Alistair — POV
The moment Sarafina whispered my name, I knew I was already too late.
She stood in the silver glow of the torn prophecy, her hands trembling slightly,not from fear, but from the pressure of something ancient humming under her skin. The same hum that had been intensifying for days. The same hum that was going to get her killed if I didn't—
"Alistair," she said again, voice thin, cracking through the quiet.
I stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. As if she were a wild creature that might bolt if I breathed wrong.
"What," I asked evenly, "did you touch?"
She exhaled sharply, gesturing at the cracked book. "It was already open. I just—looked at it."
"To be clear," I murmured dryly, "things in libraries don't normally start glowing because someone looks at them."
Her glare could've cut stone. "I didn't do anything."
I raised an eyebrow. "Your veins are literally lighting up through your shirt."
She glanced at her arm and cursed under her breath. Good. Awareness was better than denial.
The silver glow across the pedestal pulsed once—like a heartbeat echoing hers.
And then I saw it.
Barely visible under her skin.
Dim. Fragmented.
But unmistakable.
The shadow mark.
My chest tightened.
Not fully awakened. Not yet. But the pattern had begun forming across her wrist—like ink bleeding through from a memory she didn't have.
She followed my stare. "What? What is it?"
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
If I spoke the name out loud, the Archive would hear it. And archives remembered everything.
Instead, I tore my eyes away and forced my tone flat. "You triggered something you shouldn't have. This place—this prophecy—it isn't for humans."
She folded her arms. "Says the man who breaks into my house and materializes out of shadows like an overworked bat."
I blinked. "Overworked?"
"You brood a lot. Seems tiring."
Despite the situation, a short, involuntary breath escaped me—almost a laugh. Almost. I buried it quickly.
"This is serious, Sarafina."
"I know it's serious," she snapped. "My blood glows. I heard someone in my head today. A prophecy just rearranged itself to talk to me. And now you're looking at my wrist like it's counting down to the apocalypse."
I froze.
Because she wasn't wrong.
"Come here," I said quietly.
She hesitated. "Why?"
"So I can see it clearly."
"See what clearly?"
I didn't answer. If I did, she'd panic.
Sarafina groaned. "Alistair, can you please stop being cryptic for five minutes?"
"Cryptic is safer than truthful."
"Well, try me."
I stepped close—too close. Close enough to feel her breath hitch. Close enough to smell the faint scent of copper and starlight rising off her skin.
Her pulse flickered beneath the forming sigil.
I lifted her wrist gently. Carefully. The way you handle something precious. Or explosive.
"Sarafina," I murmured, "has anyone touched you here recently?"
She blinked. "Besides you grabbing my arm every time danger shows up? No."
I ignored the jab.
The mark pulsed once, faint but undeniable.
Damn it.
"Alistair," she whispered, "what is it?"
I searched for an answer that wouldn't terrify her.
Couldn't find one.
So I gave her the smallest piece—the one that wouldn't break her world but might save her life.
"That," I said softly, "is not a bruise. And it's not from the library."
She swallowed hard. "Then what is it?"
I met her eyes.
"It's a claim."
Her breath stopped. "…A what?"
"Someone—or something—has marked you as theirs."
Silence swallowed the hallway.
The candles flickered violently.
Sarafina's voice dropped to a whisper. "Is it dangerous?"
I didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"To me?"
"Yes."
She stared into my eyes. Searching. Reading. Understanding the things I wasn't saying.
"And you know who did it."
Another silence.
Heavier this time.
I didn't answer.
Her jaw tightened. "Tell me."
"No."
"Alistair."
"I said no."
She stepped closer, her glare burning. "You can't keep doing this—showing up, warning me, half-saving me, and refusing to explain anything."
"I'm trying not to scare you."
"Too late."
I exhaled slowly through my nose. "Sarafina. If I tell you the name behind that mark, everything changes."
"Everything's already changing!"
She wasn't wrong.
Her blood was waking.
Her mind was opening.
The prophecy was responding.
And now this mark—this violation—meant someone else had noticed.
Someone powerful enough to brand a sealed bloodline.
Someone old enough to remember her.
I lowered her wrist, letting her go before I did something irreparable.
"We need to leave," I said softly. "Now. Before this place decides it wants more from you."
She didn't move. "Alistair… does the mark mean I'm in danger?"
I met her eyes.
Dry. Honest. Dark as truth.
"It means," I said quietly, "that someone has already chosen you."
Her breath caught.
"And I," I added, more bitterly than intended, "am running out of time to stop them."
The candles went out.
Every single one.
The Archive groaned.
And behind her, just beneath the surface of her skin—
the mark pulsed again.