THE RED MARK

Elara Vance

The sunlight felt like needles against my eyes. I stared at Lyra; the girl who, in my memory, had just flicked the mole behind my ear while I suffocated. Here she was, four years younger, her face round with "innocent" baby fat, shaking my shoulder with a playful grin.

"Elara! You’re being so weird today," Lyra giggled, her voice high and musical. "Did you stay up late reading those boring history books again? You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe."

I did forget how to breathe, I thought, my heart thundering against my ribs. I forgot because you and Caspian stole the air from my lungs.

I forced my fingers to unclench from the bedsheets. My skin was warm. I was pulsing with life, yet I felt like a walking corpse. I looked at Lyra’s hands—small, soft, and currently wrapped around my wrist. It took every ounce of my willpower not to scream and shove her away.

"I just had a nightmare, Lyra," I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears—lighter, higher, the voice of a sixteen-year-old who hadn't yet learned the weight of a husband’s betrayal. "A very long, very vivid nightmare."

"Well, forget about it! It's a beautiful day," she chirped, spinning around my room. She stopped at my vanity, picking up a silver hairbrush I knew she had always coveted. "Father says the Duke of Thorne is arriving today. Everyone is terrified. They say he has the eyes of a wolf and a heart made of black stone."

The Duke of Thorne. Kaelen.

In my past life, I had hidden in my room when he arrived. I had listened to the rumours that he was a cursed monster who had murdered his own kin to take the title. I had avoided him like the plague, eventually falling into the "safe" and "gentle" arms of Caspian instead.

What a fool I had been. The "monster" had never harmed me, but the "gentle knight" had ended me.

Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain bloomed behind my right ear. I gasped, clutching the side of my head. It felt like a hot needle was being driven into my skull.

“The clock is ticking, Little Crow.”

The Archivist’s voice hissed in my mind, cold and dry like dead leaves. The room around me seemed to dim, the colours draining away until Lyra looked like a grey statue.

“Task One: The Duke of Thorne must not leave the palace without knowing your name. Failure will result in the first stage of cardiac arrest. You have seventy-two hours.”

The pain vanished as quickly as it had come. I slumped against the bedpost, panting. Lyra was staring at me; her brow furrowed in a mask of concern.

"Elara? You turned so pale... should I call the physician?"

"No!" I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended. I saw Lyra flinch, a flash of genuine surprise crossing her face. I quickly softened my expression, pulling on the mask I would have to wear for the rest of my life. "No, Lyra. I’m just... hungry. Go tell Father I’ll be down for breakfast in a moment."

She hesitated, her eyes scanning my face for a second too long—looking for a weakness she could exploit later—before nodding and skipping out of the room.

The moment the door shut, I lunged for the mirror.

I pulled my hair back, exposing the skin behind my ear. The small, brown mole was gone. In its place was a symbol no larger than a ladybug—a deep, glowing red mark that looked like a tiny, stylized bird skull.

The mark of the Archivist.

I touched it, and a shiver ran down my spine. This wasn't a dream. I had been given a second chance, but I was a prisoner to a shopkeeper in a realm of smoke. If I wanted to destroy Lyra and Caspian, I first had to survive the duke.

I looked at my reflection. My eyes were different. The sixteen-year-old Elara had eyes full of hope and naivety. My eyes now were the eyes of a woman who had tasted jasmine-flavoured poison.

"Duke Kaelen Thorne," I whispered to the empty room. "In my last life, I feared you. In this one, you are the only shield I have."

I dressed quickly, choosing a gown of deep forest green—a colour that made me look older, more serious. I didn't want to look like the "doll" Caspian had described. I wanted to look like a woman who was ready for war.

As I descended the grand stone staircase of the Vance estate, I saw my father, Count Vance, standing at the entrance. Beside him stood a woman with a stiff back and eyes like cold flint.

Lady Beatrice. My step-mother.

In my past life, she had spent years slowly draining my inheritance to pay for Lyra’s lavish lifestyle. She was the one who had introduced me to Caspian. She was the architect of my misery.

"There you are, Elara," my father said, though he didn't look at me. He was busy adjusting his cloak. "Do try to be presentable today. The Duke is not known for his patience. We must show him that House Vance is a place of order."

"Of course, Father," I said, curtsying deeply.

I caught Beatrice’s gaze. She was looking at my dress, her lips thinning into a line of disapproval. "Green, Elara? It’s a bit... dull for a young girl, isn't it? You should be in pink, like Lyra. It makes you look more 'approachable.'"

Approachable. You mean easy to manipulate, I thought.

"I felt like a change, Stepmother," I replied, giving her a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "After all, today is a day for new beginnings, isn't it?"

Before she could respond, the heavy front doors of the palace swung open.

The air in the hallway suddenly turned cold. The servants at the door bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the floor. A shadow fell across the threshold, long and imposing.

He stepped inside.

He was dressed entirely in black and charcoal grey, his leather armor scarred and worn from travel. He didn't look like a nobleman; he looked like a god of war who had lost his way. His hair was black as a raven's wing, and his eyes—when they swept over the room—were a piercing, icy blue that seemed to strip everyone’s secrets bare.

Duke Kaelen Thorne.

He didn't look at my father. He didn't look at the bowing servants. His gaze moved across the room until it landed directly on me.

In my past life, I would have looked away. I would have trembled.

This time, I took a step forward.

I felt the red mark behind my ear pulse with a rhythmic, warning heat. Secure his attention. Or die.

As the Duke walked toward us, his heavy boots echoing like a drumbeat on the marble, I realized my heart wasn't racing from fear. It was racing from the thrill of the gamble.

The Duke stopped five paces away. The silence was suffocating. My father began to stammer a greeting, but Kaelen’s eyes never left mine.

"You," he said. His voice was a low growl, like stones grinding together. "Why are you the only one in this house who isn't shaking?"

I felt Beatrice stiffen beside me, but I didn't blink. I met his icy stare with a gaze of pure, frozen fire.

"Because, Your Grace," I said, my voice steady and clear, "I have already seen what lies in the dark. There is nothing left for me to fear."

The Duke’s eyes narrowed. For a fleeting second, I saw a spark of genuine curiosity in that icy blue void.

But then, a familiar, sweet voice broke the tension.

"Your Grace! Welcome to our home!"

Lyra stepped forward, her face tilted at the perfect angle to look "adorable." She reached out as if to touch his arm, her eyes wide and sparkling.

I held my breath. In the past, this was where Lyra began her charms. But as her hand moved toward him, the Duke didn't smile. He didn't even acknowledge her.

Instead, he leaned closer to me, his scent—snow, cedar, and old iron—filling my senses.

"I don't like liars, Lady Elara," he whispered, so low only I could hear. "And your eyes are telling a very different story than your tongue."

He pulled away and strode past us without another word, leaving my father in a state of shock and Lyra standing there with her hand frozen in mid-air, her face turning a bright, humiliated red.

The mark behind my ear stopped burning.

Task One: Progressing.

I watched his retreating back, a cold smile tugging at the corners of my lips. Lyra turned to me, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp jealousy that she couldn't quite hide.

"What did he say to you?" she hissed, her 'sweet' persona slipping for a fraction of a second.

I turned to her, my expression perfectly blank. "He said he doesn't like liars, Lyra. You should probably keep that in mind."

I walked away, leaving her fuming in the hallway. I had seventy-two hours to make the most dangerous man in the kingdom my ally. And I had a feeling the Archivist was only just getting started.