Reincarnated As the Twin of Rosalie Hale

Location: Cain's Estate – Nathaniel's Room

Time: Just After Sunrise

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⌈ Nathaniel ⌋

I didn't sleep.

I don't know if that was a vampire thing, or a me thing. The bed Cain offered was comfortable enough—too comfortable, maybe. But I lay there, unmoving, arms folded behind my head as dawn crept in through the frost-laced windows, brushing the room in a soft, indifferent glow.

No dreams. No nightmares.

Just silence. And that's what bothered me. It felt like it settled in your chest like a weight instead of a comfort.

I lay there for a while, eyes open, watching the frost bloom across the tall glass windows. Watching the moon shift and dip behind a curtain of clouds.

Eventually, I gave up.

I slipped into the coat Evangeline had given me and pulled on a scarf I found folded by the dresser. It was a soft gray wool that still held her scent.

The estate was still asleep, or at least pretending to be. I padded barefoot down the stairs, my steps silent even on ancient wood. My body didn't ache, didn't stumble, didn't creak. It just moved.

And that was terrifying in its own way.

Outside, the cold didn't touch me. Not anymore.

The snow stretched like a silver sea under the stars, the gardens wrapped in layers of white and shadow. I passed frozen hedgerows and statues dusted in ice. The roses were all dead, their thorned stems curling like skeletal hands, yet they hadn't lost their shape. Everything in this place had a strange, preserved beauty. Like time itself respected the house and refused to rot it.

I wandered aimlessly. Not thinking of anything in particular. Just moving.

Soon, I stopped walking.

At the heart of the garden stood an old stone fountain. Its basin was frozen solid, the water locked in jagged shapes and uneven layers of ice. At the center, a marble angel stood with her arms outstretched, her eyes closed. Snow coated her shoulders and wings, undisturbed. The moonlight reflected sharply off the ice, casting pale light in all directions.

I stepped forward and sat on the fountain's ledge. The marble felt smooth beneath my fingertips—too smooth for a surface left exposed to this much winter. It was cold, but not numbingly so. Strangely, it felt… warm beneath the surface. Not heat. More like a faint vibration.

I frowned and leaned forward, pressing my hand flat to the stone.

A sharp sound cracked through the quiet—subtle, but real. I jerked back.

Beneath where my hand had been, a thin spiral had formed in the frost coating the marble. It wasn't natural. The pattern was symmetrical, deliberate, a series of tight curves branching outward like frost fractals etched in perfect sequence.

I reached toward the spot again.

This time, the frost didn't just crack—it shifted. It began to move, extending out from my fingers in controlled, fluid lines, as though tracing paths it already knew. The motion wasn't random. The frost obeyed pressure, direction, thought.

I held still and watched it spiral outward.

Then I pulled my hand back again. The pattern stayed. The frost didn't vanish or melt. It remained fixed to the stone, glowing faintly in the low light.

My heart beat faster—not because I was cold, or afraid. Because I understood what I had just done.

I raised my hand to the moonlight and turned it slowly. No marks. No burns. But under the skin, I felt something. A pressure that hadn't been there before. Something deep and dense—not heat, not blood.

I stared at the angel's feet for a few moments, then reached out again, this time resting my fingers gently against the side of her base. The frost responded instantly, drawing lines up the edges of the stone. It followed the angel's carved robes, her wings, the folds around her wrists. The ice wasn't overtaking the sculpture. It was accentuating it.

I didn't know how I was doing this.

But I was doing this.

I concentrated. Not on the frost. On the image of a birch tree—the one I painted last night. I remembered the shape of its leaves, the texture of its bark, the way snow gathered in the crooks of its branches.

The frost shifted again.

A leaf appeared on the angel's wing. Thin. Jagged. Perfectly shaped. A birch leaf, carved in ice, positioned like it had always been part of the sculpture.

I stepped back. My chest felt tight. My hands were steady, but it took effort.

This was real.

This wasn't coincidence. It wasn't a trick of the light or a temperature fluctuation. This was control. Direct. Intentional. It came from me.

I looked down at my hand again. Nothing had changed on the outside, but I could feel it—whatever this was—it had settled deep into my body. Not an external ability. Not borrowed.

Mine.

I turned and looked back at the angel. I rested my fingers once more on the base and let the frost follow. It responded immediately, as though waiting for my decision.

Then I wondered something else. Could I create something new? Not just shape frost or touch stone, but manifest it?

I sat down again on the edge of the fountain and steadied my breath. I closed my eyes and focused.

No birds. No breeze. The garden was quiet, still. I pushed the silence further. I let the outside world fall away.

I concentrated on a single mineral—quartz. Something familiar. I'd worked with it in the past. Studied its shapes, cut it by hand. It was common but elegant. Stable.

I pictured a fist-sized cluster: rough base, translucent body, clouded tips. Sharp edges. Natural growth patterns. I focused on the texture, the weight, the shape.

I held out my palm.

At first, nothing happened.

Then I felt it—something shifting in the air.

Dust rose from the snow. Tiny particles drifted from the rim of the fountain. The ground below me gave a subtle vibration. The frost on my palm twitched, then retreated.

The air shimmered. Cold particles clustered into a center point above my hand.

Then the shape began to form.

A single shard came first. Then a second. Then a cluster. The mineral grew outward, slow and steady, until six points converged into a solid formation.

The finished crystal hovered above my palm for a second longer, then dropped.

I caught it.

It was heavy. Smooth on the sides, rough on the bottom. Cold, but stable. I turned it slowly, studying the detail. It was a real piece of quartz. Formed with precision. Every edge natural and consistent with geological growth.

But it hadn't been pulled from the ground.

I had made it.

My knees hit the snow, and I just stared.

This wasn't some ice trick. Wasn't an elemental mutation or a borrowed spell. This wasn't telekinesis or surface mimicry.

It was creation.

Stone. Crystal. Form. Born through conscious will.

I didn't just control minerals. I brought them into existence.

I stayed there in the cold, cradling the quartz in my hand, feeling the strange pulse still vibrating along my bones.

It didn't feel like power. It felt like identity.

For the first time since my turning, I felt anchored. Not by blood or thirst or fear. But by something I understood.

Something I could build from.

Lithogenesis. It was my ability. My craft.

I smiled—not because I felt powerful. But because I finally felt like myself again.

The sky was beginning to pale at the edges when I finally stood. My knees were numb from kneeling in the snow, and my fingers ached slightly from the cold, but I didn't care. The crystal sat in my palm like it belonged there. Solid. Centering. Mine.

I slipped it into the inner pocket of my coat and walked quietly back through the garden. The estate remained silent—no footsteps, no shifting shadows. Just the creak of old floorboards when I pushed open the side door and crept inside.

The hallways were dim, lit only by the occasional candelabra. I didn't run into anyone as I moved upstairs. No Cain, no Evangeline. Just me and the soft whisper of my own footsteps.

Once back in my room, I shut the door behind me and let out a slow breath.

The crystal came out again, smooth and slightly damp from the warmth of my pocket. I turned it over in my hands, tracing each facet, each edge. I could still feel that strange hum beneath my skin. Whatever this was… it hadn't faded.

I crossed to the corner near the window, where a small sculpting stand and cloth-covered tools had been placed. Cain had given them to me quietly days ago—no explanation. Just a brief nod, as if to say you'll need these soon.

He was right.

I unrolled the cloth, revealing the tools: a rasp, a chisel, fine files, polishing cloths. My fingers moved without thinking, like I'd done this a thousand times. Because I had.

Even before everything changed.

I sat down, held the quartz to the morning light, and selected a small chisel. Then I began to work.

Not with aggression. Not with power. With focus.

Each strike was gentle. Each file smooth. I let the rhythm guide me. Not pushing—just letting the form come out. I didn't need to plan. I didn't even know what I was shaping yet. I just knew I needed to do it.

Minutes passed. Then hours.

When the light through the curtains turned golden, I finally sat back.

In my palm rested a small sculpture—half-finished, still rough. A figure in motion. Arms outstretched. A face not yet defined, but familiar. Graceful. Watching.

The angel from the fountain.

I hadn't meant to carve her. But here she was.

I stared at her for a long moment, then set her gently on the stand.

I stood and walked to the armoire. A set of clothes had been placed there: a black sweater with a smooth, slightly elastic texture, dark jeans tailored to fit, and a charcoal wool coat that was noticeably heavier than the rest. I recognized the coat. It was Cain's. The inside collar had gray embroidery near the tag—a sigil I'd seen on some of his personal items. It was subtle, but distinct. There was no doubt it belonged to him.

I got dressed slowly, piece by piece. The sweater slid on easily and fit without resistance. The jeans adjusted perfectly to my waist and legs. The coat was slightly large in the shoulders, but not uncomfortably so. It still smelled faintly like winter air and old books.

Once dressed, I turned toward the mirror above the dresser.

I didn't move for a while.

The changes were immediately noticeable.

My skin had become lighter—no discoloration, no pores, no marks. It was smooth and uniform, almost clinical in appearance. Not natural, but not unhealthy either. Just… altered.

My facial structure had shifted. My cheekbones sat higher. My jawline was sharper and more defined. My lips looked darker, slightly fuller. I looked older in the sense that my features were more precise—like the result of subtle but deliberate changes to bone and muscle.

Then I focused on my eyes.

I leaned closer.

The irises had darkened. They were a deep maroon now. Not the same color I'd grown up with. But when I tilted my head under the light, I noticed something else: a faint shimmer of violet still clinging to the edges.

My original color wasn't completely gone. Just buried.

I looked down at myself.

Before this, I had stayed in shape. I lifted weights in the morning, helped at the docks on weekends. I was strong for my size—lean, but capable.

Now my body had changed. My posture was straighter. My arms and shoulders looked more proportional. My movements felt smooth, like tension had been removed from the joints. My muscles were still there, but they no longer looked built from training. They looked… efficient. Compact. The kind of body that had been rebuilt from scratch, with nothing extra.

Even the way the clothes fit told me something had changed at the core.

I looked into the mirror again.

The face staring back at me didn't belong to the boy who died in that alley. It belonged to someone else now. Still me, but not the same.

There was no sign of illness or weakness. No exhaustion. No blemishes. No fatigue.

Only structure. Detail. Control.

A soft knock on the door broke the silence.

"Come in," I said, stepping away from the mirror.

The door opened smoothly. Evangeline entered with quiet ease. She wasn't wearing her usual cloak. Instead, she wore a tailored coat of deep midnight blue, fitted closely to her frame. Thin silver clasps ran down the front, polished and secure. Her black hair had been pulled into a low braid that rested over one shoulder, with a few loose strands framing her face. There was no makeup, no accessories—just the natural sharpness of her features and the quiet confidence she carried in every movement.

Her eyes were green again. Calm. Steady. Familiar.

"Morning," she said.

"Is it?" I asked. "Doesn't feel like it."

She gave a small smile. "That's fair. It's just after noon, but we don't keep normal hours here."

I reached for the black gloves resting beside the dresser and pulled them on one at a time. The leather was soft, already molded to my fingers. "Is Cain coming with us?"

"No," she said. "He has matters to tend to elsewhere. It'll just be you and me today."

I didn't answer right away. There was a subtle relief that settled in my chest. Not because I disliked Cain—there was a respect there, even a sense of awe—but the idea of facing whatever this was with just Evangeline felt easier. Quieter.

She watched me carefully, arms resting at her sides, not crossed or defensive—just present.

"You look different," she said after a moment. "Calmer. Focused. As if something in you resolved overnight."

I hesitated, then looked to the side table. On it sat the sculpture I'd brought back from the garden—the half-finished angel carved from quartz. It stood about the length of my forearm, balanced on a clean square base. The details weren't perfect, but the shape was clear. Wings. Folded arms. A calm expression on her face.

"I discovered something," I said. "I think it's… a power. A gift."

She stepped closer, her boots silent on the old wooden floor. Her eyes moved to the sculpture, then back to me.

"You made this?" she asked.

I nodded once. "Last night."

Her fingers hovered near the quartz, not touching it, just taking in the form. She examined the edges, the base, the detail around the hands and eyes. Her gaze was analytical—trained.

"This is quartz," she said quietly. "We don't have any quartz in the gardens. Where did you pull it from?" she wondered, her voice more curious than alarmed.

I shifted my weight slightly. "The air, I think. Or maybe the moisture and mineral particles around me. I'm not sure exactly. I just pictured the shape, remembered how quartz feels in my hand—its weight, its angles—and then it was there."

Evangeline looked at me again, more directly this time. Her expression was unreadable for a moment, then softened.

"That's not simple conjuration. Not transmutation either," she murmured. "You didn't alter something that already existed. You brought it into form using only memory, awareness, and will."

She let out a slow breath, one hand settling loosely at her hip.

"It's as I thought," she continued. "You didn't just inherit Cain's blood. You awakened something buried deeper. Lithogenesis wasn't just passed to you—it recognized you. That kind of response… it means your affinity is innate, not just circumstantial."

I glanced at the quartz again, now resting silently on the side table.

"It felt natural," I admitted. "Like I wasn't forcing anything. Just… letting it happen."

Evangeline nodded slowly. "You'll need control. Forming something from air and memory is taxing, and dangerous without focus. But the fact that you did it—without training, without draining yourself—means it's bonded to your nature."

She looked me over once more. "There's more to you than we realized. And I think Cain knew that from the start."

Her voice was calm, but there was weight behind her words.

"Come," she said at last, stepping back toward the door. "We'll speak more after. The Cullens are waiting."