Lumina didn't open the door for three days.
The sun rose and fell behind grey clouds; wind rattled her shutters; someone threw a stone on the second morning, and it broke her windowpane. She didn't flinch. She only covered the gap with a torn sheet and sat back on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the mark glowing faintly beneath her wrist.
It was always warm now. It pulsed gently when she breathed... like it was alive. Like it was watching her from inside her own skin.
On the fourth morning, she stood.
Not because she felt stronger—but because she was tired of feeling helpless.
She combed her hair, tied it in a loose braid, and opened her wardrobe. Most of her clothes had been ruined... slashed or burned, soaked or shredded. She found a faded green dress, wrinkled but intact. She smoothed it out as best she could.
Then she walked into town.
People stopped what they were doing when they saw her. Some turned their backs. Some whispered. Others simply stared... as if she were something already dead, walking around pretending not to know it.
At the bakery, Talia looked at her like she didn't recognize her.
"I need bread," Lumina said, her voice quiet.
Talia hesitated... then reached for a loaf and passed it across the counter without a word.
Lumina left three coins. Talia didn't touch them until Lumina had gone.
---
Far beyond the village, deep in the woods where the fog never lifted and the trees grew twisted with age, a creature moved.
It was tall... thin... made of too many limbs and not enough face. It walked without sound, gliding through the brush like mist. Its eyes were hollow, glowing faintly like dying stars.
And in its hand... it held a lock of silver-white hair.
---
Damien stood at the edge of the Crimson Keep's highest balcony, his hands resting on the cold stone rail. The wind tugged at his cloak, lifting the edges like wings.
Below, the city shimmered in the weak light of dawn. He hadn't slept. Not really. He had dreamed... again. Her face. Her voice. The sound of her crying.
He hated that sound more than he understood.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
"You're brooding again," came Stefan's voice.
"I prefer to call it thinking," Damien replied without turning.
"You prefer to call a lot of things by the wrong name."
Damien smiled faintly. "Is there something you want, brother?"
"I heard you're planning another visit to the mortal provinces."
"Who told you?"
"Does it matter?" Stefan's tone grew sharp. "You've always done what you wanted. You act like a prince, but rule like a king... and Father lets you."
Damien turned slowly. "Then maybe you should try being more useful."
Stefan's face twisted. "One day your arrogance will be the end of you."
Damien stepped closer—only a few inches—but Stefan stepped back.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Until that day... I'll be waiting."
---
Lumina returned to the chapel by nightfall.
The doors groaned when she pushed them open, the wood swollen from rain. Dust floated in the moonlight streaming through the broken windows. It smelled of stone, ash, and old prayers.
She didn't know why she came back... only that she needed to. The old altar still stood, half-collapsed, and behind it, the hiding place she had found before. The book was still there. Bound in something not quite leather... not quite seaweed.
She sat in the quiet and opened it.
Pages fluttered. Some blank. Some full of symbols that made her head hurt. But one... just one... glowed faintly.
She traced the mark with her finger, and it shifted—letters forming words she didn't know how to read, but understood anyway:
> "The bloodbound shall awaken. Not of one line... but of three. Flame. Tides. Spell. One to bind... and one to break."
She didn't understand.
But she felt it. Like a string deep in her chest had been pulled... and something far away had heard it.
---
Damien left the palace that night.
He told no one. Not his father. Not his guards. Not even the scribe who always followed him around with scrolls and questions. He rode alone under the cloak of darkness—no banner, no crest—only silence and a sword at his hip.
He needed to see her again.
Not just to answer his questions... but to stop the ache that had taken root somewhere beneath his ribs.
As he rode, the trees thickened... the wind howled louder... and somewhere in the distance, something screamed.
---
At the same time, Lumina dreamed again.
But this time, it wasn't a nightmare.
She was underwater.
Light filtered down in ribbons. Her hair floated around her like a halo. Something warm curled through her fingers—glowing threads, like magic come to life.
A voice—calm and ancient—spoke from the deep.
> "You are not what they see. You are not what they fear. You are the key."
She tried to speak... but the water filled her throat.
And then she woke.
---
The next morning, the air felt wrong again.
The sky was clear, but birds didn't sing. The village was still. Too still.
When Lumina stepped outside, a small bundle sat on her doorstep.
Wrapped in cloth. Carefully placed.
She opened it slowly.
Inside: another lily. White. Fresh.
And beneath it... a black stone carved with a symbol she recognized from the book.
Her hands shook.
She looked up—and across the street, someone was watching her from behind a curtain.
They shut it quickly.
She wasn't safe here anymore.
But where could she go?
---
The stone was still in her hand when the door shattered.
Lumina barely had time to turn before three figures burst through—faces hidden behind cloth, torches in their hands, fury in their eyes. The scent of pitch and smoke filled the air.
"There she is," one of them growled. "The witch."
She stumbled back, hitting the table behind her. "Wait—please—"
One of the men grabbed her by the arm and yanked her forward; the stone fell to the floor with a soft thud.
"She has the mark... I saw it," another hissed. "She's not human. She's cursed."
They forced her down. Her back scraped against the broken wood; a hand pressed over her mouth as one of them lifted the torch.
"No one's going to miss a cursed orphan," the man sneered. "Let her burn."
But before the flame could touch her... something inside her pulsed.
The wind outside screamed. The candle by the window flared and went out. A vase shattered on the far wall without being touched.
She screamed—not words, just sound—and everything exploded into light.
---
She didn't remember passing out.
She woke on the cold dirt street, the light gone from her skin, her throat raw. Her dress was torn at the sleeves; her hair clung to her face. Blood ran from her temple where something had struck her.
People stood in a circle around her.
Watching.
Whispering.
The three men stood nearby, one holding a torn piece of her cloak in his hand.
"She's still breathing," one muttered.
"Then we try again," another said, stepping forward.
Someone spat at her.
"Cursed thing."
"Orphan freak."
"She should've died years ago..."
They began to pull at her again—one tearing the rest of her sleeve, another laughing as she struggled weakly. Someone else threw a stone that struck her leg.
Then—
**A voice.**
Cold. Clear. Cutting through the air like thunder.
**"That's enough."**
The crowd froze.
All heads turned.
At the end of the street stood a tall figure draped in black—his cloak billowing behind him, a silver crest glinting at his chest. His face was calm, but his eyes were sharp as blades.
**Lord Damien.**
Silence gripped the square like a noose.
The man holding Lumina's arm dropped it as if burned.
"But my lord," someone stammered, "she's cursed... she's not right—"
Damien took a step forward. Just one.
And it was enough.
His voice dropped; cold steel beneath velvet. "Another word from you... and I'll separate your head from your body."
No one moved.
No one breathed.
The air around him felt heavy; thick with unspoken power. Even the bravest men took a step back.
He turned to Lumina—still crumpled on the ground, her body barely covered, dirt smudged across her skin, blood trailing down her neck. Her eyes didn't meet his. They stared blankly past him... empty. Silent.
He knelt and unfastened his cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders with careful hands.
"Go inside," he said quietly. "Take what you need."
She didn't answer.
He looked to his guards, who had just arrived behind him, silent and watchful. "Help her."
Two stepped forward immediately.
Lumina stood shakily, limbs trembling. She didn't seem to feel the ground under her feet. The crowd parted, silent now\... pale and wide-eyed.
The guards helped her gather her things—what little hadn't been destroyed. A cracked mirror. A folded shawl. A satchel she clutched like it held her last breath.
They placed it all in the black carriage waiting at the edge of the square.
She climbed in last, her bare feet silent on the step, the cloak swallowing her frame.
Inside, she sat across from Damien.
She didn't look at him.
She stared at the floor.
Her shoulders shook, but no sobs came. Only the soft, broken sound of breath catching in her throat again and again... like she was trying to cry but had nothing left inside her to give.
Damien didn't speak.
He watched her.
And for the first time in a long time... he didn't know what to say.
---