Chapter Twenty-One – The Mark

The energy pulsing through the sacred grove suddenly shifted. A low gasp spread through the crowd as Caelan's aura, glowing like molten silver, trembled at the threshold of Helena's chest. For a heartbeat, it hovered there, pulsing, suspended between worlds.

And then—it recoiled.

The light snapped back from Helena like a wave breaking against stone. She stumbled, startled, her hand reaching instinctively for Caelan. But he didn’t move. His entire body was tense, rigid. His aura twisted in the air, searching, scenting something unseen. Something forbidden.

Ilia.

Before she could comprehend what was happening, the energy—brighter than anything she had ever seen—shot across the clearing with lightning speed. It slammed into her chest with the force of a thunderclap.

Ilia screamed.

She fell to her knees as white-hot pain seared through her body. The crowd erupted in chaos. Some backed away in fear, others gasped in awe. Nessa cried out Ilia's name but couldn’t reach her.

Magic tore through Ilia’s skin, a torrent of heat and lightning unraveling every hidden thread of her bloodline. It was as if the very marrow of her bones cracked open, releasing a song too old for language. Her limbs convulsed, her nails digging into the earth as her breath was ripped from her lungs. Her body arched, back bowed like a string drawn taut, as if some ancient power was peeling her open from the inside.

The sound that escaped her lips was not just a scream—it was a note. A single, haunting melody that echoed across the trees like the cry of a goddess awakening after centuries of sleep. Her bones stretched, her skin shimmered. Her hair grew longer, darkening to the richest shade of obsidian and cascading down her back like a waterfall of shadow and light. Her once-muted frame bloomed with impossible grace, hips curving, waist narrowing, her body reshaping into a form that radiated primal seduction.

Veins of golden light raced across her skin like lightning trapped beneath glass. Her eyes rolled back, then snapped forward—no longer brown, but burning liquid gold with violet edges, as if galaxies churned within them. Her lips, flushed and full, parted with shallow, ragged breaths as her chest rose and fell. Power surged through her veins, ancient and feminine and wild.

Her dress fell away in tattered pieces, incinerated by the energy coursing through her. Yet her modesty was untouched—her new form clothed in a glimmering veil of light and mist, clinging and shifting like smoke, revealing just enough to tempt, to captivate, to enthrall. She was no longer Ilia the servant. She was something made of temptation and storm—born from legend, built to conquer.

And then came the mark.

It burned itself onto her skin with molten precision, spiraling down her forearm in glowing, ancient runes that pulsed with each beat of her heart. The pain was blinding. She clutched it with shaking fingers as tears rolled down her cheeks—tears of pain, of knowing, of becoming.

When she finally lifted her head, the forest fell to a hush.

The myth had taken shape.She rose.

Ilia stood slowly, her breath catching as the pain began to dull. Her old body—familiar, hidden, plain—was gone. In its place stood something ethereal. Dangerous. Divine.

Her hair spilled around her like a silken obsidian wave, glowing faintly under the moonlight. Her eyes shimmered, not with the usual earthy brown, but a liquid gold ringed in violet—eyes that knew desire and ruin. Her skin glowed with a luminescent sheen, as though kissed by moonlight itself, smooth and perfect. Her lips were plump, rosy, and her curves, once muted by servant’s rags, now appeared sculpted by ancient gods—every movement hypnotic, every breath like a siren’s call.

Gasps echoed through the forest. Whispers spread like wildfire. Accusations rippled through the crowd, sharp and bitter. "She stole Helena's mark," someone hissed. "A servant? An abomination!" another cried. Outrage gathered like a storm, thick and electric in the air. Shock twisted into fury among the nobles and Helena's supporters, while others stared at Ilia with wide-eyed reverence, uncertain whether to fear her or worship her.

Helena stared in disbelief. Caelan took one step forward, his mouth parting in shock, his expression frozen somewhere between disbelief and devastation. But beneath it all, under the horror and awe, simmered something darker—something feral. A yearning so primal it stripped him of reason. His fists clenched at his sides as his gaze devoured the vision before him, and for the first time in his life, the Alpha's composure cracked, his hunger unmistakable.

The mark was not Helena’s.

It had chosen another.

It had chosen Ilia.

"She stole Helena’s mark!" someone screeched from the crowd.

The accusation sliced through the silence like a blade.

More voices joined in, swelling with outrage. "Witchcraft!" shouted one of the elders. "Abomination," snarled another. The nobles looked on with scandalized horror, their faces twisted in disbelief, while Helena’s supporters began to growl, the threat of violence thick in their throats.

Helena trembled, her body vibrating with rage. Her features twisted into something monstrous, her scream echoing into the trees as she dropped to her knees and shifted—fur exploding across her limbs, her bones cracking and reshaping into a towering midnight wolf. She was sleek and terrifying, her yellow eyes burning with hatred, saliva dripping from her bared fangs.

Others shifted with her—her loyalists, transforming with snarls and bone-splitting force into snarling beasts ready to tear Ilia apart.

Caelan remained frozen for a beat, his eyes still locked on Ilia’s glowing form. But instinct kicked in and the shock shattered.

“Ilia!” he roared, pushing through the crowd—but it was too late.

Ilia had already turned and fled, her bare feet hitting the forest floor with staggering speed. The pain from the mark was like fire in her blood, growing worse with every step she took away from him. It pulsed, throbbed, burned—demanding she return to him, to the Alpha.

But she couldn’t.

She ran until her legs gave out, until the ache in her chest matched the pain on her skin.