The dreams began that night.
Cassian told me casually at first—dark forests, whispers in languages he didn't know, a weight pressing on his chest.
I pretended not to panic.
Then I noticed the shadows beneath his eyes.
Then the way his hands trembled when he thought I wasn't looking.
One evening, while he slept in the library chair, I saw it.
A faint black mark on his collarbone.
Not a bruise.
Not ink.
A symbol.
My blood turned cold.
I had seen it before—in the forbidden texts, in margins stained with fear.
The curse had noticed him.