Cyber Sigil Tattoos Novels & Stories

I throw back the blanket. Sigils crawl across my skin, faintly luminescent, etched from wrist to shoulder like living tattoos. They glow the same molten gold from the dream, their edges smoking with a quiet hiss. The room pulses with their light, shadows bending toward me as if the marks command them. I bite down on a cry. The heat is real—searing, yet somehow clean. I trace one trembling finger along a spiral on my forearm. The instant I touch it, the symbol flares and vanishes, sinking beneath my skin until nothing remains but a faint warmth.

“And yours. Should keep the vamp scum down for long enough to stake them. It’s spell work, essentially – the sigils, once inside the body, will hold them frozen in place, unable to fight back.” “The sigils?” I asked, eyebrows raised. The crowd parted enough for me to slip through, eager to inspect the detailed work. Lines and shapes had been scored into each tiny bullet, circles and crosses and arches interlinking to create archaic shapes. Beside me, Sierra hummed her quiet approval. “An old friend of mine up in Lywnedd has a particular talent for carving. I gave her the notes you two shared with us, and she managed to create these.”

Beneath each hand drawn symbol was a tip to help make the spell stronger. Many called for white chalk or paint, others wanted black, and the harsher sigils called for animal blood. Some of the symbols became so complex my eyes couldn’t discern where one line began and another ended. There was one sigil that sent my thoughts veering towards the marks on my neck. It wasn’t Asher’s on my mind, even though I showed off the cobalt mark every chance I had. Unfortunately, in doing so I also had no choice but to show off my other mark, the one belonging to Tristan.

The liquid burns as it enters my bloodstream—not painful exactly, but deeply uncomfortable, like ice and fire mixing in my veins. Then she places her hand on my lower abdomen, and I feel warmth spreading beneath her palm. "The sigil is forming," she murmurs. "Hold still." The warmth becomes heat, then pressure, then a strange tingling sensation that makes me want to squirm away. But I hold still. After what feels like an eternity but is probably only thirty seconds, she pulls her hand back. "Done. The sigil is in place." I look down to see a faint silver mark just below my navel—intricate, beautiful, like Celtic knotwork mixed with moon phases.