Kael didn't sleep for the rest of the night.
He sat at the edge of the dying fire, staring at the mark as it dimmed and brightened like a silent pulse. He tried scrubbing it away. Cutting the skin. Praying. Nothing worked.
Morning came too quickly.
As dawn filtered through the canopy, the camp stirred. Merrin, the rogue with eyes like molten silver, was the first to notice his paleness.
"You look like death kissed you and left you wanting more," she smirked.
Kael forced a grin. "Just… bad dreams."
But Merrin wasn't buying it. And when the mark flickered beneath his tunic again, he knew she saw it.
Later, as they trekked through the woods toward the capital, Kael fell back from the group. His mind was racing. The legends said Soulmarked were cursed. Hunted. Executed by the Order of the Pure Flame. Anyone found bearing the mark would be sentenced to death.
And yet… he felt stronger.
Faster. Sharper. His senses tingled, as if the forest itself spoke to him. When a shadow passed through the trees—silent and fast—he turned before it even moved.
A black-cloaked figure emerged, sword drawn. Assassins.
"Scatter!" Merrin shouted.
Steel clashed. Magic flared. And Kael… moved on instinct.
His hand glowed, the mark surging with light. A spectral blade erupted from his palm—shimmering, translucent, ancient. He didn't know how he was wielding it.
But the spirit did.
And it fought with him.
One by one, the assassins fell.
When it was over, the others stared at him—not with awe, but fear.
"What… what are you?" Merrin whispered.
Kael looked at the glowing mark.
"I don't know," he answered. "But I think I was never meant to be normal."