THE THRESHOLD
Since the beginning of time, balance has been necessary. Not only in the human world. But among supernatural beings, too.
Balance is what keeps existence from collapsing into itself. But balance does not sustain itself. It requires a keeper. The balance has a keeper. And the keeper is called the Threshold.
More accurately—
I am the Threshold.
I am the axis between realms. The line that separates what must not merge. I do not rule the supernatural, yet all of them exist under the order I maintain. When they stray too far, I correct them. When they align, I allow them to thrive.
It has never been simple.
Since the first human drew breath upon the earth, I have held the divide steady. I was not born as humans are born—I emerged when the balance required structure.
For centuries, nothing shifted beyond what I could anticipate. Until it did.
At first, it was subtle. A tremor beneath the surface of existence. A fluctuation I could not immediately define.
I am not often surprised. Yet this was something new. Then word spread through the unseen currents: A counterpart would be born.
A bride.
Not as an ornament. Not as a possession.
As equilibrium.
I had always known that if the balance ever required perfect alignment, another would emerge—one equal in power, capable of standing beside me. Still, centuries passed without a sign. I began to consider that prophecy a myth, even though the ancient ones repeated it without certainty.
But I did not need to search hospitals or watch mortal births. When she would come into existence, I would know.
Every September 22, under the full moon the humans call the Harvest Moon—when light and dark stand in measured symmetry—I waited.
Year after year.
Nothing.
Until—
An eruption of energy rippled through the divide. Not violent. Not chaotic. Precise.
It came from the human world. From the United States. From New York. She had taken her first breath. I did not walk through doors to reach her. Distance is irrelevant to me.
I was present when her mother held her for the first time.
They did not see me. Humans perceive me only if I permit it.
But the child—even as an infant, she sensed me. Her limbs moved as if responding to a current only she could feel. Small fists clenched. Tiny legs kicked with restless force.
Recognition.
I did not remain constantly at her side. I observed. I returned at intervals. I learnt her name.
Elara.
When she turned one year old, her grandmother placed a necklace around her neck.
The moment I approached—the child cried. Her mother touched the pendant.
"It's hot already."
Her grandmother stiffened.
"He is near."
They did not see me. But they understood enough. I withdrew immediately. The object was not ornamental. It was sealed. Constructed to repel me. Worse—it suppressed her.
Her non-human essence resonates with mine. The necklace does not only repel my presence. It cages the part of her that mirrors me. They believed they were protecting her. Instead, they fractured her. She was not born fragile. She was born equal.
Over the years I observed the consequences. On her birthdays, under the full moon, the power that should strengthen her instead collided with the seal. What should have elevated her left her weakened. Dizzy. Fevered. In pain.
The moon is not her enemy. It is amplification. The necklace turns amplification into suffering.
More than once I considered intervening. Forcing the removal. But restraint is power. And uncertainty is not something I indulge lightly.
There were risks.
When she was fifteen, I moved closer than I should have. The seal burnt against her skin.
Yet she followed. Her body moved without conscious command. Her caged side reached towards me. She arrived at the abandoned mansion where I stood, beyond full reach.
For a moment, alignment flickered. And for a moment, I saw what she would become without suppression.
But the pain— I withdrew.
Since then, I have remained at a measured distance. Close enough to feel her shifts. Far enough not to trigger the seal unnecessarily.
I noticed how often she watched her surroundings, like she was trying to see someone. The instinct was there. Recognition without memory.
A few days before her eighteenth birthday, I approached again. The necklace reacted violently.
Yet she ran into the night searching. Searching for me. I could not step forward. I would not be the cause of her collapse.
Then came her eighteenth year.
I remained near her home—not visible, not close enough to harm, but near enough to sense her state.
As the full moon rose, her energy destabilised.
Warm.
Cold.
Warm.
Cold.
The seal struggled.
Then it faltered. For the first time since it was placed upon her, it lost consistency. Her energy steadied. Not fully awakened. Not fully free. But no longer fully suppressed. I moved closer. The necklace still pulses. It still restrains. But it is weakened.
And she—
She felt aligned.
Calm.
Centred.
The fracture has begun.
Step by step, she will move toward equilibrium.
Toward me.
And if she does not—
Then I will cross what remains.