Elena had barely slept since the trial. Every time she closed her eyes, she was dragged into dreams—or visions—of fire and shadow, of whispers curling around her like smoke, promising her power beyond comprehension.
The mark on her arm had changed overnight. Once a jagged crimson etching, it had now spread further, its tendrils creeping up her forearm like living veins. It glowed faintly in the dark, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The pain was sharper now, almost like the mark was carving itself deeper into her skin.
But the worst part wasn't the pain.
It was the voice.
Take what is yours, Elena.
The voice was neither male nor female, neither loud nor quiet. It simply existed in the back of her mind, whispering things she shouldn't want to hear.
She pressed her palm against the mark, trying to drown out the whisper.
"Still hurting?"
Elena turned to see Lira, arms crossed, watching her from the doorway.
Lira stepped closer, gaze fixed on the mark. "It's changing faster than I expected."
"You expected this?" Elena asked sharply.
Lira hesitated, then sighed. "There's something you should know."
She unbuttoned her sleeve and rolled it up, revealing a faded mark of her own. Unlike Elena's fresh, pulsing brand, Lira's was duller, like an old scar.
"I was Bloodmarked too," she admitted.
Elena stared. "What do you mean 'was'?"
Lira pulled her sleeve back down. "My family has been hunted by the immortals for centuries. My mother tried to remove my mark when I was a child—to protect me. But it didn't work. The magic is still inside me, just… dormant." She met Elena's eyes. "You don't have that luxury. Yours is waking up, and the immortals will come for you."
Before Elena could respond, the walls trembled. A low, unnatural hum filled the air.
The attack had begun.
The sky above the Athenaeum darkened unnaturally. A sharp gust of wind tore through the courtyard, and then they appeared.
A dozen figures in black cloaks moved in eerie unison, their faces hidden behind silver masks. They walked without sound, like shadows given form. At their center stood Eryndor, taller than the rest, his golden eyes glowing beneath his hood.
"Elena Verenthos," he called out, his voice smooth as silk, laced with something dangerous. "You are Bloodmarked. You belong to us."
Students and professors scattered, spells flying, wards activating. But the immortals were fast. Too fast.
Elena's breath hitched as one of them blinked—vanishing and reappearing inches from her.
Instinct took over.
The mark on her arm flared, and suddenly, she wasn't just dodging—she was moving faster than she ever had before. The world sharpened around her, every movement calculated, every breath controlled.
Then she raised her hand—and the shadows moved with her.
The immortal lunged, but a pulse of darkness erupted from her palm, sending him flying back.
The moment it happened, Elena felt something shift inside her.
The whispering voice purred in satisfaction.
Good.
She barely had time to react before Eryndor himself stepped forward, untouched by the chaos around him.
"You don't understand, do you?" he said, tilting his head. "We are not your enemies."
Elena clenched her fists. "You just tried to kill me."
"If I wanted you dead, you would be."
His words sent a chill through her.
Eryndor took a step closer. "The Bloodmarked are not what you think. The Athenaeum has fed you lies. You are not the key to Excidium's power. You are the lock."
Elena's pulse roared in her ears. "What does that mean?"
Eryndor smiled—slow, knowing. "Join us, and you'll find out."
The mark burned on her arm. For a split second, she felt something… a pull. Like his words made sense.
The voice inside her whispered: Listen to him.
But then she saw the students fighting in the background—her friends, her allies. She saw Lira's tense expression.
She gritted her teeth.
"I'd rather die."
Eryndor sighed. "Pity."
A blast of force sent her flying.
Elena woke up somewhere else.
She was lying on a stone slab inside a dimly lit cavern. Ancient runes flickered along the walls, casting an eerie blue glow.
Lira was sitting beside her, arms crossed. "You really know how to make enemies."
Master Veyra stepped forward, face grim. "Welcome to the Hidden Sanctuary."
Elena sat up, groaning. "What happened?"
Veyra's expression darkened. "The immortals will be back. And next time, they won't just be testing you."
Elena swallowed. "So what do we do?"
Veyra hesitated, then turned to the wall behind her. With a wave of her hand, the stone shifted, revealing a hidden chamber.
Inside was a mural—one that made Elena's blood run cold.
It depicted a figure that looked disturbingly like her, standing at the center of a battlefield. Shadows coiled around her feet. Above her, a monstrous entity loomed, its hands outstretched like a puppeteer.
"The Bloodmarked were not meant to be heroes," Veyra said softly. "They were created to be vessels."
The mark on Elena's arm ached.
She felt suddenly, violently sick.
To understand the mural's truth, Veyra insisted Elena undergo the Trial of Shadows—a test that would force her to confront the mark's true nature.
The trial began with darkness.
Elena stood in a void, unable to see, unable to move. Then, slowly, the darkness shifted—became her.
A second Elena stepped forward, identical in every way, except her eyes were completely black.
"You're not strong enough," the specter murmured. "You never were."
Elena clenched her fists. "I won't listen to you."
The specter smiled. "You already do."
A wave of power slammed into her, forcing her to her knees. The mark flared, and for the first time, Elena felt herself slipping—like something else was trying to take over.
Give in, the voice whispered. Let me show you what true power feels like.
Her mind screamed at her to fight.
But gods, it was tempting.
For a split second, she imagined it—unleashing the mark's full power, making them all kneel.
Then a hand touched her shoulder.
Lira.
"Elena, come back."
Her heartbeat slowed. The darkness receded.
The specter hissed, eyes burning. "You'll regret this."
Then it vanished.
When Elena returned from the trial, her hands were still shaking.
Veyra handed her a journal—a worn, tattered book with her mother's name etched on the cover.
Elena's throat tightened. She flipped through the pages, scanning her mother's words—until she found one passage that made her blood turn to ice.
The Bloodmarked are not the key to Excidium's power. They are the lock.
The same words Eryndor had said.
Before she could process the revelation, the ground beneath her trembled. The runes along the sanctuary walls flickered violently, like something was breaking through.
A voice echoed through the chamber.
"You are not alone."
Elena's breath caught.
Because this time… the voice wasn't inside her head.