Lucien Draven didn't do guilt.
He didn't do rage, or heartbreak, or prophecy. Those were emotions for people who couldn't win the game.
But as he leaned against the stone railing outside Silas's wing, bathed in the dying light of dusk, his jaw clenched harder than he meant it to.
Silas had snapped.
Not just defended Lyra—he'd claimed her in a way that hadn't been verbalized but had burned through every wall in that room. And Dorian, arrogant bastard that he was, had been one wrong word from bleeding out on the floor.
Lucien wasn't jealous.
He was... irritated.
Irritated that they were unraveling.
Irritated that Silas had let her get that close.
Irritated that he hadn't.
"She's not here to escape," he muttered to himself. "She's here to change the rules."
Elias stood behind him, silent as always.
"She didn't scream when Silas snapped," Elias said quietly.
Lucien didn't turn. "No. Because she already knew how it would play out."
"You think she's manipulating him?"
"I think," Lucien said slowly, "that he wants to be manipulated."
Elias didn't answer.
But Lucien's eyes tracked the flickering candlelight inside the healer's wing, and he wondered—not for the first time—what it would take to make her scream.
Not in pain.
In surrender.
Lyra didn't fall asleep. She collapsed.
Exhaustion hit like a wave—thick and suffocating—and dragged her under before she could fight it.
The bed was soft, the room quiet. The fire burned low in the hearth.
But her dreams… her dreams were loud.
It began the way it always did.
With the sound of her mother's voice.
"Stay close to the trees, little wolf. The forest listens better than people do."
The memory hit like a stone in still water, rippling through the silence of sleep.
She was small again. Barefoot. Knees scraped. Wolf cubs howling in the distance as dusk painted the forest in bruised colors.
Her mother's hand held hers tightly. The scent of pine, smoke, and wildflowers clung to her skin.
They were running.
The fire hadn't reached them yet.
Not physically.
But it had already started to burn in the eyes of the men chasing them.
"She's a girl—she's cursed!""If she bleeds, we all burn!"
They were screaming at her. Not her mother. Her.
Because she was the last girl born to Moonshade Hollow. The one the seer had whispered about. The one the prophecy clung to like a fever dream.
Her mother hid her under the floorboards of a crumbling forest cabin. Covered her in furs. Pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"Don't move. Don't speak. No matter what you hear."
And then she was gone.
Moments later, boots thundered across the floor above her. Voices shouted. Something heavy slammed. Wood splintered. And then—
Her mother screamed.
The kind of scream that hollowed a child out from the inside.
But Lyra stayed silent.
Tears soaked the fur. Her fists balled. Her teeth cut into her lip until she bled.
The next morning, the air stank of ash and death.
She crawled out.
The house was cinders. The trees still smoldered.
Her mother's body—half-shifted, broken—lay in the clearing.
And beside her, waiting patiently, sat Dorian.
His hair was combed. His shirt spotless.
He offered her a clean blanket and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"They didn't mean to hurt her," he said. "But you… you're still valuable."
He took her hand.
Led her away.
That was the first time she was marked.
Not by magic.
By betrayal.
She woke with a gasp, the blanket tangled around her legs, sweat cooling on her skin. The fire had died down to glowing embers. Her throat ached. Her ribs throbbed. And her pulse—
Fast. Unrelenting. Distant.
She sat up slowly, trying to breathe, but the memory clung like smoke in her lungs.
And then she saw it.
A glow.
Faint, bluish-silver.
Emanating from just above her left collarbone.
One of the five marks—Kael's—was lit with a slow, pulsing shimmer like moonlight reflected in still water. It was soft but clear, illuminating the lines of his rune as if something ancient had woken inside her.
She reached for it.
It pulsed.
Not against her fingers.
From within.
It wasn't just light. It was memory. Power. Her.
A voice whispered, not aloud, but through the marrow of her bones.
"Not all marks are meant to bind. Some are meant to awaken."
She froze.
The room was supposed to be empty.
But it wasn't.
From the doorway, Kael stepped through the veil of shadow like he'd been carved from it.
No sound. No warning. Just presence.
He studied her—not with hunger, or ownership.
But like he was seeing a weapon remembering what it was forged for.
"You dream loudly," he said.
She stood quickly, wrapping the blanket around her.
"How long have you been watching me?"
"Long enough," Kael replied.
"You're trespassing."
"No. I'm studying."
He walked closer, gaze fixed on the glowing mark.
"You activated it," he murmured. "Without a trigger. That shouldn't be possible."
"What does it mean?"
Kael tilted his head, expression unreadable. "It means you're not what they think you are."
Her breath caught.
He reached out, slow and deliberate—not to touch the mark, but to gesture toward it.
"She's waking up," he said softly.
Lyra's voice was barely a whisper. "Who is?"
Kael's eyes locked on hers.
"The part of you they tried to burn."
🖤 Mini-Scene: The Mark That Remembers
Lyra sat by the window, long after Kael had gone.
The mark on her collarbone had stopped glowing, but she could still feel it. A hum beneath her skin. Like the echo of a name she hadn't heard in years.
Outside, the moon hung low and full over the compound walls—silver and cold, staring down like a watchful god.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and reached beneath the floorboard of the guest cot.
Her fingers found it easily. Still there. Still hers.
A worn leather-bound journal, edges charred, pages yellowed from age and ash.
One of the few things she'd managed to keep from the night her world ended.
She opened it slowly, heart beating like a memory.
The first page held only one line, written in her mother's hand.
"They will fear what they cannot control, my little wolf. And they will try to name it ruin."
Lyra ran her fingers over the faded ink, then turned the page and picked up the charcoal stub hidden inside the spine.
Her hands trembled as she began to write for the first time in months.
Kael saw it. The mark. He called it an awakening.But it didn't feel like power. It felt like remembering.Like some part of me was buried. And tonight, it breathed.
She paused, then wrote one last line.
If I belong to anyone, it's to the fire they lit inside me the day they tried to kill who I was.
She closed the journal gently.
And whispered into the dark,
"Let them come."