Esmeralda did not announce herself.
She never did—because she had never needed to.
The palace bent for her. Doors opened before her hands reached them. Servants lowered their heads instinctively, eyes fixed on the floor as silk whispered past marble. Tonight, she wore deep emerald, the color of envy sharpened into power, and every step echoed with restrained fury.
She was on her way to Kairos.
She had been summoned earlier, then dismissed without explanation. That alone was insult enough. No one dismissed her.
As she approached the inner hall, voices reached her before the doors did.
She slowed.
Kairos' voice was unmistakable—low, controlled, edged with authority. But it was not raised. Not cold.
Something about it made her stop.
She drifted closer, careful, light-footed, her shadow melting into the column beside the door.
"…the mark remains hidden," Kairos was saying.
Esmeralda's breath caught.
Another voice answered—older, cautious. "Hidden does not mean gone, my lord. Marks do not disappear. They wait."
Kairos exhaled sharply. "I know."
There was a pause. The sound of something being set down—metal against stone.
"When the bearer reveals themselves," he continued, "they will be under my protection."
Esmeralda's fingers curled slowly into her palm.
"Protection?" the other voice asked.
"Yes." Kairos' tone hardened—not cruel, but resolute. "The mark bearer will not be treated as a tool. Or a sacrifice. They will be housed, guarded, and—"
His voice dropped, quieter now.
"—loved, if necessary."
Esmeralda's jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
Loved.
The word struck like a slap.
"And if the nobles object?" the voice pressed.
Kairos laughed humorlessly. "Then they will learn to live with it."
Silence stretched.
"Everything will change when the mark awakens," Kairos said at last. "The land. The throne. Me."
Esmeralda stepped back as if burned.
Her heart thundered, hot and violent.
Loved.
So that was it.
Not power he sought.
Not control.
A bond.
Her lips trembled—not with fear, but with rage so sharp it tasted like iron.
She turned on her heel and walked away, her posture flawless, her steps measured. No one must see the crack in her composure. No one must hear the storm screaming in her head.
He would choose the mark over me.
Over bloodlines. Over crowns. Over her.
Her nails bit into her palm as she descended the palace steps.
Fine.
If Kairos wanted a mark bearer—
She would make sure there was nothing left to protect.
Outside, the night air wrapped around her like a promise. Her carriage waited, lanterns glowing softly, driver already bowing.
She climbed inside, skirts gathered neatly, expression calm once more.
"Orders," she said coolly.
The driver inclined his head. "Your Grace?"
"Send word to the local witch," Esmeralda replied. "I want an appointment. Immediately."
A pause. "The hedge-witch of the lower quarter?"
"Yes." Her smile curved slowly, venomously. "The one who doesn't ask questions."
The carriage door shut.
As it rolled forward, Esmeralda leaned back against the cushions, eyes gleaming in the dim light.
"Love," she murmured to herself. "How inconvenient."
Outside, the palace faded into the distance.
Inside the carriage, plans bloomed—dark, deliberate, and deadly.
Because a crown, after all—
Does not share.
The witch's door shut behind Esmeralda with a sound like a coffin sealing.
No wind followed her in.
No warmth either.
Candles flared higher as if recognizing her, their flames stretching thin and blue. The witch did not offer her a seat this time. She simply watched—eyes sharp, ancient, calculating.
"You're back," the witch said. "That means you didn't like the first truth."
Esmeralda removed her gloves slowly, finger by finger. "I want to see the mark bearer."
The witch's lips twitched. "Again?"
"Yes," Esmeralda replied coolly. "But this time… less resistance."
A dry laugh scraped out of the witch's throat. "You don't get to demand clarity from Fate."
"I don't need clarity," Esmeralda said, stepping closer. "I need confirmation."
Silence fell.
Then the witch sighed, heavy and reluctant. She reached for the same bowl, though her movements lacked enthusiasm this time. The runes etched into its rim were dulled, as if remembering pain.
"Very well," she muttered. "But don't blame me for what refuses to be seen."
The witch sliced her finger and let a single drop of blood fall into the bowl. It hissed on contact, steaming.
She began to chant.
The room darkened.
Shadows crept upward like fingers, crawling along the walls, twisting around Esmeralda's reflection until it stretched unnaturally tall. The surface of the bowl rippled—not with images, but with fog.
Esmeralda leaned forward impatiently. "I see nothing."
"That," the witch replied quietly, "is the point."
The fog churned.
Shapes tried to form—faces, hands, places—but each dissolved the moment they sharpened. The magic resisted being pinned down, sliding away like oil on water.
Then—
Hair.
Long.
Black.
Thick as midnight silk.
It flowed through the mist, the only thing that refused to blur. No face. No body. Just the fall of it—alive, undeniable.
Esmeralda's breath caught.
"That's all?" she snapped. "That's the mark bearer?"
The witch nodded slowly. "That is all you are allowed to see."
Esmeralda straightened, fury tightening her spine. "Useless."
The witch's gaze hardened. "Be careful, girl. Fate hides what it values."
Esmeralda's eyes gleamed.
"Hides," she echoed thoughtfully.
She turned back to the bowl, studying the image—the hair, the obscured form, the stubborn refusal of clarity.
Then she smiled.
"I don't need to find the mark bearer," she said softly. "I need to replace them."
The witch froze.
"…What?"
Esmeralda lifted her chin. "I want a mark."
The witch recoiled. "You cannot be serious."
"I want one beneath my skin," Esmeralda continued calmly, as if discussing jewelry. "One that looks exactly like the true mark bearer's."
The witch shook her head violently. "No. Absolutely not. That kind of imitation magic is forbidden. Marks are not symbols—they are contracts. You would be carving a lie into your soul."
Esmeralda stepped closer, voice low and lethal. "Can you do it?"
The witch swallowed. "Yes," she admitted. "But it will not obey you. It will burn. It will attract things that feed on truth."
"Good," Esmeralda said. "Let them come."
"This mark will rot you from the inside," the witch warned. "It will blur the line between you and the real bearer. Fate will notice."
Esmeralda's jaw tightened—but she did not waver.
"I have lived in someone else's shadow my entire life," she said coldly. "What is one more risk?"
The witch stared at her for a long moment, then laughed—soft, broken, afraid.
"You are trying to steal a destiny," she whispered.
Esmeralda's smile was razor-sharp.
"No," she corrected. "I'm trying to overwrite it."
She extended her bare arm, flawless skin pale in the candlelight.
"Do it."
The witch hesitated, then reached for a needle carved from obsidian and bone. Runes flared along its length, screaming silently.
"This mark will not make you chosen," the witch said one last time. "It will make you hunted."
Esmeralda did not blink.
"Then let them hunt."
The needle touched her skin.
The candles went out.
And somewhere, far away, something ancient stirred—confused, irritated, and suddenly very aware that someone had dared to forge its signature.
Fate did not scream.
But it smiled.