I Stole His Mark

(Flash Forward — The Marking Ceremony)

The world came apart when the Mark seared itself into my skin.

It was supposed to belong to her — to Helena. The jewel of the Hollow. The wolf-bred beauty upon whom every hopeful glance was fixed. Yet it was me, Ilia, kneeling upon the sacred stone, breath shaking, as burning light surged through my shoulder. The room blurred with flame and mist, and the silence was absolute except for the sound of my own breath and the low, disbelieving growl that rose from the throat of the Alpha himself.

I should not be here.

I should be nowhere near the sacred altar. My knees shook as the Mark sank deep, burning until it felt like it branded bone. The sting of it stole the breath from my chest, and I fell forward, palm pressed to the holy stone, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Gasps rose like a wave. Somewhere to the side, I heard the sound of steel scraping steel as warriors drew weapons, as if that could undo the gods’ choice.

The Mark. The holy sigil passed down through countless generations. The claim of an Alpha upon the woman chosen to be his Luna. The Mark was meant for Helena.

Yet it was burning upon me.

A low, commanding snarl rolled through the Hollow, silencing every voice except for mine. I lifted my head, brushing hair from my sweat-drenched face, and met the burning gold gaze of the man upon the throne. The Alpha. The monster. The lord of all that lived and bled in the Hollow. His massive form rose from the throne, muscles taut and rippling, voice like a storm across the altar.

“Ilia,” he said, voice deep enough to vibrate the marrow of my bones. “It chooses you.”

And the world — the gods, the trials, the sacred Mark — tilted.

One Week Earlier…

I was no one.

A servant girl. An orphan. A mist-walker born of whispers and midnight mist, belonging nowhere, belonging to no one.

The Hollow was the only world I had ever known. A sprawling fortress of black stone and mist-clung corridors deep within a forest older than the oldest gods. To its warriors and noble-born candidates, the Hollow was holy ground. To its servants — those of low birth, half-breeds, mist-born or cursed — it was a prison.

To me, it was both.

My heritage was as tangled as the mist itself. The whispers spoke of a sire long lost to the mist and a mother thrown to the Bone Orchard long ago. Of a girl with mist in her blood and a voice that shimmered when she sang too low. Of a mother cursed for beauty and a father cursed for lust. Whatever the truth, one fact was certain: I was born with nowhere to belong.

Each morning, long before the mist burned away, I rose from a pallet in the servants’ quarters. The mist clung to the courtyard as I pulled a threadbare shawl across my shoulders and sank down the narrow stairwell. The corridors twisted like the roots of ancient trees, lined with iron sconces and mist-drenched windows. The air was damp, moss brushing the stones like velvet.

My routine was always the same. Haul water from the well until blisters bubbled across my palm. Scrub dried blood from the holy altar until the sting of it pressed into my knees. Wash linens for the warriors until the sting of vinegar felt like a second skin. The Hollow was built upon ritual and sacrifice, upon old gods and older promises, and it was the servants’ lot to witness and forget. To bear witness and bear silence.

But every night, after the moons rose and the trials shook the earth, I would sneak to the servants’ balcony and watch. Not because I hoped for glory — no one like me hoped for glory — but because I was hungry for belonging. To witness strength and imagine belonging to it. To pretend, for a breath, that I could be more than mist upon stone.

That morning was no different. The mist pressed closer as I sank to my knees upon the sacred altar where the candidates would stand tonight. The Trials would end with the Marking Ceremony, and one would rise as Luna to the Hollow. The holy mist would witness, the gods would whisper, and the Mark would claim its chosen one.

I pressed a hand to the altar and drew a long breath, brushing mist and dust from its surface. My palm felt the sting of holy stone. Somewhere deep within the mist-clung corridors, weapons rang out as warriors rose to train. Somewhere deep within the mist-clung corridors, noble daughters tightened their armor and offered their prayers. And I — mist-born, mist-fed, mist-forsaken — sank closer, brushing my palm across the sacred stone as if belonging could seep from it and find its way into my skin.

Then came the voice.

“Ilia! What in the gods’ names are you doing?”

Elara — sharp-tongued and sharp-eyed, a servant like myself — waved a scoured rag as she descended the courtyard steps. “If Mistress Tessa finds you on that altar, she’ll flay the skin from your back herself. Up! Quickly!”

I pulled my hand away from the stone like it had been burned, brushing mist from my palm. Elara sank down beside me, brushing a hand across my hair. The older woman’s voice softened.

“Ilia,” she said quietly, brushing hair from my soot-smudged forehead, “you weren’t born for holy altars and sacred marks. You were born for mist and silence. Stay where it’s safe. Stay where it’s quiet.”

I sank into a low bow, brushing dust from my knees. “I’m sorry, Elara.”

She sighed, brushing hair from my skin like mist upon mist. “I only say it because I’ve seen too many thrown to the Bone Orchard for wishing too hard. Whatever you’re dreaming about… bury it deep, child. We’re servants. Not holy daughters. Not Lunas.”

I pressed my lips tight and gave a sharp nod, brushing mist from my hands. But as Elara waved for me to follow, a faint sting surged deep in the palm I had pressed upon the altar, faint as mist upon mist.

⸻

The laundry room was as it always was — long lines of mist-drenched linens and the sting of vinegar upon air. The older servants spoke in low whispers, hands raw from scrubbing holy linens until the mist upon the water shimmered crimson. The younger girls kept their gazes low, moving quickly from one task to the next.

I sank down upon the long stone floor and drew a washcloth across a swath of mist-drenched silk. The Trials would end tonight. The Mark would choose its Luna. And tonight, the mist would witness it all.

But deep within the mist-drenched silence, upon a holy stone altar long ago pressed by mist-born hands, a faint sting upon my palm refused to leave. Not holy. Not cursed. Not claimed.

Not yet.

But tonight, upon the sacred stone, the gods would make a choice.

And for the very first time, deep within mist and midnight, I felt the faint whisper rise like mist upon mist:

“Ilia…”

A voice. Not holy. Not cursed.

But knowing.