Dawn usually brought comfort to Elara.
It softened the harshness of the night, warmed the cold edges of her thoughts, and painted the world in muted gold.
But today, dawn felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Too slow.
Too heavy with something unseen.
Elara stood beside Lucien at the edge of the Forest of Silent Bones, watching the pale horizon bleed into morning. Her mind throbbed with leftover visions from the Warden's touch—faces she didn't know, chants she didn't understand, a woman holding an infant like a shield against fate itself.
"Are you sure they're coming at dawn?" she whispered.
Lucien's face tightened. "Priests of the Blood Order always strike when the day is weakest."
She frowned. "Weakest? Isn't dawn supposed to be the beginning of light?"
"For humans," Lucien murmured. "For them, it is a moment between worlds—neither night nor day. A moment where their magic grows teeth."
Elara shivered.
Lucien's gaze flicked toward her. "Cold?"
"No," she admitted softly. "Just… afraid."
He didn't move closer, but his eyes softened, warming in the golden light.
"Fear doesn't make you weak," he said. "It means you understand the weight of what's at stake."
Elara looked down at her glowing mark, faint but steady beneath her skin.
"What is at stake?" she whispered.
Lucien didn't answer immediately. He rarely answered questions until he had peeled the truth apart in his mind.
Finally, he spoke.
"Your life. Your power. And perhaps… the balance between light and darkness."
Elara's breath caught. "Is that what the Warden meant? That prophecy thing?"
Lucien's jaw flexed. He didn't like the word prophecy—she could see it.
As if it reminded him of old chains.
"The Warden speaks in riddles," he said. "But this much is clear—your bloodline was never meant to resurface."
"Why?" Elara demanded. "What did my ancestors do?"
Lucien hesitated.
"They opposed the priests," he said finally. "They protected the world from the rituals of blood and suffering. And because of that… they were hunted. Nearly extinguished."
"Except one," Elara whispered.
Lucien nodded. "You."
A lump formed in her throat. "But I don't want this. I just want to heal. I want a quiet life."
Lucien's voice lowered.
"That life ended the moment the mark awakened."
She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to cry. The weight of destiny felt like a stone pressing on her chest.
"Then what do I do now?" she whispered.
Lucien turned fully toward her, his expression shifting—serious, steady, protective.
"You learn," he said. "You grow. And you survive."
"And if I fail?"
"Then I fail with you."
Her breath caught.
He didn't say it dramatically.
He didn't say it to comfort.
He said it as if it were simply truth.
A bond she never asked for.
A bond he never wanted.
Yet here they were—standing together at the edge of a destiny neither understood.
The silence between them deepened, heavy and intimate.
Then a low rumble echoed across the clearing.
Lucien stiffened. "They're here."
Elara looked around, heart pounding. "I don't see anything."
"You won't. Not yet."
The forest air thickened, shimmering as heat does on stone. The birds hiding in the canopy stopped singing. The wind held its breath.
Lucien stepped forward.
"Elara. Behind me."
She moved instinctively, but the mark on her chest pulsed hard—once, twice—like a warning.
A crack split the earth several feet away.
Then another.
Then three more.
Elara gasped as red mist seeped from the cracks, curling upward like smoke. Shapes grew inside the mist—first shadows, then limbs, then robed figures stepping fully into the world as if they were being birthed from the ground itself.
Crimson robes.
Hoods low.
Symbols of blood circling their wrists.
The priests.
Lucien exhaled sharply. "There are more than I expected."
The lead priest lifted his head, revealing a face carved with symbols—thin lines, sharp curves, markings that seemed to move faintly under the skin.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and cold, like stone being dragged across metal.
"Child of Light," he said, "you stand on cursed soil. It will not protect you today."
Elara swallowed hard. Her palms tingled with warmth.
Lucien stepped forward, blocking her from view. "She is under my protection."
The priest tilted his head. "A creature of the Night defending a vessel of Light. A contradiction that amuses the gods."
Lucien's eyes flashed red. "She is not a vessel."
"She is," the priest replied calmly. "And she will come with us."
"No," Lucien said.
The air around him crackled. Shadows twisted at his feet, curling like smoke around his boots.
"You cannot deny destiny," another priest chanted.
Lucien's voice sharpened. "I can deny you."
The ground trembled.
Elara stumbled back as a pulse of dark energy erupted from Lucien's stance—controlled, powerful, ancient.
The lead priest smiled. "Ah. The cursed one shows teeth."
Lucien snarled, revealing enough threat to silence even the wind.
Elara wanted to hide behind him, to shrink away from the danger pressing around them.
But the mark on her chest pulsed again.
Harder.
Hotter.
Fiercer.
A voice echoed inside her mind—not words, but a push, a command.
Stand.
Elara grabbed Lucien's arm. "Lucien—"
Another pulse shot through her.
This time it wasn't just heat.
It was energy.
Like lightning woven through her veins.
Lucien turned sharply. "Elara—your mark—"
The priests stepped closer.
"Awaken, child," the lead priest whispered. "Let the blood speak."
"No!" Lucien hissed. "She is not yours to command!"
But the ground beneath Elara glowed faintly, reacting to her power.
Her vision blurred. She felt pulled upward, inward, everywhere at once.
Lucien grabbed her shoulders. "Elara, look at me! Breathe!"
She tried.
The world flickered.
Red light. White light.
A circle of robed figures.
An altar of stone.
A hand placing an infant under moonlight.
Then—
A woman's voice:
"My child… forgive me."
Elara gasped awake.
The priests froze.
Lucien tightened his hold as if anchoring her to reality.
"Elara," he said urgently. "What did you see?"
She trembled. "A woman. Holding a baby. Me. And she said she was sorry."
Lucien's face darkened, emotions shifting behind his eyes like storm clouds.
The lead priest spread his arms.
"The memories return," he said. "Good. Very good."
Lucien stepped in front of her again. "Touch her, and I will end you."
The priest chuckled. "You cannot end what has already begun."
Elara's mark flared bright enough to light the trees around them.
Lucien shielded her, but the light spilled past him, sweeping over the priests.
They hissed, covering their faces.
"Child of Light," the lead priest growled, "your fate belongs to us."
"No," Lucien snarled. "Her fate belongs to herself."
The priest lowered his hands.
"Then let us see," he whispered, "if she survives what comes next."
Dark mist poured from his fingertips, spreading across the clearing like spilled ink.
Lucien pulled Elara into his arms, bracing for impact.
"Elara," he whispered, "whatever happens… do not let go of me."
The mist rushed toward them.
And the world vanished into red.