Zain
The mark was glowing.
Faint but steady, like a dying ember that refused to be extinguished. It pulsed beneath her skin, right where my teeth had pierced her, and every throb of light felt like a reminder of the choice I had made.
No—not my choice.
Maren's.
She had burst into the room that night with urgency etched into every line of her face. "She won't survive the fever," she'd said, pushing aside herbs and ice packs like they were child's toys. "Not unless you stabilize her the old way."
I knew what she meant before she even said it. The bond. The mark.
A part of me recoiled at the thought. Marking someone unconscious? Violating that sacred rite without consent? But I looked at Violet—thrashing, burning up, slipping further away with every second—and something in me snapped.
I couldn't let her go.
Not her.
"Do it," I had told her. And I'd done it.
