The night smelled of iron and rain.
Above the peaks of Aravelle hung a moon so black that even the stars seemed to hold their breath. Inside the ancient temple, the air was hot—as if the darkness itself were burning.
A scream cut through the silence—first one, then another.
Twins.
The midwife stumbled back, her hands trembling. On the stone threshold flickered a light that came from no fire. The walls trembled; runes began to glow—ancient symbols no mortal still knew.
The first child breathed, and golden light poured from its skin like from a shattered lamp.
The second opened its eyes—and shadow dripped from the pupil.
"They must be separated…" the priest whispered. His voice sounded as though it echoed from far away.
The mother lay motionless, tears and blood mingling. Above her descended a figure of light—a woman in golden armor, eyes like liquid sky—Athena.
"Two sparks… a flaw in the balance," she said. "If they remain together, the world will burn."
The priest fell to his knees. "Which one shall we—"
"Both," Athena cut him off. "But never together."
Lightning split the hall. The air cracked, the stone floor split open. Between the newborns, a line of searing light stretched and flickered into shadow.
The light hissed—as if it felt pain.
The midwife screamed. Half the temple collapsed. When the rumbling ceased, the line was gone—and with it, the shimmering mark on the infants' brows. Only a half-sign remained on each, a fracture fine as a burn scar.
For a heartbeat, everything was still. Then movement returned.
Athena looked down at the newborns. "The Mark of Darkness… divided."
She took the golden child into her arms. "To this one I grant light and faith."
Her gaze drifted to the other—the one with dark eyes, already curling its fist. "And to this one… memory and wrath."
The goddess turned away. The storm blew the doors open, wind swirling ash across the floor.
Outside waited a chariot of marble, drawn by beasts of light. A second carriage, forged of iron and smoke, stood in the shadow. Two men each took one child.
The mother, half-conscious, whispered, "Don't separate them… they are one…"
But her voice was lost in the thunder.
The sky shattered.
A lightning bolt split the night—and the children.
Years later.
Wind swept dust across the cobblestones of a city that had long forgotten the gods once walked beneath it. Smoke from the forges rose over the rooftops, and at the edge of the market stood a girl, barefoot, hands buried in the pockets of a coat far too large for her.
Seren.
She was small for her age, slender as a cat that had learned not to starve. The smell of metal reminded her of rain—and of something she could not name. Memory.
The market boiled with noise. Merchants shouted, coins clinked. Seren moved among them in silence. Her fingers were quicker than the eyes guarding their purses.
Three apples, one coin, a piece of bread—that would do.
She slipped into an alley, smelling of rot, hearing water drip. A voice behind her:
"You're getting faster."
Kassian, the smuggler boy, sat on a crate, grin crooked. "But not fast enough."
Seren tensed. "If you sell me out—"
"I don't sell out the hungry." He tossed her a dagger. "But the Rune Hunters are back. They're looking for you."
She gripped the blade tight. Its edge reflected her face—and for an instant, she saw something else: eyes made of light.
She blinked; the image vanished.
"I don't have any runes," she said hoarsely.
Kassian chuckled softly. "Tell that to the priests. They say you glow when you sleep."
Seren clenched her fist, feeling heat beneath her skin. A faint flicker, barely visible, crept along her forearm. She rubbed it away.
"Didn't see a thing," Kassian muttered, standing. "But you should vanish before they find you. Tonight—the ritual in the temple. The Judges will be there."
"And?"
"Anyone caught goes to the Arena."
The word hung heavy between them. The Arena—myth and hell alike.
Seren nodded once. "Then let them come."
She walked off, bread in hand, dagger hidden beneath her coat. Behind her, Kassian laughed—a sound that carried like farewell.
Above, between the clouds, a faint light flickered.
Athena opened her eyes.
"It begins…" she whispered.
The sky tightened—and rain began to fall. Not clear. Black.
Far away, in the white halls of the Temple of Thalios, Elara knelt.
Her hands rested on the cold marble while the priests chanted in unison. Above her, runes burned like stars.
She was beautiful in her flawless discipline—yet beneath her skin, she always felt a trembling, an emptiness no prayer could fill.
The High Priest stepped behind her. "Your rune flickers."
"I can't feel it, Master."
He pressed two fingers to her brow. "Then feel this."
A spike of light shot through her—white and searing. She didn't scream. That was strength.
But when she opened her eyes, she saw, in the temple's holy light, a shadow that did not belong there.
A girl—her own reflection.
The vision tore the world apart. Runes flared, shattered, smoke rose.
"What did you see?" the priest roared.
Elara stood, breathing shallowly. "Myself."
"No…" He staggered back. "Something from you—not you."
Behind him, the air crackled. Athena stepped from the light, clad in full armor, face serene.
"She is ready," she said.
"For what?"
"For the war to come."
Elara didn't know what that meant—only that her heart began to race beneath Athena's gaze.
Outside, thunder split the sky.
Thunder rolled over the mountains, as if the world had skipped a heartbeat. Elara lifted her head. Her lips trembled from Athena's light, yet deep within her, something else glowed—a shadow that refused to die.
"What am I to do?" she asked.
Athena studied her for a long time. "Believe."
That was the gods' answer to everything. Believe when you see nothing. Believe when blood stains the marble. Yet when Elara looked to the clouds, she saw—just for the span of a breath—the same black line she had seen in her dreams.
A scar across the sky.
And within that scar—eyes.
At that very hour, in the city below, Seren sat in the ruins of an old house, crumbs of bread in her lap. The rain had come down in sheets, heavy and sluggish, turning everything gray. Kassian was gone; only his laughter lingered between the alleys.
She carved symbols into the dirt with her dagger—an old habit, though she didn't know why. One of them began to glow faintly as the blade touched it.
A circle. A line. Two halves.
"What the…" She stepped back. The circle began to spin. Dust rose. The air trembled.
Above her, the air flickered—as if someone were touching the world from outside.
A voice—deep, distorted, neither male nor female—spoke:
"The time is broken. The twins are waking."
Seren clutched her dagger, but the ground split apart. A crack opened right through the alley, smoke rising from within—and for a brief moment, the same symbol she had just carved blazed up from the depths.
It burned into her wrist.
She screamed.
The mark glowed, blood mingled with light—and for a heartbeat, she saw the face of a girl who looked exactly like her, standing in a temple of white stone, with the same eyes—yet without shadow.
Then she fell backward. The crack sealed itself.
The city stayed silent.
A child cried across the street; no one noticed. Seren hid her arm beneath her jacket, the mark pulsing like a heartbeat.
She did not know that, far above, thunder split the Hall of Olympus—and that a goddess of light was staring at the same mark blazing on another girl's brow—bright, but identical.
Athena turned to Zeus. "It has begun," she said quietly. "The Mark has divided."
"Then gather them," Zeus replied. "Or erase them."
The night stretched over the heavens like a cloak of ink. Seren crawled from the ruin, clutching her arm. The rain had stopped, yet the air still tasted of ozone and dust. At the end of the street, something shone—not fire, not light, but something in between.
A circle of runes hovered above the ground, vast and alive. People stopped, stared—and ran.
Seren did not.
The symbol pulsed. In the distance, on another continent, Elara lifted her gaze to the sky—and saw the same glow rising over the mountains.
A whisper swept across the world, from city to city, temple to temple. It spoke no name, yet all understood:
"Two flames. One shadow."
Seren took a step closer. The runes opened like an eye.
A gust of wind tore the coat from her shoulders. Black sparks rose from her skin, merging with the light.
She fell to her knees, about to scream—when she saw her again: the girl of light, her twin half. Elara stood on the other side of the vision, mirroring her every motion, every fear.
Between them flowed a current of gold and shadow—vibrant, alive. The air crackled.
"Who are you?" Seren whispered.
Elara opened her lips—no voice came. Only light.
The world held its breath. And then—
The sky broke.
Lightning—gold and ash—ripped the heavens apart. Runes burned above the cities, the earth trembled. For a moment, they were one—two souls, one scream—and in the next, everything collapsed into darkness.
No sound. No light. Only heartbeat.
A faint whisper in the void:
"First sign complete."
Then silence.