Betrothed to the devil himself
“My… daughter?”
He stepped back, his mind reeling. The pieces fell together — the shared mark, the dreams, the bond between them. He covered his face with his hand, whispering, “No… gods, no…”
The crowd erupted into shouts — confusion, fear, outrage.
Then a deep voice rose from the back.
“She must die!”
The crowd turned toward the speaker — an old priest, draped in black robes, his eyes glowing faintly white. “It matters not who she is. She bears the mark of ruin. The prophecy demands blood. Kill her, or the world burns.”
Bab Populer