Velan staggered out of the chamber.
The stone door slammed shut behind him with a deep, grinding groan—like the earth itself sealing away a memory. The sigils dimmed. The wind outside returned, but something in the air had shifted. He had shifted.
His body felt… wrong. Not in pain, but different. Like wearing someone else's skin.
The first thing he noticed was heat—but it wasn't from the sun. It burned inside him, coiled at the base of his spine, thrumming like a heart made of iron. And when he clenched his fist, veins on his forearm glowed faintly with black-red light, pulsing with every beat.
He yanked down his sleeve.
Not now. Not here.
Not when anyone could see.
He kept his head low as he returned to the servant quarters, each step heavier than before—as if gravity itself had grown curious about him. Other servants avoided his gaze, as they always had. A few gave him disgust. One or two gave him pity.
Velan didn't notice. His mind was elsewhere.
The voice had called him chosen. Chosen for what?
He needed answers.
---
Back in his dark corner of the servant's hall, Velan knelt before the cracked stone basin where he washed each morning. The water inside was murky, reflecting the broken wooden beams overhead. He leaned in, unsure what he was hoping to find.
And then he saw it.
At the base of his throat, just above the collarbone, a faint black symbol pulsed beneath his skin—a flame wrapped in a serpent's shadow. It wasn't a tattoo. It was alive, pulsing with each breath, fading when he looked too long, but returning whenever he blinked.
He reached up and touched it.
Pain exploded through his chest. Not a wound. A memory.
---
[Memory Flash – Fragmented Vision]
Blades clashing in a hall of black stone.
A woman screaming in a language older than time.
A throne made of broken bones.
A child's cry echoing in the void.
Then silence.
---
Velan gasped and fell backward, coughing violently. It took minutes to calm the shaking.
Was that a vision?
Or a warning?
> You are chosen by the Shadow. But the world is not ready for you.
He remembered those words. They didn't sound like prophecy—they sounded like a command.
But he didn't even know who he was. Only that he had been born to a servant, raised in filth, beaten by nobles, and ignored by fate. Until now.
---
Later that night, the estate buzzed with commotion.
A fire had broken out near the northern wall. Rumors spread quickly—one of the storage sheds for the martial armory had caught fire from the inside. No one knew why. No one had seen anything.
But Velan… he knew.
As he lay in the shadows behind the sleeping quarters, he looked at his hand again. That same pulsing glow returned for a heartbeat, and with it, the faint smell of smoke.
He clenched his fist.
Something inside him was changing. Not just the mark. Not just the vision.
His will.
For the first time, he didn't feel afraid of Thiruvadi. He didn't feel like a rat hiding in filth.
He felt like something watching from the dark, waiting… no, choosing.
And somewhere within his blood, the ancient presence—Anaiyaal—whispered silently once more:
> "You burn… but you have not yet learned to wield the flame."
---
End of Chapter 2