Lysandra couldn't tear her eyes away from the mark.
It pulsed softly, dark as ink, yet shifting like mist beneath her skin. It didn't hurt anymore, but she could feel it like an ember smoldering just beneath the surface.
The prince hadn't moved. He was still kneeling beside her, silver eyes fixed on the mark with something close to dread.
Finally, she broke the silence. "Tell me."
The prince exhaled slowly, as if weighing his words. Then, he said, "This is no ordinary brand."
Lysandra's fingers curled against her palm. "What is it, then?"
The wind stirred around them, carrying a whisper too faint to understand. The prince's gaze flickered toward the shifting trees before he turned back to her.
"There's an old tale," he said. "One that predates even the curse on my bloodline."
Lysandra stayed silent, waiting.
"The gods once walked among mortals," the prince continued. "But they were cruel, fickle. They played with lives as if they were nothing but stories in their hands. And so, one day, a single mortal defied them."
The mark on Lysandra's skin pulsed.
"This mortal," the prince said, his voice dropping lower, "refused the gods' will. And for that, they were branded." His eyes locked onto hers. "Not as a warning. As a claim."
Lysandra's breath caught.
"They were never seen again," the prince finished.
The wind howled through the trees.
She should have been terrified.
She wasn't.
Instead, she forced herself to breathe, to steady the storm raging inside her mind. She had already accepted death when she refused the first heir's offer. This was no different.
"So what you're saying," she said slowly, "is that the gods might come for me."
The prince's jaw tightened.
She could already guess the answer.
Instead of responding, he reached out, hesitated—then pressed his fingers lightly against her wrist, where the mark lay.
A sharp jolt ran through her.
Lysandra sucked in a breath as the world shifted—not physically, but as if the air around them had turned to something ancient, something watching.
Then, something spoke.
You have been seen.
Lysandra's vision blurred, her mind filling with the echoes of a voice that was not her own.
The prince jerked back.
She gasped, the sensation vanishing as quickly as it had come.
Her heart pounded.
"What—" she started, but the prince was already standing, eyes shadowed with something unreadable.
"They are aware now," he murmured. "And they will not ignore you."
A chill ran through her spine.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The forest around them felt different, as if the trees themselves were listening, leaning closer.
Then, finally, Lysandra pushed herself up.
She had a choice. Run. Hide. Hope the gods would lose interest.
Or…
She lifted her gaze to meet the prince's.
"I don't care if the gods are watching," she said. "I will break this curse."
The prince stared at her for a moment. Then, slowly, something flickered across his face—something close to reluctant admiration.
But it was gone in an instant.
He turned, the silver threads of his coat catching the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. "Then we must move. You may have defied the first heir, but the gods…" His voice was quiet. "They do not tolerate defiance for long."
Lysandra exhaled and followed.
As they stepped deeper into the shadows of the forest, the wind carried something new—a whisper, distant yet unmistakable.
Lysandra.
Her name, spoken by something unseen.
She didn't look back.