The symbol on the wall did not leave Amara's thoughts.
Even hours later, as the Hall shifted through its strange imitation of day and night, the image stayed with her. It followed her into every corridor, every chamber, every quiet corner where she tried to steady her breathing and make sense of what she had seen. The mark on her wrist remained calm, its light faint beneath the cloth, but she felt an echo between the two symbols, as though an invisible thread connected them.
Someone had been watching her.
Someone close enough to move freely within these walls.
That realisation changed everything.
Amara sat on the edge of the narrow bed in her assigned quarters, her fingers twisting together in her lap. The room was sparse, intentionally so. A bed. A table. A single chair. No windows. No personal touches. She suspected this was meant to keep her focused, but it only sharpened her awareness of how little control she truly had.
She had agreed to accelerated training. She had asked for knowledge. She had demanded honesty.
Now she was beginning to understand the price of those demands.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Amara looked up, her muscles tightening. "Come in."
The door opened, and Liora stepped inside, closing it carefully behind her. Her expression was composed, but there was tension in the set of her shoulders that betrayed her calm.
"You should not be alone right now," Liora said gently.
Amara gave a humourless smile. "It seems I never truly am."
Liora's gaze flicked briefly to Amara's wrist. "You felt it too."
"Yes," Amara replied. "And I saw something." She did not wait to be prompted. "There is a symbol carved into the wall near the eastern junction. It matches my mark."
Liora inhaled sharply. "Are you certain?"
"I am," Amara said. "Which means someone here knows more than they are admitting."
Liora moved closer, lowering her voice. "You must understand, Amara, not everyone who walks these halls is aligned in purpose. Some are bound by duty rather than belief."
"That does not reassure me," Amara said quietly.
"It should not," Liora admitted. "But it explains why secrecy has become currency here."
Amara stood, pacing the length of the room. "Kairo believes in control. Malik believes in balance. You believe in choice. Those beliefs are already colliding. How long before they turn on each other?"
Liora watched her carefully. "That depends on you."
Amara stopped. "On me?"
"Yes," Liora said. "Because the mark responds to intention. To will. To clarity of purpose. The more you learn, the more it will react. Others will feel that. Some will fear it. Some will try to claim it."
"And some will try to destroy it," Amara said.
Liora did not deny it.
The weight of that truth pressed down on Amara's chest. She thought of her old life in Lagos. The cramped room. The long workdays. The quiet exhaustion. She had believed herself insignificant then, one more person swallowed by the city's endless movement.
Now she was too visible.
"What are you not telling me?" Amara asked again.
Liora hesitated, then sighed. "There are records. Old ones. They speak of previous awakenings. Of marked individuals who came before you."
"And what happened to them?"
"Some vanished," Liora said. "Some were bound. Some caused devastation before they were stopped."
Amara's stomach twisted. "Stopped how?"
"By force," Liora said softly. "Often by those they trusted."
The words settled heavily between them.
Before Amara could respond, the door opened again, this time without a knock. Kairo entered, his expression severe.
"You should not be filling her head with half-truths," he said.
Liora turned to face him. "And you should not be deciding what she can handle."
"This is not about her comfort," Kairo replied. "It is about containment."
Amara felt anger flare, sharp and sudden. "I am not something to be contained."
Kairo met her gaze. "Power always believes itself exempt from limits."
"And fear always disguises itself as caution," she shot back.
The air between them crackled with tension. For a moment, Amara thought the mark on her wrist would flare to life, but it remained steady, as though waiting.
Malik appeared in the doorway, his presence diffusing the moment. "Enough," he said. "We have more immediate concerns."
Kairo turned to him. "You felt it."
"Yes," Malik replied. "And others did too. The boundary shifted again."
Amara frowned. "What boundary?"
"The one separating this world from yours," Malik said. "It is thinning."
The room fell silent.
"That is not possible," Kairo said. "Not without a catalyst."
All three of them looked at Amara.
She swallowed. "You said the mark responds to intention."
"It does," Malik said. "And emotion. Fear. Anger. Resolve."
Amara thought of the symbol on the wall. Of the sense of being watched. Of the fractures widening around her. "Then someone may be provoking it."
Liora nodded slowly. "Or provoking you."
The implication was clear. If someone wanted the boundary to weaken, all they had to do was push her far enough.
Training began that same cycle.
They took her to a chamber unlike any she had seen before. It was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow, the floor etched with concentric circles that hummed faintly underfoot. The air vibrated, alive with unseen energy.
"This place amplifies intent," Malik explained. "It will respond to you whether you are ready or not."
Amara stood at the centre, her pulse racing. "And if I lose control?"
Kairo answered without hesitation. "Then we intervene."
The word sent a chill through her.
"Begin," Liora said, her voice steady but her eyes wary.
Amara closed her eyes.
She focused on her breathing, on the rhythm she had learned through years of managing stress and survival. She thought of the mark, not as a threat, but as an extension of herself. A part she had not known existed.
Heat bloomed beneath the cloth.
The chamber responded instantly. Light rippled outward from her feet, tracing the etched circles. The hum deepened, resonating in her bones.
She opened her eyes.
The air around her shimmered, bending slightly, as though reality itself were straining. Images flickered at the edges of her vision. Streets she recognised. Streets, she did not. Faces. Shadows.
"Focus," Malik urged.
Amara clenched her fists, grounding herself. She thought of home. Of rain on hot pavement. Of laughter drifting from open windows. Of grief and resilience intertwined.
The light steadied.
Then, without warning, it spiked.
A sharp pain lanced through her wrist, and she cried out, dropping to one knee. The chamber shook. Cracks spidered across the stone floor.
"Stop," Liora shouted.
Kairo moved forward, his hands raised, energy gathering around him.
Amara gasped, her vision blurring. Through the haze, she saw it. A tear in the air itself, thin but unmistakable. Beyond it, darkness stirred.
Someone was pushing back.
"No," Amara whispered. "This is not just me."
The tear widened slightly, and a whisper brushed against her mind. Not a voice, but an intent. Cold. Curious.
Malik swore under his breath. "Someone is reaching through."
Kairo acted instantly, slamming his hands together. The chamber flared with blinding light. The tear snapped shut, the energy collapsing inward with a force that knocked everyone off their feet.
Silence followed, heavy and absolute.
Amara lay on the floor, her chest heaving. Her wrist burned, the mark blazing beneath the cloth.
When she finally pushed herself upright, she met Kairo's gaze. There was something new there now. Not just control or calculation, but fear.
"That should not have been possible," he said.
"But it was," Amara replied hoarsely. "Which means we are already too late."
Later, alone once more, Amara sat in the quiet of her room, her body aching, her mind racing. The cost of knowing was becoming painfully clear. Every truth uncovered brought new danger. Every step forward narrowed her options.
She unwrapped her wrist and stared at the mark. It pulsed gently, almost reassuring.
"I did not ask for this," she murmured.
The mark did not respond, but she sensed its patience. Its certainty.
Somewhere within these walls, someone was working against her. Testing her limits. Preparing for something far worse than fractures and symbols.
And for the first time, Amara understood that survival would not depend on who guided her, but on who she chose to trust when the balance finally broke.