Chapter 2 : The mark on her wrist

Chapter 2: The Mark on Her Wrist

The assassin died at King Ronan Draven’s feet.

His body hit the black marble with a sickening thud, and the throne room fell into stunned silence. The other two assassins had vanished into the smoke of shattered glass and shadow, leaving only blood, broken windows, and the echo of screams behind them.

I could not move.

Ronan stood over the corpse, his hand still wrapped around the assassin’s blade. Blood slid between his fingers in slow crimson lines, yet his expression never changed.

Cold.

Untouched.

Terrifying.

The shadows around him writhed like living creatures, curling around his boots and climbing the steps of the throne. The guards kept their distance, and for the first time I realized they were not afraid for him.

They were afraid of him.

My glowing wrist throbbed in his grip.

Ronan finally turned his gaze back to me.

The heat in the room vanished.

“Who sent them?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

A lie would have been useless. I had never seen those men before in my life.

His storm-gray eyes narrowed as though he were searching for secrets beneath my skin. “You arrived at my palace, a forbidden mark appears on your wrist, and assassins attack my throne within the same breath. Convenient.”

“I was sold here in chains,” I snapped. “If I were plotting your death, I would have chosen a less dramatic entrance.”

A dangerous silence followed.

One of the guards inhaled sharply.

The priest looked as though he expected my execution.

But Ronan’s mouth curved slightly.

Not a smile.

Something darker.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

He released my hand.

The moment his skin left mine, a strange emptiness spread through my chest, so sudden and sharp that I nearly stumbled. My mark dimmed, though a faint silver glow remained beneath the skin.

Ronan noticed.

His expression hardened instantly.

“Seal the throne room,” he ordered. “No one enters or leaves without my command.”

The guards moved at once.

The priest stepped forward, trembling. “Your Majesty… the mark…”

“Speak carefully.”

The old man swallowed. “The Moonborn line was extinguished four hundred years ago. If the mark has awakened, then the prophecy—”

“Prophecies are for frightened men,” Ronan interrupted.

“But the blood oath—”

Ronan’s gaze cut through him like a blade. “Enough.”

The priest bowed so quickly his forehead nearly struck the floor.

I stared at the glowing crescent on my wrist. Moonborn. The word echoed through my mind, strange and impossible. I had grown up in the gutters of Valebryn. I had no noble blood, no magical training, no family records.

Only hunger.

Only survival.

Only the memory of my mother dying when I was six, clutching a silver pendant she never allowed me to touch.

A sudden image flashed through my mind.

The pendant.

A crescent moon.

My breath caught.

Ronan noticed that too.

“What did you remember?”

“Nothing.”

Another lie.

This time he knew it.

He took a step toward me, and the shadows followed.

“Do not lie to me again, Lyra Vale.”

Hearing my name in his voice sent an unwanted shiver down my spine.

I hated that he noticed.

A new voice broke the tension.

“Well,” it drawled from the doorway, “this is certainly more entertaining than dinner.”

Every head turned.

A man leaned against the shattered entrance, utterly unconcerned by the blood on the floor. He was younger than Ronan, dressed in dark silver rather than black, with a charming smile and eyes the color of melted amber.

Beautiful.

Dangerously so.

He looked at me as though I were a fascinating puzzle.

Ronan’s expression became glacial. “You are late, Lucien.”

Prince Lucien Draven pushed away from the doorway and strolled into the throne room. “I came as soon as I heard someone had survived meeting you.”

The guards avoided looking at him.

Lucien stopped beside me and bowed with exaggerated elegance. “Prince Lucien Draven. And you must be the woman causing the kingdom’s newest scandal.”

“I wasn’t aware I’d been here long enough to become a scandal.”

His smile widened. “Oh, I think you began the moment you breathed.”

Ronan stepped between us.

The movement was subtle, but unmistakably possessive.

Lucien’s eyes flicked from his brother to my glowing wrist.

For the first time, his amusement faltered.

“That,” he said quietly, “is impossible.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

Lucien studied the mark for a long moment. Then he looked at Ronan. “Have you touched her?”

The room seemed to freeze.

Ronan did not answer.

Lucien exhaled slowly. “Gods help us.”

“Leave,” Ronan said.

“I think I’d rather stay.”

The shadows at Ronan’s feet darkened.

Lucien raised both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But if she starts glowing brighter, I’m coming back with wine.”

He paused beside me before leaving. His voice dropped low enough that only I could hear.

“If you value your life, don’t let him make you love him.”

Then he was gone.

The warning lingered in the air long after his footsteps faded.

Ronan’s jaw tightened. “Do not listen to my brother.”

“Should I listen to the servants who say your lovers die instead?”

His eyes became unreadable.

For a heartbeat, I thought I saw pain there.

Then it vanished.

“You will be taken to the Moon Tower,” he said. “Until I learn what you are, you remain under my protection.”

“Protection,” I repeated. “That sounds suspiciously like imprisonment.”

“In this palace, they are often the same thing.”

He turned away, dismissing the court with a flick of his hand.

The guards approached me again, but this time they did not chain me.

That frightened me more than the chains.

I was escorted through winding corridors lit by silver lamps. Every servant we passed stared openly at my wrist before bowing their heads. Whispers followed us like ghosts.

Moonborn.

Cursed bride.

Chosen.

The Moon Tower stood at the farthest edge of the palace, overlooking cliffs that dropped into a sea of darkness. Inside, the chamber was vast and cold, filled with moonlight and ancient books.

The guards locked the door behind me.

I was alone.

At least, I thought I was.

A soft chiming sound drew my attention to a mirror framed in black silver. Its surface rippled like water.

Then a woman appeared within it.

My blood turned to ice.

She was beautiful, pale, and dressed in a gown that belonged to another century. A silver crown rested on her head, and her eyes were the same impossible gray as Ronan’s.

“Run,” she whispered.

I stumbled backward.

The woman pressed a hand against the glass. Blood spread beneath her palm.

“He will destroy you.”

The mirror cracked.

A scream erupted from within it.

I spun toward the door, my heart hammering.

The room was empty.

When I looked back, the woman was gone.

Only my reflection remained.

But behind my reflection, standing in the shadows of the chamber, was a tall figure crowned in black.

Ronan.

I whirled around.

No one was there.

My breath came in ragged bursts.

Slowly, trembling, I turned back to the mirror.

This time I saw only myself.

Then silver letters began to appear across the glass, written by an invisible hand.

THE FIRST QUEEN DID NOT DIE.

A second line carved itself beneath the first.

SHE IS WAITING FOR YOU BELOW THE PALACE.