Alya woke with a gasp.
For a moment, she didn't remember where she was only the echo of whispers, the press of cold stone, and the sensation of eyes staring into her soul. The morning light filtering through her curtains was warm, almost too warm, but it did nothing to erase the chill in her bones.
Her right arm throbbed.
She sat up quickly, pushing back the loose sleeve of her nightgown. The marks had changed again. The vine-like patterns were darker, sharper, curling further toward her elbow. And in the very center of one, a faint shimmer like ink that caught the light pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
"No… no, no, no…" she whispered.
A soft knock at her door made her jump.
She pulled the sleeve down and forced her voice steady. "Come in."
Lucien stepped inside without ceremony, dressed in black again, his hair damp as though he'd bathed recently. His gaze swept over her, sharp enough to see through every lie she might try to tell.
"You didn't sleep," he said. It wasn't a question.
Alya tried to look anywhere but at him. "I… had dreams."
"Whispers?" he asked quietly.
Her head snapped up. "How do you"
"They always follow the first sighting." He crossed the room and stood beside her bed, his presence both infuriating and oddly grounding. "Tell me exactly what you saw."
She hesitated. Part of her wanted to keep it locked inside, afraid that saying it aloud would make it real. But another part… the part that had heard her name in the darkness… whispered that he was the only one who might understand.
"I saw…" She swallowed hard. "Eyes. Behind the door. They weren't human. And they were smiling."
Lucien's jaw tightened. He looked toward the window, as though the sunlight could burn away the memory. "It knows you now."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Good," he said, meeting her gaze again. "Fear will keep you from doing something foolish."
Her breath caught. "Like opening the door?"
A shadow of a smirk touched his lips, humorless and faint. "Like letting it convince you the curse can be bargained with."
Silence fell between them, but it wasn't comfortable. Alya shifted, realizing she'd been clutching the blanket in her fists.
"Lucien," she began slowly, "this curse… it marked me, didn't it?"
"It was already in you," he said, as if that explained everything.
She frowned. "What does that mean?"
"You were born… close to its reach. That makes you susceptible. But it also makes you dangerous to it, if you learn control."
Her mind reeled. "So I'm both prey and weapon."
He inclined his head. "Exactly."
He moved toward the door, as though ready to leave, but paused when he reached the threshold. "The marks will spread faster now. You'll feel them… calling. Ignore it. No matter what it shows you."
"What it shows me?" she echoed.
Lucien's voice dropped, almost a whisper. "Dreams can be very convincing. Especially the ones that promise you what you've lost."
And with that, he left.
Alya sat frozen, her pulse loud in her ears. What she'd lost…
Her mind flashed to her mother's voice, her father's laugh the life she'd had before coming here. And then… an image she'd never seen before, but somehow knew was real: a pair of warm, strong hands lifting her as a child. A home with walls painted in gold light.
The marks on her arm pulsed again. We can give it back, the whisper in her mind seemed to say. Just open the door…
She pressed her hands over her ears, but the voice was inside her, not around her.
By midday, she found herself wandering toward the balcony, needing air. Below, the castle gardens stretched wide, the summer flowers bright against the dark stone. A figure stood near the far fountain Lucien. Even from here, she could feel the weight of his presence.
When he looked up, their eyes met.
Alya didn't know why, but the whispers in her head grew fainter.
Maybe it wasn't just fear that could keep her safe.
Maybe it was him.
That night, when the dreams returned, they were different. The eyes still watched her, but Lucien stood between her and the door, his black coat swirling like a shield. The marks on her arm flared bright angry but the door stayed shut.
She woke before dawn, heart racing, but for the first time since visiting the eastern wing… the whispers weren't quite so loud.
Alya thought fresh air would help.
It didn't.
She stood in the corridor outside her chambers, one hand resting on the cool stone wall, the other hidden beneath her sleeve. The marks were restless, like tiny threads tightening beneath her skin. No matter how much she flexed her fingers, the sensation didn't fade.
Every step she took toward the main hall felt heavier, as though the shadows in the corners leaned closer. The tapestries seemed darker than before. Even the air tasted faintly of iron.
The sound of footsteps drew her attention. A maid passed by, head bowed, clutching a stack of folded linens. Alya caught her staring not at her face, but at her arm.
"Is something wrong?" Alya asked.
The maid's eyes widened. "No, my lady." Her voice trembled. "Nothing at all."
But she quickened her pace, disappearing down a side hall.
Alya's skin crawled. If the staff noticed, how long before everyone in the castle started whispering? Worse what if the thing behind that door could sense it was being noticed?
She swallowed hard and forced herself to keep walking.
By the time she reached the balcony overlooking the eastern gardens, her breathing had steadied, but the unease remained. She leaned on the railing, letting the sunlight warm her face, trying to pretend everything was normal.
It can be normal again.
The voice slid into her thoughts so smoothly she almost didn't notice it wasn't hers.
You could go home. See their faces again. All you have to do is—
"No," she said aloud, sharply enough to startle a bird from the nearby hedge.
The whisper went silent. For a moment. Then it returned, softer this time. He can't protect you forever.
Her grip tightened on the railing. She knew exactly who he meant. Lucien. The one person here who seemed to know the rules of this curse better than anyone and the only one who had warned her not to listen.
But the whisper wasn't wrong, was it? Lucien had his own motives. He hadn't told her why she was both a target and a threat. He hadn't told her what would happen if the marks covered her completely.
And the more she thought about it, the more she realized that not knowing was its own kind of trap.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. Far below, near the fountain, Lucien was speaking with someone in a gray cloak. They were too far away for Alya to hear, but the stranger's posture was tense, almost hostile. Lucien's head turned slightly, as if he'd felt her gaze.
Even from this distance, she could feel the weight of his attention.
The whisper in her mind retreated.
And that scared her most of all because it meant the curse was afraid of him.
Or… afraid of what they might become together.
That night, Alya lay in bed staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint pulse of the marks beneath her sleeve. She tried to imagine them fading, disappearing like they'd never been there.
Instead, she imagined them spreading.
And this time, in the corner of her vision, the eyes in the darkness weren't smiling. They were waiting.