The temple was too quiet.
I sat by the window in the chamber I'd been given, watching the pale morning sun warm the stone floor inch by inch. Eiran had left, saying he wanted to stretch his legs. He thought I didn't notice how distracted he was—how long he'd stared at the mark on my chest before pretending it didn't exist. He was trying to protect me. But he didn't know the truth.
He didn't know where I came from.
My fingers moved instinctively to the tiny, pale scar on my inner thigh—so faint it was nearly invisible. A ritual mark, carved when I was eight. A sign of survival. A sign of belonging.
The Whispers of Asix did not raise children out of love.
We were chosen. Taken, really. Orphans, runaways, purchased slaves, even the unwanted and abandoned—brought in and shaped like iron under hammer. I never knew my parents. Never needed to. The Whispers taught us that blood was thicker than memory, and death was the purest form of truth. We didn't worship Asix the way others worship gods. We followed him—bled for him, killed for him. We learned to be silent, to listen for the pulse of death in every room.
I wasn't the best student.
Where others lost themselves in the teachings, I remained too curious, too loud, too alive. But I had a gift: the ability to vanish into tight spaces, to slip bonds like water, and a body that bent in ways others couldn't. I was useful. So they kept me. Trained me.
But I never gave them my heart.
When I was twelve, I saw a chance to leave—and I took it. I disappeared into the night and never looked back. Until I ran into him.
Eiran.
He was awkward and stubborn, always asking questions and never hiding his emotions. The exact opposite of what the Whispers taught us to be. And maybe that's why I loved him.
He reminded me of everything I never thought I could have.
I pressed my hand to the mark between my breasts, where the stranger's deal had branded me. I hadn't seen its full shape, but I could feel it—like it pulsed in rhythm with my own heartbeat. Hot one moment, cold the next.
Was this Asix's way of calling me home?
No. I had escaped once. I would not return. Whatever this mark was—whatever price I had unknowingly paid—I would face it on my own terms. Not for the god of death. Not for the whispers in the dark.
But for him.
I stood, tying my cloak around me. If Eiran was going to risk everything for me again, he deserved to know who I really was.
Even if he hated me for it.
The corridor was dimly lit, washed in the soft amber glow of hanging lanterns. Each step I took echoed louder than it should have—like the temple was listening, judging. My boots barely whispered on the stone floor, but the thoughts in my head were thunder.
He deserves to know.
I repeated the words like a mantra. Like if I said them enough, they'd become easier to believe.
But telling him… meant shattering the fragile image he held of me. The girl he remembered beneath the village tree. The friend who'd chased him through wildflower fields and made games of sword fights. That wasn't a lie—it was a part of me. But not the whole truth.
Beneath that laughter was blood. Rituals. Shadows that never left.
I stopped before a narrow stained glass window depicting a celestial being—hands outstretched in mercy. I wanted to laugh. Mercy? What god had ever shown me mercy?
The mark between my breasts tingled. Not pain. Not heat. Just… awareness. Like it was watching. Listening. Waiting.
I didn't know what I'd traded for Eiran's life. Only that it had cost something sacred. A promise. A part of my soul.
And I gave it away willingly.
Would he forgive that?
I touched the edge of the window with trembling fingers, staring out toward the sea in the distance. I used to dream of places like this—grand cities, ocean waves, temples of gold. I thought freedom would feel like flying. But now, it felt like drowning in silence, waiting for the tide to drag me under.
I should tell him. I want to tell him.
But I couldn't forget the stories from the Whispers. The price of disloyalty. The way they found the deserters. Always. Even if it took years. Even if it took lifetimes.
And now, this mark… whatever it was… it felt like a brand. A tether.
I wasn't sure if I belonged to myself anymore.
"Eiran," I whispered, the name catching in my throat like a prayer. He didn't know. He didn't see the monster in the corner of my memories. He saw me. And somehow, that made everything hurt worse.
If I told him… would that look in his eyes change?
Would he still touch me the way he did last night?
Would he still love me?
The lantern flickered as a breeze stirred down the hallway. A shadow moved across the wall—nothing more than a priest passing behind me—but my heart jumped.
Paranoia. Always paranoia.
It was the Whispers' parting gift.