Eastbridge's wounds had barely begun to scab when the first shrines appeared.
Not public ones. Not like the Veil. These were hidden—scratched into the backs of classroom desks, drawn in blood behind bathroom mirrors, burned into playground sand.
Symbols that forgot themselves when you looked away.
Lucas found one behind the counter of a flower shop. The clerk had vanished two nights earlier. Police blamed debt collectors. Lucas saw the truth in the smudged ash and spiraled glyphs.
Ephraal was building something.
Not a cult in the old sense. Not a hierarchy. A network. A virus of thought. Lucas traced the symbols through alley graffiti, old radio frequencies, even a children's rhyme that made kids wake up screaming:
"Ephraal walks when no one's near,It eats your voice, it drinks your fear.Say your name, and say it true—Or Ephraal comes and unnames you."
The verse was ancient. Older than Eastbridge. Older than Malgros.
Lucas returned to Wither Hollow by night, his steps hurried. But the forest was different now. No wind. No animals. Not even the whispering trees.
Lysantia was gone.
In her place was a ring of mushrooms scorched black. And a mark carved into the earth—a circle, with three slashes through it.
Lucas blinked.
The mark was on his chest now, burning through his shirt.
He dropped to one knee, gasping, as Malgros howled inside.
"You are being marked, Lucas Thorne. Claimed. You are the battleground now."