Lumcores burning away here in a single night could have kept Ethan's entire slum block lit for a year.
"When you're the mayor, you can afford to burn gold," their leader replied.
Like his companions, he wore a featureless, pristine white mask. But his attire was that of a high-society gentleman: a tailored black tailcoat, polished leather boots, and spotless white gloves. He adjusted his silk bow tie, walked up to the heavy mahogany doors, and rapped his knuckles against the wood.
"My Lord Mayor," his smooth, theatrical voice cut through the heavy silence of the villa. "I hear you're celebrating your daughter's milestone. It felt terribly impolite not to offer our blessings."
Inside, the silence was suffocating. Petra's classmates huddled together. "Is it Felix?" one whispered.
But Victor Marlowe's face had gone entirely bloodless. That mocking, honeyed tone did not belong to a Lampbearer.
"Who is out there?" Victor demanded.
"A nobody, really," the voice purred from the other side of the oak. "Just a few travelers of the night."
Victor's breath hitched. He stared at his daughter, the name escaping his lips in a horrified whisper: "The Nightbound..."
Midnight.
Ethan was still lost in his thoughts when a voice drifted from behind him. "Kept you waiting, didn't I, kid?"
Ethan spun around to find Flint Voss smiling down at him, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his lips.
Warren Calloway instantly bristled, his eyes darting between the two. "You two are a pair?"
A deep, paranoid dread flared in his chest. This was his first harvest, and he had been constantly on guard against Ethan. But Ethan was a novice too; there was no way he could have made friends here. Yet, Flint's familiar tone was undeniable.
Ethan remained silent, unsure of what Flint was playing at.
"I asked you a question, you little shit!" Warren roared, shoving Ethan hard. Ethan tumbled into the cold mud.
Flint didn't even look at Warren. He just gave a lazy flick of his finger in his direction. "Don't sweat it, kid. He won't survive the night anyway."
Warren's mind clicked. The threat was plain as day. "You set me up, you bastards?!" He threw his weight onto Ethan, pinning him to the earth and raising a massive, dirt-caked fist. But before he could strike, he caught sight of the nearby Duskwarden turning to look at them.
Warren's jaw clenched so hard his teeth groaned. He leaned down, his breath hot against Ethan's ear. "The second we get back to the city, I'm going straight to your squat. I'll snap the necks of those two little runts myself."
Ethan's chest tightened. Chloe. Ryan. The threat was real, and it was toxic.
But Flint merely chuckled. He turned on his heel and walked straight toward the Duskwardens. With a servile, practiced hunch of his shoulders, he leaned in and began whispering to the guard. Within a minute, Flint turned back and flashed Ethan a sharp wink.
One of the Duskwardens stood up.
The heavy, iron-plated pistol on his thigh was unholstered with a terrifyingly clean click.
Warren's bravado shattered. He scrambled off Ethan, throwing his hands in the air as he backed away in the mud. "No! Wait! I wasn't fighting! I didn't break any rules, officer—"
"Disruption of the harvest," the Duskwarden's voice was a flat, lifeless drone. "The penalty is death."
CRACK.
The gunshot tore through the quiet fields. A dark, smoking hole opened perfectly between Warren's eyes, and a spray of hot, thick crimson painted the left side of Ethan's face. Warren's body collapsed into the mire like a sack of wet sand, his lifeless, glassy eyes staring directly into Ethan's.
Ethan lay paralyzed, his breath caught in his throat.
In the distance, Flint Voss stood beside the silent Duskwardens. Catching Ethan's horrified, wide-eyed gaze, the veteran flashed a broad, yellow-toothed grin, raised two fingers in a cheerful peace sign, and gave him a playful nod.