Tall ethereal with skin as dark as panther’s coat she moves with an unknown grace. No memory of who she is or where she is from. Regal with a glare that silences any dissent. Adam found her alone and unconscious in the woods while he was on patrol and brought her home. Nothing much exciting happens in this sleepy town so her arrival and exotic appearance is the subject of everyone’s attention. She only has one memory and that told her the thing she holds close. Whoever she is, she’s dangerous. Adam has two daughters, Marcella who is 18 and Aramina who is 24.

Chapter 2: The First Remembering

The hearth fire had dwindled to embers, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to grasp at the corners of Martierre’s cottage. Adam jerked awake in the armchair, knife cold in his lap. Not from the dying fire’s chill, but from the sound tearing from the settle.

Nyx thrashed. Not sleep, but seizure. Her back arched impossibly, limbs striking the quilts with jarring force. A low, guttural moan vibrated in her chest, escalating into a choked scream, raw and scraping. Her eyes were wide open, unseeing, fixed on the smoke-blackened rafters, reflecting the embers’ glow like trapped coals. Sweat beaded her obsidian skin, slick as oil.

"Stone…" The word ripped from her, ragged. "Cold… enduring…"

Adam was beside her in an instant, dropping the knife, hands hovering uselessly. "Nyx? Hey! Wake up!"

She didn’t hear him. Her head whipped side to side, coils of hair lashing like midnight serpents. Her fingers clawed at the air, grappling with phantoms. "The pillars… hold… remember…" Her voice fractured, dropping to a hiss. "The binding… shatters!"

Her hand shot out, catching Adam’s forearm as he reached to steady her shoulder. He gasped. Her skin wasn’t fever-hot. It scorched. Like touching metal left in a forge. He instinctively tried to pull back, but her grip was iron, locking him in place, branding him. Pain lanced up his arm, sharp and deep.

"Let go! Nyx!" He gritted his teeth against the burning, trying to pry her fingers loose. Her strength was terrifying, inhuman. She convulsed again, throwing him partially on top of her in the narrow space. Her breath hissed against his ear, smelling of ozone and scorched copper.

"K'azra imar ishtanu!" The words exploded from her throat, guttural, ancient, harsh syllables that seemed to resonate in Adam’s bones. Dead language. Dust and crumbling temples clung to the sound.

The bedroom door burst open, flooding the dim room with a wedge of lamplight. Marcella stood frozen in the doorway, amber-green eyes wide with shock, hand clapped over her mouth. Behind her, Aramina, older, sharper-featured, peered over her sister’s shoulder, eyes narrowed instantly with suspicion and alarm. "Papa? What’s happening? Who is she?"

"Ma! Help!" Adam gasped, still pinned, his arm screaming where Nyx held him. Her eyes, wide and sightless, blazed with internal fire, fixed on horrors only she could see. "She’s burning!"

Martierre appeared behind her granddaughters, shooing them aside with surprising calm. Her gaze swept the scene – Adam trapped, Nyx possessed by memory-turned-nightmare, the arcane words still echoing faintly. She didn’t flinch at the heat radiating from Nyx, though Adam saw her nostrils flare as she caught the scent – ozone, copper, and now, faintly, temple dust.

"Peace, child," Martierre murmured, her voice low but cutting through the chaos like a blade. She didn’t reach for Nyx. Instead, she moved to the hearth, grabbed a handful of fine ash from the cold edge, and blew it gently towards the thrashing woman. The grey particles swirled in the air, catching the faint light. "The binding is broken. The stone sleeps. You are here."

Nyx’s rigid body shuddered violently once, twice. A final, wrenching gasp tore from her lungs. Her eyes rolled back, the fierce internal light snuffing out. Her grip on Adam’s arm went slack, limp. She collapsed back onto the quilts, utterly still, breathing ragged but shallow. Normal. Her skin was merely warm now, the terrifying heat vanished as quickly as it came.

Silence crashed back into the cottage, thick and heavy, broken only by Nyx’s labored breathing and Adam’s own harsh gasp as he stumbled back, cradling his forearm. The skin was an angry, mottled red, already darkening into the distinct shape of long, elegant fingers.

Marcella rushed forward, her untamed curls bouncing. "Papa! Are you hurt? What was that?" Her gaze darted between Adam’s arm and Nyx’s still form, fascination warring with fear.

Aramina lingered near the door, arms crossed. Her voice was a cold blade. "Dangerous. She spoke the Old Tongue. Nothing good speaks that."

Martierre ignored them, her focus entirely on Nyx. She dipped a cloth in the cool water bucket beside the hearth and gently pressed it to the woman’s forehead. Nyx didn’t stir. "Not just the tongue, Aramina," Martierre said softly, her eyes tracing the faint, fading scent of ancient places clinging to Nyx’s skin. "That was the dust of a fallen god’s house she brought with her." She looked at Adam’s branded arm, then back to the unconscious woman. "The Oath Keeper wasn’t just watching the woods, son. It was watching her wake."