The night was cold, and though the keep's walls spared Elias from the damp chill of the pit, the narrow chamber still felt like a cell. A thin cot, a stool, a basin of stale water—that was his world when Kael and the guards left him. Better than chains, yes. Better than the stench of rot and despair below. But it was not freedom.
He sat on the edge of the cot, staring at his hands. They still bore faint bruises from shackles that had been removed only days ago. His mind replayed the interrogation, Silven's gaze, Hadrien's calculating silence. Every word had been a gamble. He had survived. But for how long?
Words bought me a reprieve. That is all.
His eyes drifted to his forearm. For weeks, he had avoided looking too long, fearing what he might see—or not see. But the mark was still there, faint beneath the skin like a scar that never healed. Jagged lines curled in a half-circle, almost geometric, yet alive in a way that ink could never be.
He touched it, half expecting pain. Nothing. Just skin.
Then, faintly, a warmth stirred beneath.
Elias hissed and clenched his fist. The warmth grew to a slow burn, like embers pressed against his flesh. The lines flared—dim at first, then bright enough to glow in the darkened chamber. His breath caught.
"No…" he whispered.
The words of the pit's mad prophet came back, unbidden, like a curse carved into his skull. The stone drinks blood… the mark endures… the chains will break…
Elias pressed his palm hard against the mark, trying to smother the glow. But it bled through his skin like firelight through parchment. Shadows writhed along the walls, cast by a flame that had no source.
Then came the whisper. Not from the hall, not from beyond the door. From inside. A voice that was not a voice, heavy and low, as if spoken from beneath the earth.
You are chosen. The mark is proof. The chains are not forever.
Elias shot to his feet, heart hammering. "Chosen? I didn't ask for this!" he spat into the emptiness.
Silence. Then a flicker of heat, sharp as a knife twisting in his veins. His vision blurred. He staggered, catching himself on the cot, sweat running down his temple. Images rushed through his mind—not his own, yet burned into him as though he lived them:
A hand reaching toward a black stone, bleeding.
Chains snapping like brittle twigs.
Cities burning under banners unknown to him.
A crown—not of gold, but of shadow and fire.
Elias gasped and forced himself to look away from the visions, to anchor himself. He braced against the wall, chest heaving. Slowly, the glow faded, the mark sinking back into dull scar-lines. The burning ebbed, leaving only a cold ache.
He collapsed onto the cot, staring at the ceiling.
Madness. Or worse. I cannot let them see this. Not Hadrien. Not Kael. Not Silven. If they see, I am done.
His mind spun. He had survived interrogation with lies and half-truths. But no lie could cover this. This was no trick of memory, no clever invention of his "homeland." This was something deeper, something that tied him to the very madness he feared.
He rolled his sleeve down, covering the mark as though fabric could hide fate.
You don't want magic. You don't need magic. You have your mind. Your knowledge. That is your strength. This mark—this curse—must never be known.
But the whispers lingered, like embers smoldering under ash. And when Elias finally lay down, exhaustion claiming him, the voice returned once more in the half-world of sleep.
The chains will break. With or without you