On a stormy night, January 2nd, ten years after her death, Amara Voss claws her way out of a shallow grave.
The wind howled like a wounded beast, clawing through the skeletal trees that bordered the forgotten cemetery. Rain pelted the earth, heavy and cold, sinking into the cracked ground. Thunder rolled across the sky, echoing through the hills as if the heavens themselves disapproved of what was happening beneath the soil.
Then, the earth stirred.
A pale, trembling hand shot up through the grave dirt, fingers curling, grasping. Nails split and bled as it clawed toward air. Moments later, another hand broke free. Then came a gasp, sharp, raw, desperate, as Amara Voss dragged herself out of the shallow grave.
Mud clung to her skin. Her body shook, soaked through by the rain, smeared with the wet soil of the dead. Every breath burned her lungs. She coughed violently, hacking up dirt and blood. Her fingers gripped the edges of the earth like a newborn desperate to be born. Her spine arched in agony as the final snap of returning magic fused her soul back to flesh.
She screamed.
It was a scream torn from the soul, a sound that didn't belong in the world of the living. It echoed through the trees, rattling the ravens from their perch. Her eyes shot open.
Darkness.
She was surrounded by it. The sky above was black, save for the occasional flash of lightning that split the world open in cold white light. Her mouth trembled. Her skin was grey, clammy, and clung to her bones like she had not yet fully formed.
Her body felt... wrong.
Her fingers flexed again. Her heart thudded in her chest, slow and heavy, like an echo returning from far away.
She wasn't fully human anymore.
And she knew it.
"Breathe, Amara," came a sharp, raspy voice from somewhere above.
Amara turned her head, blinking rain from her lashes.
There, standing just beside the open grave, was a woman in black. Her figure was skeletal, wrapped in soaked rags and a cloak heavy with old magic. Her eyes glowed faintly with power. Her face was thin and worn, with deep lines carved by fury and time. Her lips were pulled tight with bitterness.
"Who..." Amara rasped, coughing again. Her voice was barely there. "Who are you?"
The woman stepped closer, kneeling by the grave. Her breath steamed in the cold night air.
"My name is Dora," she said. Her voice was low, sharp, bitter. "And I am the reason you're alive. Again."
Amara pushed herself up on trembling elbows. Her body groaned in protest. The dirt clung to her like chains.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why did you bring me back?"
Dora's eyes darkened.
She replied slowly, "Because you were murdered. Because you were used. Sacrificed for generational wealth and power by Magnus Blackthorne. And he still walks free."
Amara's breath hitched. A flash of memory flared, a burning room, screaming, her belly heavy with life. A man's voice. Then darkness.
"I don't... I can't remember," she murmured.
"You will," Dora said. "But there is no time to wait. Listen to me, Amara Voss. The spell I used to bring you back is called 'The Womb of Return'. It's bound to a curse."
Amara stared at her, mud dripping from her chin. Her teeth began to chatter.
"What curse?"
Dora's jaw tightened. Her thin hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"You must destroy Magnus Blackthorne, his name, his empire, everything he built in blood. All of it must fall before December 28th… your original birthday."
Amara stared at her, wide-eyed, heart pounding.
Dora's voice turned cold, almost hollow.
"You were reborn tonight, January 2nd. That gives you eleven months, until the end of the year."
She stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with something dark and final.
"If you fail to burn his legacy to the ground, the curse will consume you, and everything tied to his bloodline. Your lover. Your twins. Everything will be gone."
Amara flinched. "Twins?"
Her hand instinctively touched her stomach. Flat. Cold.
"What do you mean, twins?"
Dora didn't answer. Instead, she stood and turned away, her voice low and burning.
"Magnus stole from us both. He lied, used our love, and destroyed everything. He left me for dead. And he offered you as a sacrifice.
"You were burned in a fire as part of the ritual sacrifice. You want revenge? Take it. The curse wants what you want."
Amara sat still, the rain pouring over her head. Her dark hair plastered to her face. Her breath came in sharp, trembling gasps.
Revenge.
She didn't come back for love. Not for hope. But to make Magnus Blackthorne pay.
The name sent a hot sting down her spine.
The last thing she remembered clearly before death... was his voice.
"I want to kill him," Amara said softly, her voice growing stronger. "Not just him. Everything he touched."
Dora turned back. Her eyes burned like dying coals.
"Then we understand each other."
The silence that followed was filled with thunder. Amara stood on wobbly legs, covered in grave dirt, her limbs aching as if the earth still clung to her. Her eyes locked with Dora's.
"Where do I begin?"
Dora gave a thin smile that held no joy.
"With the man who inherited Magnus' legacy, his son, your lover. Billionaire CEO Elias Blackthorne."
At the sound of his name, something shifted in Amara's chest. It was a warm and sharp pain. A memory tried to surface, his touch, his lips, fire, betrayal.
She shook her head. She couldn't afford to feel. Not now.
Dora took a step back, her hands glowing faintly with magic.
"Come. I'll give you shelter. Food. Clothes. We have work to do. And you'll need your strength."
Amara looked at the grave one last time. Her shallow grave. The place where they had left her to rot.
She whispered to it, almost to herself.
"I came back to burn you all."
Then, without another word, she followed Dora into the night.
Behind her, the storm raged louder.
And beneath the soil, the curse stirred.