Ilaria's gaze drifted once more to the mark on her wrist. In the lamplight, the faint curves of the sigil warmed, cooled, then pulsed with a subtle glow she could not decide was real or imagined. She brushed her thumb over it, barely grazing the pattern.
Growing up in the holy temple meant her entire childhood was filled with superstition, omens, prophecies, and warnings wrapped in scripture. She had always been the first to look away from them. But now, with the echo of that dream still lingering behind her ribs, unease curled sharp and tight in her chest.
Because dreams were never just dreams. Not the ones that left marks.
Across from her, Lysander observed without comment, his scholarly focus so precise she could almost feel it skimming her skin. His eyes followed the movement of her wrist, the tension in her shoulders, the troubled way she chewed her bottom lip, fitting her into a thousand years of written and unwritten knowledge.
