The Mark

Amile noticed the mark two days later—right after she got out of the shower, while wiping steam from the mirror with the edge of her towel.

At first, she thought it was just a shadow.

A faint, smoky line curled around the inside of her left wrist like ink caught mid-swirl. It shimmered faintly under the bathroom light, pulsing ever so slightly—as though alive. As though it had just been waiting to be seen.

She rubbed at it with her palm.

It didn’t budge.

She tried cold water. Then hot.

Still there.

Still glowing.

“…Okay,” she muttered to herself. “That's new.”

Wrapped in a towel, she bolted out of the bathroom. “Erevan!”

He appeared in the hallway instantly, barefoot and battle-alert like a summoned warrior.

“Are we under attack?” he asked.

She held up her wrist. “Do I look like I’ve been attacked?”

His eyes narrowed as they fell on the mark. Something passed across his face—recognition, followed by disbelief.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, stepping closer.

“I woke up with it, apparently.”

“That symbol is ancient. Older than any human language.” He reached out slowly, fingers hovering just above her skin. “It’s one of the Seals.”

“Like a divine stamp?”

“No.” He met her eyes. “Like a lock. Something’s inside you.”

Amile’s heartbeat picked up. “You’re saying I’m... cursed?”

He shook his head. “Not cursed. Connected.”

She pulled her wrist back instinctively. “To what?”

“To me.”

They sat in silence in the living room, her tea growing cold on the table.

“I don’t get it,” she said eventually. “Why would I have a connection to some underworld god I’ve never heard of?”

“You’re not the first to forget,” Erevan said. “The world turned. My name was erased. But some echoes leave marks—across bloodlines, across lives.”

“So you think... I’m a descendant of someone who once knew you?”

“I don’t think,” he said. “I know.”

He looked at her with a kind of awe that made her feel like her skin was glowing brighter than the mark. “I saw her face once. Long ago. A priestess who betrayed and saved me in the same breath. Her name was lost to time. But her soul...”

He leaned forward, voice low.

“I would recognize it anywhere.”

Amile blinked. “You think I’m her?”

“No. I think you’re you. But that mark means her blood runs through your veins. It’s why you can see me. It’s why the curse reacted to your touch.”

Amile stared at her wrist. “So I’m walking mythology now?”

Erevan said nothing.

The silence said everything.

Later that night, unable to sleep, Amile sat on the windowsill with her notebook open and pen in hand. She scribbled questions into the margins of her notes.

Who was the priestess?

What did she seal?

Why do I remember shadows when I dream?

What am I supposed to do with this?

Below the questions, she unconsciously began to draw the mark on her wrist, looping it in smooth curves. When she finished, it pulsed faintly again—like it recognized her.

She closed the notebook with a snap.

Erevan stood outside on the apartment's small balcony, staring into the city lights. He hadn't said much since confirming the seal. He seemed tense, conflicted. Amile joined him quietly.

“This seal,” she asked, “what was it meant to protect?”

He exhaled slowly, as if the answer weighed a hundred lifetimes.

“Me.”

She blinked. “What?”

“When the gods passed judgment, they were going to destroy me completely. But she intervened. She made a deal with them. Instead of death, I was sealed. Cursed to fall into the mortal world. To lose everything—except memory.”

He looked at her then. “And to be found only if someone with her blood saw me for what I was.”

Amile’s breath caught.

“You were never supposed to meet me,” he said. “Unless you were meant to.”

The next day, Amile ’s mark burned.

It happened during her walk through the old city—when she passed by an abandoned church hidden behind a row of stalls. It was a crumbling ruin, overtaken by vines and graffiti. She’d walked past it a dozen times before and never paid it any mind.

But today, it called to her.

A heat bloomed in her wrist.

She stepped closer. Erevan followed silently, sensing the change in the air.

“This place...” he said slowly. “It wasn’t part of the mortal world when I last walked it.”

Amile approached the worn wooden door and pushed gently.

It creaked open.

Inside was a single chamber with cracked stone walls, a broken altar, and a faded carving on the floor—the same symbol that burned on her wrist.

“What is this place?” she whispered.

“A memory,” Erevan said, voice distant. “Your ancestor built this. As a place of protection. And warning.”

Aarya stepped onto the carving. Her skin tingled.

Then, her mark flared with light.

And her mind was not her own.

In a flash of golden fire and shadow, she saw another time—an ancient world where gods walked among men, and a young priestess knelt before a throne of obsidian, her face identical to Amile’s but her eyes darker, colder. She was chanting something in a language Amile didn’t know but somehow understood.

The memory snapped away as fast as it had come.

Amile stumbled back, breathing hard.

Erevan caught her.

“What did you see?”

“Myself,” she said. “But not me.”

He didn’t look surprised. “The seal is unlocking.”

She nodded, dazed. “And I think... I think I just saw the moment it all began.”

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