The first rays of dawn barely touched the mist-covered town of Ravenshire, but Celine Smith was already awake. The cold bit at her skin as she pulled her thin shawl around her shoulders, stepping carefully over the creaky wooden floor of the attic she called a room. The space was small, barely enough to fit the rickety bed and a wooden chest where she kept the few belongings she owned. A draft seeped through the cracks in the walls, but she was used to the chill. She had lived this way her entire life.

She moved quickly, knowing that if she lingered too long, her stepmother, Margaret Smith would come storming up to drag her out of bed. Not that she had ever dared to oversleep. Stepping outside, she took a deep breath of the crisp morning air. The well sat a few feet from the house, its stone edges slick with moisture from the mist that clung to the ground. Celine's fingers stung as she gripped the handle, pulling the heavy bucket of water to the surface.

The moment she stepped back into the house, Margaret's sharp voice cut through the silence.

"Took you long enough, you useless girl!"

Celine barely had time to brace herself before the bucket was yanked from her hands. Water sloshed over the sides, spilling onto the floor, but Margaret only sneered at her. The older woman's face was lined with deep-set wrinkles, not from age but from the constant scowl she wore.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Celine murmured, lowering her gaze.

"Don't call me that," Margaret snapped. "You are not my daughter."

Celine swallowed hard. The words shouldn't have hurt anymore, but they did. They always did.

"Get to work," Margaret barked. "Breakfast isn't going to cook itself."

Celine hurried to the kitchen, moving on instinct as she prepared the morning meal. She had done this every day for as long as she could remember. Eggs sizzled in the pan, the scent mixing with the fresh bread she had taken out earlier. She plated everything carefully, setting it on the wooden dining table.

A hand suddenly slapped a plate of eggs onto the floor.

"Did you spit in my food, mutt?"

Celine turned slowly, already knowing who it was.

…

Beatrice Smith sat at the table, her golden curls cascading down her shoulders, a cruel smirk on her lips. She was the only daughter of Margaret and Henry Smith, the one who had always been treated like royalty. Where Celine was forced to wear hand-me-downs and sleep in the attic, Beatrice had silk dresses and a plush room of her own.

"I didn't touch your food," Celine said quietly.

"You should be grateful," Beatrice said, leaning back in her chair. "Mother and Father could have thrown you out years ago. Instead, they let you stay. Like a stray dog."

Celine bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay silent.

"Pick it up," Margaret ordered.

Celine knelt, gathering the mess while Beatrice chuckled. Her hands trembled slightly as she cleaned, but she didn't let them see. She had learned long ago that weakness only made them crueler.

When she finished, she took her meager meal, a stale crust of bread and a cup of water and sat near the hearth. The Smiths ate like a family at the table, chatting as if she wasn't there. She had never been invited to sit with them.

The moment breakfast was over, Margaret thrust a basket into her hands.

"Take this to the market," she ordered. "And don't dawdle."

Celine nodded, gripping the basket tightly as she stepped out onto the dirt path leading into the heart of Ravenshire. The town was waking up, smoke curling from chimneys, merchants setting up their stalls. It was peaceful in a way, but Celine knew better than to let her guard down.

She moved quickly, avoiding eye contact, but the whispers still found her.

"That's the orphan girl."

"Not even a real Smith."

"I heard she was cursed at birth."

She kept walking, forcing her breathing to stay steady. It had always been this way. The people of Ravenshire never let her forget that she didn't belong.

Before she could reach the bakery stall, a rough hand grabbed her basket.

"Look who it is, the little stray!"

Celine stiffened.

Edgar Turner.

He was the butcher's son, broad-shouldered and always looking for trouble. His friends stood beside him, all grinning like they had just found their morning entertainment.

"Where do you think you're going?" Edgar smirked, tugging at the basket.

"Please," Celine said quietly, "I just need to deliver this."

"Why should we let you?" He shoved her back slightly, just enough to make her stumble. His friends laughed.

Celine clenched her jaw, gripping the basket tighter.

Something flickered inside her. A flash of heat, like fire licking at her veins.

Then, for a split second, she heard it.

The thud-thud-thud of their heartbeats.

They were loud, unsteady. Uncertain.

She could smell them. Their sweat. The faintest scent of nervousness beneath their bravado.

She sucked in a sharp breath, heart racing.

Then it was gone.

Edgar shoved her one last time, sending her sprawling into the dirt. The basket tipped over, bread rolling onto the ground.

"Know your place, orphan," he sneered before walking off.

Celine sat there for a moment, dust clinging to her hands. Her heart was still pounding, not from fear, but from something else.

What had just happened?

…

That night, she lay awake in the attic, staring at the wooden beams above her. Her body felt strange, her skin tingling as if something inside her was waking up. She had felt it earlier, something raw, something not human.

When sleep finally took her, she was no longer in Ravenshire.

She was standing in a dense forest, the moonlight filtering through the trees. A cold wind whispered through the branches, but she wasn't afraid.

Then, she saw them.

Eyes.

Glowing gold, burning through the shadows.

A shiver ran down her spine as a figure stepped forward. He was tall, impossibly so, with an air of power that made her breath hitch. She couldn't see his face, but she felt his presence like a weight pressing down on her soul.

"Mine."

The word was barely a whisper, yet it sent a shock through her body.

She tried to move, but she was frozen in place.

The golden-eyed stranger took another step, his presence overwhelming.

"You don't know who you are yet," he said, his voice deep, rough. "But you will. And when you do, there will be no escape."

He reached for her.

The moment his fingers brushed her skin, fire erupted through her veins.

Celine woke with a gasp, her chest heaving.

Her room was dark, the familiar attic ceiling above her. But she could still feel it, his touch, his presence.

She curled her fingers into the sheets, her skin still tingling.

Who was he?