Ethan knelt in the empty tower long after everyone had gone.
The chains were gone, but the weight on his chest remained. Lyria's voice echoed in his mind. Her eyes, filled with trust—then fear.
"I failed," he whispered.
The Fate Mark burned.
Not with pain.
With rage.
The air around Ethan twisted. Cracks spread across the stone floor as silver energy leaked from his body. His heartbeat thundered like war drums.
I won't lose her.
The mark flared violently, its pattern expanding across his chest and arms. Ethan screamed as power surged through him, wild and uncontrollable.
Across the academy, alarms rang.
Master Alaric arrived too late to stop it.
"Ethan!" he shouted. "Calm your mind!"
But Ethan was already gone—his body moving on instinct alone. Silver light wrapped around him like armor. His eyes turned pale, glowing with fury.
In a blur, Ethan vanished from the tower.
He reappeared miles away, at the edge of an Imperial transport route. The ground shattered beneath his feet.
Soldiers barely had time to react.
Ethan struck like a storm—breaking spells, tearing through formations. He didn't feel pain. He didn't feel fear.
Only one thought remained.
Lyria.
When the last soldier fell, Ethan stood alone, breathing hard. The rage faded, leaving exhaustion behind. Blood ran down his arms.
He had crossed a line.
From the shadows, a familiar voice spoke.
"So this is the true power of the Fate Mark."
Ethan turned.
An Imperial commander stepped forward, smiling.
"Come," he said. "If you want the girl… follow me."
Ethan clenched his fists.
The hunt had begun.