The wind howled outside the stone mansion like an old, mourning ghost. Somewhere deep in the heart of the estate, the great iron hearths roared with fire, yet the chill Adrianna felt wasn't one that heat could soothe.
It had been three nights since the mark first appeared.
Three restless nights of twisting under the covers, her skin prickling as though the symbol etched into her forearm was alive, whispering to her in a language she didn't understand. And tonight—tonight, it pulsed. Not just a throb beneath the skin, but something deeper. Like it was responding to something… waking.
She stood in the center of the training hall, its arched windows casting moonlight across the marble floor. Acantha circled her slowly, wooden staff in hand. Adrianna's hair clung to her sweat-soaked face, her breath heavy from hours of sparring.
"You're distracted," Acantha said flatly, swinging the staff at Adrianna's legs.
