The rain hadn't stopped all night. It came down in soft sheets, whispering against rooftops and windows, soaking the cracked pavements of Arvendale. In the early hours of the morning, the city still slept. Its glowing towers were quiet, and the streets felt dim and hollow.
Lucian Vale sat alone on the edge of his narrow bed, staring at his left hand.
It was shaking again.
He flexed his fingers, trying to make it stop, but the tremble only deepened. The sensation had started three days ago, an odd tingling like static under his skin. But tonight, it had grown into something heavier. His whole palm felt hot, like it was being branded from the inside.
He frowned and wiped his hand against his jeans.
"What the hell is wrong with me?"
There was no answer. Just the steady drip of rain outside and the faint hum of power from the broken lamp in his room.
He stood and walked over to the sink. The mirror above it was cracked in the corner, twisting his reflection. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to ignore the pressure building under his skin.
It had to be stress. Exams. Life. The usual stuff.
Lucian was seventeen. Orphaned. Quiet. Just trying to survive in a world that never gave back. He wasn't special.
At least, he hadn't been.
He lowered his head and took a deep breath. But then the burn flared again, sharp and sudden.
He winced and looked down.
His hand was glowing.
Faintly. Softly. But definitely glowing.
"What the...?"
He turned the hand over, staring at the center of his palm. A symbol was there. It hadn't been there before. Not a bruise. Not a cut. Something else entirely.
A mark.
Thin lines looped and curled in a pattern that looked almost like a star map. Circles within circles, tiny dots pulsing like planets in orbit. And at the center, a bright point of light shimmered beneath his skin. The mark glowed with a subtle energy, shifting in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Lucian stumbled back, hitting the wall behind him.
"No. No no no..."
He grabbed a towel and pressed it over his hand, thinking maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe it was an allergic reaction. An infection.
But the light bled through the fabric.
Then, just for a moment, he heard something.
A voice. Distant. Echoing. Not outside. Not even in the room.
Inside.
"You have been chosen."
Lucian froze. His chest tightened. He pulled the towel away and stared at his hand again.
The glow was gone. The mark was still there, faint now like a scar, but the light had faded.
He looked around the room. Still alone. Just his bed, his books, and the old fan ticking softly on the table. Everything looked normal.
Except him.
He grabbed his coat, shoved his feet into worn sneakers, and stepped out into the cold morning air.
***
Arvendale was waking up. A few cars moved down the main road. Market stalls were just starting to open. Streetlights blinked overhead, casting flickers of blue and white onto the wet ground.
Lucian shoved his hands into his pockets and walked fast with no real direction. He just needed to breathe. To think. To get far away from the voice in his head.
What was that mark? Where had it come from?
Was it some kind of disease? A warning? A curse?
Or was he losing his mind?
He stopped near the old bridge that overlooked the lower sector of the city. From there, you could see everything. The divide between the clean towers of the rich and the broken homes of the forgotten.
He leaned against the rail, breathing in the metallic scent of the rain.
The mark pulsed again. Just once.
And for the briefest second, he felt it.
A presence. Something ancient. Something huge. Watching him from inside his own skin.
He jerked back, heart racing.
"What is happening to me?" he whispered.
No answer. Just rain. Just silence.
But deep inside him, something had awakened.
And it wasn't going back to sleep.