Until recently, I was nothing more than a woman in a borrowed dress, sent to marry a lord I didn't know, trapped on an island I never asked for. I had no power. No voice. Only the shame of having fled three marriages, the weight of social judgment, and the visceral fear of failing yet again. No one saw me as destiny. I was a mistake corrected by a contract. A body handed over to settle debts.
But something in me… changed. Or maybe it had always been there. Asleep. A contained fire. A silent pulse waiting to be activated. No one—not even I—suspected that beneath that façade of frustrated obedience and fractured pride, something older, more dangerous, more valuable than anything I ever imagined was hiding.
Now I'm beginning to understand that nothing was a coincidence. Not the island. Not Declan. Not even me. And what brought me here wasn't a desperate father or a forced engagement. It was something that chose me long before I was born.
I'm starting to understand that nothing was coincidence. Not the island. Not Declan. Not even me.
I woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, my heart pounding like a drum. The room was completely silent, yet I could hear a faint humming in my ears, as if I had just escaped a place where everything vibrated too loudly. I sat up slowly and tried to steady my breathing.
I had a dream. No—a vision. Something I couldn't have invented. I saw a woman standing in a stone circle, surrounded by symbols carved into the rock—ancient, similar to the ones on the altar where Declan had shown me the vial of blood. But this time… it was different. There was fire. There were screams. And above all, there was him. The man from the suspended figure.
I didn't know how, but I knew he wasn't Declan.
When I got up, my reflection in the mirror stared back at me differently. Not just from sweat or fear, but something deeper. As if I myself was changing without permission.
When I stepped out of the room, everything was quiet. Melyra was in the kitchen, preparing something with herbs. She looked at me, and her eyes widened just slightly, as if she had been expecting me.
—Couldn't sleep? —she asked.
—I had a dream. But… it didn't feel like mine.
She didn't look surprised. She only nodded slowly.
—When a mark is meant for someone, sometimes the dreams are the first thing to change.
—A mark?
Melyra didn't answer right away. She poured tea, set it in front of me, and sat across the table.
—There are old stories among our people —she began—. About a lineage capable of awakening what sleeps. Not through force. Through presence. That presence… changes everything it touches. Activates memories. Opens wounds. Revives dormant blood.
—You mean me?
—I mean what you carry inside. Something you don't understand yet. But it's already waking.
A shiver ran through me. Not from fear. From certainty.
—And if I awaken it… what happens?
Melyra held my gaze for a few seconds. Then she answered:
—Then the real story begins.
I couldn't respond. The tea trembled slightly in my hand, not from the heat but from the tension building inside me since I opened my eyes. Something hadn't made sense since the castaways arrived. Not just the incident with the man in the garden. There was something else… something breathing behind their empty stares.
—Melyra —I said, lowering the cup—. Do you think any of them… could have come for me?
Her eyes hardened for an instant.
—I don't know. But I don't believe in coincidences —she replied.
I stayed silent for a moment, then stood up.
—I want to see them.
—Declan asked you not to —she said calmly, without raising her voice.
—And if I'm marked, like you say… I don't think there's any turning back.
I didn't wait for her reply. I turned and left the kitchen toward the stables. The dawn air was heavier than usual, the silence… charged. As if the island itself knew I was about to break an unwritten rule.
When I arrived, the stable door was slightly ajar. I pushed it gently. A strong smell of salt, humidity, and dried mud filled my senses. There were makeshift cots, blankets, scraps of food. And three figures lying down. Two asleep. One not.
I stopped cold. That man was sitting, elbows on his knees, watching me from the shadows with a clarity that made no sense.
—I dreamed of you —he said.
My body tensed.
—What did you say?
—You. I dreamed of you. Years ago. Or lifetimes. I'm not sure.
He stepped into the light, and for a second, I could swear his eyes… weren't human.
And I, for the first time, felt that he wasn't the only one who recognized me. I had… seen him before too.
—Who are you? —I asked, calmer than I expected.
The man tilted his head, as if the question amused him.
—That depends on who's looking. But you saw me in flames, didn't you? On the stone… with the symbols.
My heart lurched.
—How do you know that?
—Because I dreamed it too. Except for me, it wasn't a dream. It was memory.
He took another step—not threatening, but with unnerving calm.
—Do you know what you are, Sereniah?
—No —I snapped, almost angrily—. Do you?
Before he could answer, a burst of wind cracked through the open door. The man stepped back, his face hardening. I felt the presence before I saw him.
Declan.
—Step away from her —he said, his voice so low and sharp that the silence afterward seemed to shatter.
The castaway didn't move at first, but lowered his head.
—We were only talking.
—And that was already too much —Declan replied, advancing without blinking.
I turned toward him, but his attention was fixed on the stranger. For the first time, I saw Declan truly unsettled. Not furious. Not jealous. Unsettled. As if what he had just witnessed confirmed a suspicion he wasn't ready to face.
—Who are you really? —Declan demanded, not budging an inch.
—Shouldn't you be the first to know? —the castaway replied, with a half-smile that never reached his eyes.
Declan stepped closer. The air around him shifted—grew denser, as if the space between them could explode at any moment.
—You shouldn't be alive.
The castaway didn't answer immediately. His smile faded.
—Death isn't always final… for our kind.
I slowly turned to Declan. He didn't look at me. He didn't move. His posture was rigid—like a warrior holding himself back. But his voice, when he spoke, was lower. Rougher.
—Is it you?
The castaway just looked at him. And that was enough.
In an instant, Declan raised his hand. He didn't touch him, but the air crackled around his fingers. A vibration rippled through the room.
—Declan! —I shouted without thinking—. Not here!
He finally turned toward me. His eyes still burned, but something in my voice eased his pulse.
The castaway stepped back and sat again in the shadows. But before I turned to leave, he said:
—Not all enemies came from the sea, Sereniah. Some were already on land… waiting.