The walk to Cyrus' tent felt longer than it should have. Varlen followed in silence, his presence a reminder that there was no turning back.
Cyrus looked up as we entered. "Something wrong?"
Varlen didn't waste time. "She has a curse mark. Heat triggers it."
Cyrus' expression didn't change, but I saw the flicker of something in his eyes—concern, calculation. "Let me see."
I obeyed, pulling the fabric aside. The sigil pulsed faintly, dark against my skin.
For a long time, Cyrus said nothing. Then, he leaned back, folding his arms. "How much does it hinder you?"
"It doesn't," I said quickly. "I've adapted."
Cyrus studied me, then glanced at Varlen. "And in battle?"
"She fought through an ambush without faltering," Varlen admitted. "Whatever this curse is, it hasn't slowed her down yet."
Cyrus nodded slowly. "Then we treat it as a weakness, not a failure. You continue to train at night. You take precautions. But you will not be sidelined for this."
Relief threatened to surface, but I swallowed it down. "Understood."
Cyrus' gaze lingered on me. "If it worsens—if it puts you or your men at risk—I need to know."
I nodded.
He exhaled, then allowed a small smirk. "You keep proving me right, Lavina."
I lifted my chin. "I intend to."
As I left the tent, Varlen chuckled under his breath. "Didn't even flinch."
I shot him a sidelong glance. "Did you expect me to?"
"No. But it's still impressive."
I didn't reply, but as I walked back into the night, I felt it—the shift. No longer just another soldier. No longer a nameless orphan.
I was rising. And nothing, not even a curse, would stop me.