Empyreal, Book 1

Chapter 1

Sarah's sanctuary was a dimly lit room filled with the faint scent of vanilla from the candle burning on her nightstand. She lay strewn across her bed, cocooned in a nest of soft blankets, her long, straight chestnut strands cascading over a plump pillow as she turned another page. The glow of her reading lamp caught the hints of amber in her eyes, making them flicker like twin flames against the backdrop of an engrossing novel. "Just one more chapter," she murmured to herself, although the clock on her wall had long since chided midnight. Her voice was a whisper lost amidst the silence of the house—a silent pact between her and the world that she was alone but not lonely, accompanied solely by the universe within her book.

The pages before her danced with mysteries untold, pulling her further into its depths when a sudden noise from outside her window sliced through the stillness of her room. It was a subtle scratching, like the hesitant steps of a nocturnal creature or the caress of branches against the glass pane on a windless night. "Wh-what was that?" she stammered under her breath, her heartbeat accelerating to match the rhythm of her rising unease.

Sarah's hand hesitated mid-page turn, her body tensing as she strained her ears for any repetition of the sound. She sat up slowly, the book now a forgotten sentinel in her lap, its characters suspended in time as she focused on the world beyond her walls. "It's nothing," she tried to convince herself, the mantra repeated in her head like a soothing balm. Yet, she couldn't shake off the cloak of dread that settled around her shoulders, heavy and uninvited.

"Probably just the wind," she whispered again, a brittle laugh escaping her lips in an attempt to feign bravado. But the trees outside were statuesque in the moonlight, their leaves unmoving and the night air as still as the space between breaths. The silence that followed was oppressive, her own breathing now a loud companion in the room. And though she longed to return to the comfort of her literary escape, Sarah knew that the story's grip had loosened, leaving her mind to wander the shadowy corners of what could be lurking just beyond her view.

Sarah rose, her limbs stiff from the tension that had coiled within her. The scent of aged paper trailed her as she moved; a tangible reminder of the interrupted tale left sprawled upon her bed. Her doe-like amber eyes, usually warm and inviting like sunlit honey, now mirrored the sharp edge of suspicion. "Come on, Sarah," she murmured to herself, padding softly across the room. "You read about heroines facing down monsters all the time."

The floorboards underfoot creaked a small protest, as if warning her of the threshold she was about to cross from the known to the unknown. She reached the window, her breath fogging the glass as she peered into the darkness outside. Nothing but the inky night greeted her, an abyss devoid of stars. "Nothing. There's absolutely nothing there," she breathed out, more to convince herself than to inform the silence.

Her heart still drummed a wild rhythm, refusing to yield to the evidence of her eyes. Frustration nibbled at her resolve; her love for plot twists and mysteries now seemed like a cruel joke. A faint smell began to seep into the room, an uninvited guest slipping through the cracks of her sanctuary. It was subtle at first, a mere suggestion of something other—a smoky whisper that entwined with the woody essence of cedar. "Who's there?" Her voice was louder this time, a firm note cutting through the haze of fear. But only the echo of her own words returned to her, bouncing off the walls lined with bookshelves, their spines standing sentinel. "Okay, focus, Sarah. Think." She pressed a palm against the cool surface of the window, grounding herself in the reality of solid matter.

The familiar scent of tobacco, it was out of place—her father had quit smoking years ago, and the lingering aroma should have long since been exorcized from the house. "This isn't one of your novels," she chided herself quietly, turning away from the window with a shiver that wasn't entirely from the cold. "It's probably just Mr. Jenkins next door enjoying a late-night smoke in his yard. That has to be it."