By morning, the sigil on Elira's skin had darkened.
What once glowed softly beneath her collarbone now pulsed faintly with shadows, as though the mark had absorbed part of the night itself. She stared at it in her mirror, touching the edges with a trembling hand. It didn't hurt, but it felt… deeper. Hungrier.
The Arcane Council would notice. They always did.
And still—her heart refused to regret Kaelen.
She hadn't seen him since their kiss in the garden, but his presence lingered in her mind like perfume on silk. It clung to her every breath, every step through the quiet marble halls of the Academy. Every spell she cast felt subtly warmer now, as if something inside her had shifted. As if he had left a part of himself behind.
---
That evening, she wandered back to the Arcane Garden—but it was empty. The moonflowers were closed. The air, colder.
Instead of Kaelen, she found something else.
A single black feather resting on the stone bench where they had sat the night before. Large. Veined with magic. Not natural.
And beneath it, carved faintly into the bench's surface, was a symbol she didn't recognize—an ancient rune, older than the Academy, older than any sigil she had ever studied.
When she touched it, the feather turned to ash in her palm.
"Elira."
His voice was behind her—gentle, but edged like a blade.
She turned quickly. Kaelen stood in the shadows between two flowering trees, face half-lit by moonlight. But something was different now. He looked… torn.
"There's something I haven't told you," he said. "About the mark. About me."
Her heart tightened.
"Tell me," she said, voice low, calm despite the growing chill between them.
Kaelen stepped forward, his fingers brushing hers. Still warm. Still hers—for now.
"I didn't just mark you," he said. "I bound you. The spell I used—it's older than the Ardent Flame, older than the council, older than the trials. It wasn't meant to be used for love."
Her breath caught. "Then what was it meant for?"
Kaelen met her eyes, and for the first time, she saw fear in his.
"To awaken the Arcane King," he whispered. "And he… lives inside whoever carries the mark."
The garden fell silent.
Only her heartbeat dared to speak.
---
And yet, even in that silence, Elira reached for his hand. She laced their fingers together.
"I don't care," she said softly.
Kaelen shook his head. "You should."
And still, despite the weight of the mystery, despite the dark promise in the mark… the way his thumb brushed hers, the way her soul leaned toward his—it was all still sweet.
Dim, yes. But sweet.