Chapter 2 The glow between

The morning sunlight cut through the gauzy curtains in soft amber ribbons, illuminating Amaré's bedroom in a quiet, sacred hush. Her windows faced east-always east-where the sun first touched earth, and every dawn she knelt there, whispering her morning prayers. By the time the city stirred, her soul was already aligned.

Amaré stood barefoot on polished wood, buttoning her royal blue blazer with quiet precision. The gold crest over her heart shimmered faintly, stitched in ancient thread that almost hummed under certain light. Her pleated skirt fell just above her knees-deep red trimmed in golden stripes. Her tie was tucked neatly, heels adding an inch or two to her already poised posture.

She never slouched. Her walk was deliberate. Like royalty. Or prophecy.

Downstairs, Aaliya was chaos incarnate-laughing through a mouthful of toast, one gold hoop already missing, her blazer tied around her waist. Her uniform had the same school colors, but everything about her wore it louder: tie loose, skirt a little too high, socks patterned with little flames.

"Amaré! Your rooibos is getting cold!" she yelled, as if Amaré wasn't five steps away.

Amaré entered the kitchen with a soft click of heels. "That's because you brewed it wrong."

"Girl, it's tea. Not a ritual sacrifice."

"For me, it is."

They locked eyes, then burst out laughing in perfect harmony. Amaré always had the driest comebacks, and Aaliya always made them feel like punchlines to a private joke the world didn't know.

When they stepped outside, the sun caught their uniforms just right-deep blues and reds glowing like royal banners. Neighbors nodded at them. Everyone knew the cousins by their walk. Aaliya bounced like rhythm; Amaré glided like time.

At school, the gates were buzzing-students everywhere, streaming in. Zehn and Zayd, the church twins, were already leaning on the fence, trading commentary about the weekend's pickup game. Zehn had a new nose piercing-Aaliya's doing, bold and clean. Zayd had a fade so sharp it looked sculpted-Amaré's touch.

"Ah, the holy duo's arrived," Zehn said with a grin, bumping fists with Aaliya.

Zayd saluted Amaré with a half-smile. "Therapist, preacher, hairstylist, miracle worker... Anything else we should add to your résumé?"

"Don't forget lash tech," Amaré said, eyes steady. "You're due for a touch-up too, Zayd."

He clutched his chest dramatically. "Let me breathe!"

"Book an appointment then," she said smoothly.

Inside the school gates, the four of them were a presence. They weren't just known-they were recognized. Amaré and Aaliya were more than popular. They were familiar. Trusted. Needed.

Aaliya knew everyone's name, story, zodiac, and crush history. She moved like a party walking. If you'd been to her for a belly ring, a tattoo, or just good gossip, she'd remember it-and give you a wink that made you feel like the main character.

Amaré, on the other hand, was the one you cried in front of without meaning to. She did nails, brows, braids, and quiet emotional surgery-the kind that left people lighter without knowing what they left behind. Her hands didn't just style; they healed.

"Yo Amaré-your lace game is illegal," someone called from a stairwell.

"Amaré, I need help with my Psych essay," another whispered, eyes full of unshed tears.

A girl passed by with swollen eyes and Amaré simply touched her elbow. No words. The girl nodded like something had just shifted.

Aaliya leaned closer as they walked. "You're out here realigning people's chakras by breathing near them."

"You're out here piercing people's navels during sleepovers," Amaré murmured back.

Together, they laughed.

In class, they didn't need to try. Tests were instinct. Answers came like muscle memory. Even the teachers had stopped looking surprised. Their marks were always perfect or nearly. It wasn't arrogance-it was alignment. Like they were tuned to something others couldn't hear.

By third period, they were tucked under the tree near the basketball court-Aaliya sketching a tattoo on her math workbook, Amaré flipping through a book on dream-threads.

"You feel it?" Aaliya asked suddenly.

Amaré closed the book. "Yes. The mark is quiet. But not asleep."

"They're watching," Aaliya said. "Not the students. The others. The ones who know."

Amaré glanced down at the sigil on her wrist. It hadn't burned yet-but in her dreams last night, it had flickered silver and flame. Not a warning. A promise.

She looked at Aaliya.

"We should find the others soon. The ones with marks like ours."

"They'll find us," Aaliya replied. "They always do."