The old woman gazed at the strange mark on Ilda's arm, her eyes trembling. She lit an ancient oil lamp, and smoke swirled slowly through the air.
"This mark," the woman whispered, "is the seal of an oath… a bond that ties you to another soul."
Ilda frowned. "A soul? Whose soul?"
The woman closed her eyes, and visions flickered within the smoke—an image of a maiden in ancient attire, dancing in a royal court, while a nobleman stood beside her… yet his gaze lingered on another woman.
From the vision, a voice cried out—grief-stricken, desperate:
"If you choose her… I shall never be reborn, not until we meet again."
Ilda's arm burned, as if sliced open. Fragments of memory flooded her mind—the maiden's face… strangely resembling Nuna.
The old woman opened her eyes and spoke gravely.
"You will meet the one bound with you. He may walk in a different body now, but the blood of fate remains."
And elsewhere in the city… Akin sat in his luxurious mansion, staring at a faint scar on his wrist. A scar he had carried since birth—without ever knowing why.