I was never supposed to be special. That’s what Grandma Liza told me every night before she died. We lived in a one-room apartment above her diner in East Ward. The walls smelled like grease and cinnamon. She’d tuck me in on the couch and say, “Zara, keep your head down. Ordinary girls don’t get noticed. And girls who don’t get noticed live long.” I believed her. For 18 years I believed her. My name is Zara Okafor. I’m 18. I have 2 jobs, $43 in my bank account, and a crippling fear of being late. I’m not pretty in the way girls in magazines are. My hair is always in a bun because I don’t have time. I have burn scars on my forearms from the fryer. I’m the girl who remembers your order and forgets to eat herself. Ordinary. That was the goal. My 18th birthday was a Tuesday. No party. No cake. Just the usual: 5 AM shift at Liza’s Diner, then 3 PM to 11 PM at the laundromat downtown. At 11:47 PM I was alone, scrubbing coffee stains off the counter. The diner was closed. Rain hit the windows. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. `Happy Birthday, Zara.` Weird. I deleted it. Spam. That’s when my wrist started burning. It was my left wrist. Right where Grandma used to tie a red string to “ward off bad spirits.” The skin went hot. Like I’d pressed it to a stove. “Ow, ow, ow—” I dropped the rag and held my wrist. There was nothing there. Then there was. Gold light bled through my skin. A line appeared. Then another. Then a circle. The pain was so sharp I fell to my knees. The mark burned itself into me: a perfect circle, with 3 lines cutting straight through it. Like a target. Like a seal. The lights flickered. The fryer behind me hissed and died. All the power in the diner cut out. Outside, the rain stopped. That was wrong. It was pouring 2 seconds ago. I crawled to the window. The sky wasn’t black anymore. It was purple. And it was cracking. Not clouds. Cracks. Like glass. And through the cracks, light poured out. White, gold light. And voices. Thousands of voices, all speaking at once, but somehow I heard every word: *“Zara Okafor. Blood of the old line. The seal is broken. The Chosen One has awakened. The 1000-year curse begins again.”* I blacked out. When I woke up, it was morning. 6:03 AM. Sun was up. Sky was normal. My wrist hurt like hell. The mark was still there. But it wasn’t glowing. It looked like a gold tattoo. It was warm. Auntie Nia found me on the floor. She screamed. I tried to hide my wrist with my sleeve. “Babe, what happened? Did you fall?” “I’m fine,” I lied. “Just fainted. Low blood sugar.” She made me pancakes. I couldn’t eat. My wrist wouldn’t stop buzzing. At 7:15 AM, the bell above the diner door chimed. Two men walked in. Black coats. Black sunglasses. Even though it was raining again. The taller one looked at me. Right at my wrist, even though it was covered. “Zara Okafor,” he said. “Come with us. Now. Or this city burns by midnight.” Auntie Nia stood in front of me with a spatula. “Who are you? Get out of my diner.” The shorter man held up a badge. Royal Guard. I’d only seen that on TV. “We’re here for the Chosen One. Stand aside, ma’am.” My blood went cold. Chosen One? Me? I looked at Auntie. She was 52 and had raised me since Grandma died. She had arthritis and worked 12-hour shifts. She didn’t deserve this. “Don’t,” I whispered. The tall man stepped closer. “Miss Okafor. You have a mark. We can feel it