First-Person — Nyra
I've never been one to blush.
Life in the slums burns that kind of softness out of you early — along with illusions, trust, and any romantic nonsense about knights in cloaks.
But something about this man—Kael—chips away at my defenses in ways I hate.
He doesn't touch me.
He doesn't even look at me the way men usually do.
But his presence…
It crowds the air. Makes it hard to breathe.
I stand at the edge of the circle he drew in the chapel floor, fingers twitching from the aftermath of the thing he just made me do — the power he summoned from me, without warning.
"You could've killed me," I mutter, still shaking.
Kael's voice is calm, infuriatingly so. "If I'd wanted to kill you, I wouldn't have wasted the candles."
"Oh, I'm so reassured."
He steps forward, and I flinch — a tiny reflex, but he catches it. His eyes linger on mine, searching.
"You don't trust me."
"No shit."
"You want to survive what's coming?" he asks, low. "Then you're going to have to trust something."
I look away, jaw tight. There's a pulse in my palms again — the blood mark reacting to him, maybe. Or to my own anger.
The room suddenly feels too small. The firelight dances across stone and shadow, and I feel watched — not by him, but by something older. A pressure, humming just beneath the surface.
"Why me?" I whisper. "Why this mark?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he walks over to a low shelf and pulls out a blade.
Instinct kicks in.
I tense. "Is that for me?"
Kael gives a half-smirk — the first expression I've seen that isn't stoic control. "Relax. It's ceremonial."
"Great. So is murder."
He kneels, placing the blade on the floor between us like an offering.
"I need to test the bond," he says.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
Kael reaches into his cloak and pulls out a shard of obsidian, worn and cracked. He touches it to the hilt of the blade — and for a second, the mark on my back burns.
"What the hell is that?" I snap.
"The obsidian belonged to the first Marked. It responds to living blood… and awakened magic." His voice lowers. "You're responding to it."
"I didn't ask to awaken anything," I growl. "I was trying to steal bread."
He looks at me. Really looks.
"You burned through steel cuffs with your bare hands," he says. "You called fire without speaking a single word. The mark didn't just choose you, Nyra. It recognized you."
My heart kicks against my ribs. I hate the way his voice sounds when he says my name.
Too calm.
Too sure.
Too close.
"I'm not anyone's chosen," I snap.
"Maybe not," he murmurs. "But you're something."
And then he steps forward again — slowly this time. Like approaching a wild animal.
He doesn't touch me.
But his hand lifts — not quite reaching my face, but hovering just close enough that the heat of his skin brushes mine.
"Do you feel it?" he asks.
I don't answer.
Because I do.
A pull. A thrum in the air. Something old and dangerous, waking between us.
My breath catches, and I step back.
Kael doesn't follow.
He just watches.
Silent. Intense. Measured.
"I need air," I say.
He nods once. "Don't go far."
I don't.
I go just outside, where the chapel crumbles into ash and wind. Where the stars are sharp and cruel above me.
And I wonder — not for the first time — if I'm still running toward freedom, or if I've just stumbled into a different kind of cage.
One I might not want to escape.