Night came fast in the Forest of Teeth.
Seraphira had made camp beside the remnants of the broken shrine, sleepless and restless beneath the pale glow of a hidden moon. The witch's words had rooted in her mind like thorns.
"To the one who waits beneath…"
What did it mean?
Why did the shrine feel familiar, though she'd never seen it before?
The fire in her blood remained quiet, but she could feel it warming slowly, subtly as if stirred by something unseen.
She glanced at her wrist.
There.
A faint shape on her skin a mark, like soot or ash, almost invisible unless touched by moonlight. It hadn't been there before.
She rubbed at it.
It did not fade.
The mark spiraled inward like a flame curling into itself, the edges delicate but firm. It wasn't painted or scarred. It had risen from beneath the skin, like it had always been there... waiting.
She stared at it.
And for the first time in a long while, she felt afraid.
She yanked her sleeve down and stood, unable to sit still. The fire she'd finally coaxed into life crackled low beside her, throwing shadows across the clearing.
And from those shadows, the Hollow Riders watched.
They moved silently between the trees, never closer than the edges of her vision. Their hollow masks, carved from ashwood and bone, stared without blinking. Their beasts half-stallion, half-nightmare snorted steam into the air.
They made no move.
No sound.
No threat.
But they followed.
She didn't know if they were real or illusions conjured by the forest. Either way, she refused to show fear.
Let them watch.
Let them see the girl who would not bow.
Seraphira turned back to the shrine. The mark on her wrist pulsed, warmer now. Not burning but alive.
She stepped forward again and placed her palm against the altar.
This time, it did not pulse back.
Instead, something bled through her thoughts a whisper, not of words, but of longing.
Like something forgotten reaching toward her through stone and time.
She jerked her hand away and stumbled back.
Not ready.
Not yet.
But the mark on her wrist burned brighter now, like coal beneath skin.
Whatever had been sealed… had seen her.
🌑 Far below…
In the Underworld, Kaelreth stood in a chamber not seen by even his oldest generals.
The Sanctum of Flame.
Its walls were etched with binding runes. Its ceiling roared with fire fed by the Veil itself. Here, he watched the balance between worlds the ebb and flow of fate.
Tonight, the flames had changed.
They danced in new shapes.
One resembled a girl with violet eyes.
The other, a hand reaching up from darkness.
Kaelreth said nothing.
But the mark that mirrored hers burned into his wrist centuries ago and long faded began to glow again.