Rain lashed the forest, cold and merciless, turning every leaf and stone slick beneath Mary's trembling feet.
She sprinted through the tangled trees, lungs burning with each ragged breath and her heart pounding like a war drum echoing in her ears. Shadows danced around her, twisted and alive, while every rustle of the underbrush sounded like a predator lurking just beyond sight. The storm's roar drowned most sounds, but then—steel hissed sharply through the rain.
A dagger sliced past her cheek with a whisper of wind, embedding itself deep into the trunk beside her. Another followed swiftly, then another, until the forest around her rang with the harsh rhythm of steel meeting wood, a deadly percussion that spurred her onward. Panic drove her as she ducked behind a thick oak, pressing her back against the wet bark, trying to catch her breath. But the night offered no refuge.
Suddenly, a wave of women in crimson gowns surged out of the storm, their dresses billowing like liquid fire through the rain. With an effortless flick of their wrists, daggers materialized from thin air, glinting wickedly. Others drew phantom bows, strings forming arrows as if conjured from the storm itself—arrows that shimmered in the pale flashes of lightning, all trained squarely on her.
And then, a voice. Low, commanding, impossibly clear amid the chaos.
"Mary!"
The storm seemed to hush for a heartbeat, as if caught in the gravity of those words.
"Don't make us do this. We are your sisters—for Mother's sake, give it to us."
For a moment, her breath caught. Her fingers shook as she pressed against the damp bark, whispering into the dark with quivering lips.
"Rubi... is that you?" Her voice fractured, uncertain.
She dared to peer past the tree, eyes wide and wet, searching the shadows for any sign of her friend. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you."
Fear and desperation warred within her. With a lurch, she pushed off the trunk and darted forward, the thunderous rush of her escape drowned by the storm's fury. But the night responded faster.
A searing pain tore through her back—an arrow finding its mark deep within her flesh. She screamed as a wave of agony crashed over her, her body collapsing onto the muddy ground. Darkness spilled into her vision, swallowing her whole.
But then—her eyes snapped open.
She sat upright in her bed, drenched in sweat, heartbeat hammering wildly against her ribs. The chamber was silent save for her ragged breathing.
For a moment, she told herself it had merely been a nightmare—just a product of a restless mind. But the sting in her back was real, fiery and sharp, pulsing in time with her frantic heartbeat.
Her hand trembled as she reached behind her, fingertips trembling against her skin. They brushed—no, touched—torn flesh where no wound should be. She drew her hand forward slowly, expecting to find nothing. Instead, her fingers came away wet and slick.
Her throat tightened as she flicked her wrist, and flames erupted gently from every candle in the chamber, casting flickering light that danced across shadowed walls.
Her breath caught in her throat—her entire arm painted in chilling red streaks, blood smeared across her skin. That's when she came to a realization that, this was no nightmare but a warning, a glimpse of what will come to pass. The nightmare had bled into waking.
And yet, amid her rising fear, one thought pressed harder than all the rest:
Why were her sisters hunting her like prey?
Mary moved slowly toward the mirror, her nightgown clinging to her as though the fabric itself shared her unease.
She lifted her gaze to her reflection, her eyes tracing the slick crimson stain that had spread across her arm. With a trembling breath, she whispered words only she could understand—soft, secret syllables that carried a weight of power.
Gently, she passed her right hand over her injured shoulder, her palm gliding above the torn flesh as if brushing away an invisible veil.
In an instant, the blood vanished. The stain dissolved, leaving her skin pale and unmarked by gore, as though it had never been tainted at all.
Yet when she pressed her fingers against the wound, her heart lurched—she felt the raw gash beneath the illusion of cleanliness. The bleeding had stopped, but the flesh had not knit together.
That should have been impossible. Mary knew the rules of her own body as intimately as she knew her own name. No matter the cut, the break, or the burn, as long as she drew breath and her strength did not abandon her, she could heal. Pain and damage had always been temporary, fleeting things. Yet now, for the first time, the wound remained.
A chill settled in her chest, heavier than the pain itself. What did it mean? Had her gift changed? Or had something within her—something she did not yet understand—begun to wither?
Filled with questions that spiraled without answers, Mary began pacing the length of her room. Her bare feet whispered against the floorboards, her reflection flickering in the mirror each time she passed. She raked her thoughts again and again, chasing the shadows of possibilities, until they returned—always—to the same tormenting fear: what mistake could she have made, what unseen misstep, that might one day drive her sisters to turn against her?
The thought gnawed at her, sharp and merciless, and the more she tried to silence it, the louder it grew.
"Maybe I should go to see Mother," Mary whispered to herself. Almost immediately, she shook her head violently from side to side. "No… no, no, no," she muttered under her breath, pacing the floor with restless steps.
At last, she came to a halt, her chest heaving as though the very thought had drained her.
Without wasting another moment, Mary quickly covered her wound and rushed into her dressing room.
Her hands moved quickly, exchanging her nightclothes for a proper dress, the fabric rustling as she fastened it in place. She gave herself only a fleeting glance in the mirror before pushing out through the door in a hurried stride.
Outside, the night greeted her with an otherworldly brilliance. The full moon shone high in the sky, washing the courtyard in silver light so bright it rivaled daybreak. Despite the late hour, the grounds were alive with activity.
Some people conversed in low voices, their laughter echoing faintly in the cool air. Others moved with disciplined precision, practicing martial arts under the moon's watchful eye. Further off, sparks of energy illuminated the darkness as young adepts experimented with magic, training to harness and control their *vara*—their innate superpowers.
Though urgency burned in her veins, Mary forced herself to slow her pace. Drawing attention wasn't necessary. So she walked steadily, blending into the flow of the night, her steps measured, her expression calm—while within, her thoughts churned with quiet unease.
A familiar voice called out behind her.
"Mary? I thought you went to bed early."
Turning around, Mary forced a smile. "Hey, Constance… hey, Gill."
"I had a nightmare, so I couldn't sleep. I decided to take a walk instead."
"Alright then, have a nice walk. We're heading to bed," Constance said as she and Gill continued past her.
"Good night," Gill added with a warm smile, lifting a hand in a friendly wave.
Mary walked steadily toward the small, isolated house. It wasn't large or impressive—its plain walls and weathered roof showed the wear of time and rain. Built more for necessity than beauty, it looked like the home of someone who lived simply and asked only for shelter. Still, its distance from the other houses gave it a quiet, heavy presence, as if it chose to stand apart.
She stepped onto the porch and looked left and right before pressing her hand against the wooden door. The lock clicked softly, and the door opened on its own, as though welcoming her. She slipped inside, closed it behind her, and turned the lock again, the faint snap echoing in the still air.