Chapter Five – The First Mark

I barely slept that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the page from the Forbidden Library, saw the inked sketch of my mother staring back at me like she was still alive, whispering things I didn’t understand.

When sleep finally dragged me under, it wasn’t rest—it was something else.

A dream.

Her voice wrapped around me in the dark. “They will obey you, Lyra.”

I jerked awake, heart pounding, throat dry. My dorm window was cracked open, letting in the chill of dawn. The bell tower hadn’t rung yet, which meant it was far too early, but I couldn’t go back to sleep.

Not with the heat burning in my palms.

I pushed back the blanket and froze.

Glowing faint lines crawled across the skin of my hands—like tiny rivers of fire etched into me. Not scars. Not bruises. Marks. They shimmered faintly, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat.

I pressed my palms together, hoping the light would disappear. It didn’t.

“What the hell is happening to me?” I whispered.

No answer came.

By the time classes started, the glow had faded, but the memory of it clung to me like smoke. I kept flexing my hands under the desk, half-expecting sparks to leap out.

Nobody noticed. Or maybe they did, and they just weren’t saying.

***

The worst came in combat class.

They gathered in the training hall, a cavern of stone and high arches that seemed to devour noise. Pairs of students clashed in sparring circles, filling the air with sharp breaths and the thud of blows on armor.

I kept to the back, hoping I could slip by unnoticed. No such luck.

“New girl,” a voice sneered.

I turned. A boy with too-bright eyes and a wolfish smirk stepped into my circle. He was taller than me, shoulders broad, the kind who probably won fights just by glaring.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

My stomach dropped. “I—no, I don’t—”

“What’s the matter?” His grin widened. “Scared?”

“Leave her,” someone muttered from the sidelines, but no one moved to help.

The instructor didn’t even look up. Figures.

I raised my hands weakly. “I don’t want to—”

“Too bad.” He lunged.

I stumbled back, barely dodging the first swing. My breath came short and sharp. He was fast, trained, his strikes snapping past my face close enough to sting.

“Come on, fight!” he barked, circling me. “Or are you just dead weight?”

I tried to block, but his palm slammed into my shoulder, sending me sprawling to the floor. My books clattered from where I’d left them against the wall.

Laughter rippled around the circle.

Heat flooded my cheeks. Shame. Anger. Panic.

He came at me again, fist raised.

Something in me snapped.

“Stop!” I screamed.

The word tore out of me like fire.

And then—he froze.

Mid-strike. Arm raised. Body rigid.

His eyes widened in horror as he tried to move, but couldn’t. Every muscle locked. He stood there like a statue, trembling, veins straining under his skin.

The laughter stopped.

Silence crashed over the hall.

Dozens of eyes turned to me.

My chest heaved. My palms burned.

And the faint glow was back—spreading across my skin, brighter this time.

I lowered my hand slowly. “I… I didn’t mean to—”

Whispers broke like waves around me.

“She—”

“She made him stop.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Not unless—”

The boy staggered back as whatever held him finally released. He collapsed against the wall, gasping, staring at me like I was a monster.

My own legs nearly gave out.

And then—

“WHAT did you just do?”

Ronan’s voice cracked through the silence like thunder.

He strode forward, storm-eyed, fury pouring off him in waves.

I shook my head, backing away. “I don’t—I didn’t—”

“You’re not supposed to have power!” His voice echoed against the stone walls, sharp and cutting. “You’re—” He stopped himself, jaw clenched tight.

My throat burned. “I didn’t mean to! He was going to—”

“That doesn’t matter.” His fists clenched. “You shouldn’t be able to command like that. Not you.”

My chest tightened, words clawing to get out. “Why not me?”

Ronan didn’t answer. His anger was too big, too wild, filling the space between us.

***

Cassian slid in before the storm broke further, his grin lazy but his eyes alert.

“Now, now,” he drawled, throwing an arm casually around my shoulder as if he hadn’t just watched me nearly shatter the rules of their world. “Let’s not all panic at once.”

I flinched under his touch, but he didn’t move away.

“She’s just a girl,” he said smoothly. “A pretty one, with a voice that makes boys drop to their knees. Happens all the time.” His smirk sharpened. “Ask me how I know.”

A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the crowd. The tension cracked, just a little.

Cassian leaned closer, voice lower for my ears alone. “Don’t worry, pretty thing. I’ve got you.”

I swallowed hard, unsure if he was saving me or painting a target on my back.

***

And then Malachai spoke.

He hadn’t moved the whole time, just sat on the raised platform where the instructors usually stood, watching everything with that unreadable calm.

Now he rose, his long coat whispering against the floor, and lifted one hand.

“Class dismissed.”

No one dared argue.

The students scattered in a rush, whispers chasing them down the halls. I caught fragments as they passed:

“Did you see—”

“Marked.”

“She’s marked—”

The word sank deep into me, heavy as stone.

Marked.

What did it mean?

***

When the hall was nearly empty, I saw him.

Vale.

He stood in the shadows near the back wall, half-hidden, his eyes locked on me. His hands were clenched so tightly on the desk in front of him that his knuckles gleamed white.

His gaze burned into me, dark, sharp, filled with something I couldn’t name. Rage. Fear. Hunger.

And then his hand slipped, leaving a smear of blood on the wood where his nails had cut his skin.

He didn’t move toward me. Didn’t speak.

But the weight of his stare followed me out.

By nightfall, the whole Academy was buzzing.

Every corridor I walked, whispers followed.

Lyra Hawthorne isn’t powerless.

She’s marked.

And every Alpha knows it now.