"Clari—!" The shout tore out of my chest before I had time to think.
"M-Mariam…!" Her voice trembled like a leaf in the wind.
The sacred oak towered above them like a dark colossus. Its trunk — wide, blackened, carved with ancient runes — seemed almost alive. Its branches spread so far they looked ready to cover half the sky. In the twilight, the tree appeared nearly black, and the runes on its bark glowed faintly, as though someone had traced them with charcoal.
And before this ancient sentinel stood Daemon.
His usually neat black hair was disheveled, dark strands falling across his face. His jaw was clenched, his lips pale. In those calm, attentive eyes of his now flickered something feverish.
I had seen that look once before.
When Yakov's powers awakened, his face had twisted — not from pain, but from something else. As if a window had opened inside him and a storm had poured through it.
Back then, the archmage — a dry old man with a grey beard reaching his chest and wrinkles like cracks in parched earth — had managed to raise a barrier in time. Glass shattered in the hall, candelabras fell, and one of the servants fainted.
Awakening is not a romantic flash of light.
It's a catastrophe with aesthetics.
And right now, the catastrophe was about to repeat itself.
Clarissa was standing far too close.
She was pressed against the oak, her ash-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, golden eyes wide, fingers clutching the fabric of her dress.
"Clara, come here!" I tried to sound firm, though my heart was pounding like it was about to break free from my chest.
"W-what's happening to him…?" she whispered.
"Look at me. Slowly. No sudden movements."
I held out my hand.
Daemon doubled over as if struck by pain.
"I… I can't… anymore…"
His voice broke.
The air around him shuddered. Leaves on the oak trembled even though there was no wind.
I grabbed Clarissa by the wrist and pulled her toward me. She stumbled, but I managed to shove her aside.
And then—
I stepped forward.
Congratulations, Mariam.
You have voluntarily signed up to be the shield.
A flash.
Not blinding — more like something dense and heavy, as if a wave of light and shadow had crashed over me at once.
The world shrank to a single heartbeat.
My final thought was absurdly mundane:
I hope the dress isn't ruined.
It's new.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the ceiling of my room — painted with golden lilies and celestial patterns.
Soft.
Very soft.
Hm. If this is death, it's remarkably comfortable.
My ears rang as if I had spent the night inside a bell. When I tried to sit up, it ended in a pathetic wheeze — my muscles ached as though I had dragged the oak tree with my bare hands.
The door burst open.
My parents rushed into the room.
Mother — in a pale pink dress, her hair disheveled, her eyes red from crying. Her slender fingers clutched the hem of her skirt so tightly the fabric had wrinkled.
Father — tall, stern, but now pale. His dark hair, usually perfectly combed back, had fallen out of place.
"Mariam!"
"W-what's happening…?"
Why are they looking at me like I just returned from the afterlife?
"Clara?!" The memory struck suddenly.
"I'm here!" Clarissa ran toward me.
She looked unharmed. Alive. Only her eyes were swollen from crying, and her hands trembled.
"I'm fine…"
"Good…" I whispered.
And promptly blacked out again.
The next time I woke up, my family had apparently decided it was time for an official magical inspection.
An archmage entered the room — this one young, with neatly arranged blond hair and the expression of a man trying to look confident while secretly wishing to be somewhere far away from unstable mana.
He stood beside my bed and raised his hands. His palms glowed with a soft silver light.
"The desire to protect Lady Lavcor triggered the awakening of your powers."
Oh.
So I heroically rushed to save my friend and received a magical upgrade as a reward?
Wonderful.
I already feel like a Winx fairy.
"Enchantiiiiix, magical duuust…" I hummed silently, barely resisting the urge to spin around on the bed with imaginary wings.
Meanwhile, the archmage kept moving his hands over me as if he were trying to catch an invisible butterfly.
"Unfortunately, I cannot determine the type of magic. The mana you are emitting… appears unusual."
Unusual?
Thank you.
Is that my official magical status now?
Lady Mariam 'Strange Mana' Virsavia.
"That isn't dangerous, is it?" my mother's voice trembled. She stood nearby, pale, nervously twisting the lace on her sleeve. Her gaze flickered between my father and the archmage as if one of them might suddenly say, "Everything is perfectly fine. It's just teenage magic."
"This happens with early awakenings sometimes, doesn't it?"
The archmage hesitated.
The pause dragged on.
My father, tall and tense like a drawn bowstring, stepped forward.
"Then explain why she has… this."
He pointed at my face.
The archmage froze. The glow in his hands slowly faded.
He exhaled heavily.
"May we speak outside the room?"
Ah, the classic.
If adults want to talk outside the room, it means nothing good is about to be discussed.
They left.
The door closed.
I remained alone — with a faint ringing in my ears and an annoyingly catchy song from a children's cartoon stuck in my head.
"Enchantiiiiix…"
Well then.
If this is my magical transformation, where exactly are the applause?
The archmage visited several more times.
Each visit followed roughly the same script: he asked about my condition, waved his glowing hands over my body, frowned, nodded thoughtfully, and left looking like a man confronted with a problem that came without instructions.
I didn't see my parents again.
Fiona said they had "many matters to attend to" and that they would certainly come as soon as everything was settled.
Of course.
A few times I heard footsteps outside the door.
Heavy. Slow.
Someone would stop, linger for a moment… and then walk away.
I wonder if that was Father or Mother.
Or maybe they're playing a game of who dares to enter the strange child's room first.
They didn't let me near a mirror right away. Apparently they feared I might dramatically faint in horror.
When they finally allowed it, I approached calmly.
And looked.
A thin scar near my right eye.
Almost neat, as if someone had drawn it with a delicate brush.
The eye itself was no longer bright blue — now it was a deep red, dark and wine-colored.
I leaned closer.
Turned my head left.
Then right.
"That's it?" I muttered.
Judging by everyone's reaction, I had expected something far more impressive.
Perhaps black cracks across my face.
Or a glowing brand.
Or at least smoke coming from the eye socket.
But this?
Just a change of color.
Honestly… it looks rather striking.
After undressing, I examined myself carefully. No burns, no cracks, no magical symbols on my back.
I was perfectly healthy.
"So the entire tragedy is just one eye?" I snorted. "How horrifying. Declare mourning immediately."
They didn't let me leave the room.
The priest disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared.
Only Fiona and I remained.
Fiona — dark hair neatly gathered in a low bun, large brown eyes where fear and stubbornness mixed together. She carried herself steadily, but I noticed how her fingers sometimes trembled when she adjusted the sheets or set down a tray.
I wasn't angry.
Fear is a natural reaction to the unknown.
And right now, I am very much unknown.
Four months.
Four months I spent in this room — surrounded by books, silence, and my own thoughts.
There was more than enough time to reflect.
"So… a book, then…" I laughed nervously one evening, sitting at the writing desk.
I remembered the plot poorly. In fragments. But certain pieces surfaced.
I ran the pen across a blank sheet, building the chain of events in my head.
"Come on. Remember…"
Clarissa — the main heroine. Bright, kind, blessed with the rare gift of foresight.
Daemon — the antagonist. The cause of her suffering.
The Seal.
Pain.
A long journey.
The Prince — what was his name? I don't remember. The savior. He was the one who broke the seal.
I stopped.
And me?
Mariam — who are you?
Slowly, I looked at my reflection in the mirror.
In the original story, it was as if I didn't exist at all.
I didn't remember anyone with that name interfering in the key events.
"A pawn?" I murmured. "Or a mistake?"
What am I doing in the center of all this?
Why was I under that oak tree?
Why did my powers awaken at that moment?
I tapped the pen against the desk.
The Seal.
Everyone calls it a curse of Night magic. But in the historical chronicles I had read over the years, there wasn't a single mention of curses of that kind.
Not one official record.
Strange.
If Night magic could place irreversible seals left and right, wouldn't that be written in the textbooks?
I leaned back in my chair.
"So either the story is lying…" I muttered,
"…or someone really doesn't want us to know the truth."
And that bothered me even more than the red eye.
There was a knock on the door.
I froze.
Hm. Interesting.
Fiona always knocks twice — with a pause of exactly two seconds. It's her little ritual.
This time — four quick knocks, without the slightest hint of delicacy.
Oh.
Either an intrusion… or an official visit.
"Come in!"
The door opened.
"Lady Mariam, His Holiness the Archmage is here to see you," Fiona announced in the same tone usually reserved for introducing people capable of setting a cathedral on fire with a single gesture.
A young man entered the room.
Tall, slender, with neatly arranged light-brown hair and attentive gray eyes. His robe was dark blue with silver embroidery, looking suspiciously new — as if he had just unpacked it from a magical starter kit titled Archmage for Beginners.
This was not the one who had visited before.
Oh.
A change in staff.
Did the previous one fail the assignment?
I inclined my head politely.
"My lady, I presume you must be confused. My name is Malcolm. I—"
"I'm not interested in the details of the previous archmage's disappearance," I interrupted. "I would simply like to know when I will be allowed to leave my chambers."
He blinked.
Then smiled.
"Oh! I've heard about your straightforward nature."
Naturally.
I've been locked in here for four months — of course I'm going to be a model of diplomacy.
"Do not worry. You will soon leave these walls."
He reached into the leather pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out—
"A veil?" I raised an eyebrow.
A thin, translucent fabric with a faint silver shimmer.
"A veil," he confirmed solemnly. "It is enchanted in such a way that the curse will not harm those around you, while concealing your… scar."
Ah yes.
My terrifying eye.
Of course.
A magical curtain against public panic.
Put it on — and the monster disappears.
"I see," I nodded calmly and accepted the fabric.
Judging by the look on his face, he had expected either hysteria or a philosophical crisis.
"Lady Mariam… you are so young," he breathed, almost sympathetically.
"Malcolm," I looked at him directly, "I may be young, but I am not foolish. Four months is more than enough time to realize that people are afraid of this."
I pointed at my eye.
"The source of all misfortune."
He fell silent.
Then inclined his head slightly.
"We shall meet again, Lady Mariam."
"Undoubtedly," I nodded, as if we had just arranged a friendly tea, rather than a future inspection of my strange mana.
When the door closed, I let out a quiet breath.
"Fiona… are you afraid to be near me?" I asked almost in a whisper.
She froze.
Her dark hair was neatly tied back, her thin face pale, but her gaze steady.
"I would be lying if I said no…" she admitted honestly. "But you are my lady. I will remain loyal to you. Even if I must follow you into Hell."
I couldn't help but smile faintly.
"I hope Hell won't be necessary. But I'll remember that."
She bowed and left.
I respected Fiona.
She had been assigned to me when I turned four. She herself had been only sixteen then — a thin, frightened girl with chapped hands. Before that she had scrubbed floors in the kitchen and cleaned the latrines — work even adults perform while cursing under their breath.
Not everyone is fortunate with their masters.
When I noticed her and started dragging her to my room under the pretense of "needing assistance," my mother understood quickly.
Within a week, Fiona became my personal maid.
Sometimes influence is a very useful thing.
I needed to return to my thoughts.
I sat down at the desk again.
A sheet of paper.
A quill.
Emptiness in my head.
"Focus…" I muttered. "You must remember something."
I tried to pull even a single clear fragment from my memory, but my thoughts spread like ink in water.
How?
Why?
For what purpose?
Not a single proper answer.
"To hell with it," I exhaled. "First I need to understand what this 'Seal' actually is. Then I can start thinking about how to get rid of it."
***
Two days later.
"My lady, you may leave the room now," Fiona informed me cautiously.
Oh.
Freedom.
"My lady… the veil," she pointed at the fabric lying on the table.
"Ah yes. My official accessory."
I placed it over my head.
The thin fabric settled softly across my face, hiding the eye.
Of course.
Now everyone will stop being afraid.
Because if you can't see it, it must not exist.
We stepped into the corridor.
Long, bright, decorated with tapestries depicting glorious ancestors. The servants suddenly developed a fascinating interest in the walls. One maid studied the pattern on the carpet so intently it was as if she were trying to decipher the secrets of the universe within it.
Another's hands were trembling.
For a moment I felt the urge to suddenly turn around and say:
"Boo."
But instead I only chuckled quietly and continued walking.
If only they knew that even I haven't decided yet whether I'm someone to be afraid of.