Maryna
The book was heavier than it looked.
Its cover breathed heat beneath my fingers, like it had been waiting for skin—my skin. It didn't feel like leather. It felt like something older. Something that had once lived and never truly died.
The moment I opened it, the air around me shifted.
The torches on the walls dimmed.
The silence grew thicker.
And the House held its breath.
The first page bore no words—only a sigil.
A spiral inside a ring of thorns, traced in gold so fine it looked painted by flame.
When I touched it, my fingers tingled.
Heat spiked through my palm, up my arm, into my chest.
I gasped—but didn't pull away.
The next page appeared on its own.
"To awaken the body is to wake the blood.
To awaken the blood is to summon the flame.
To summon the flame is to become."
My pulse jumped.
The words didn't just read—they entered me.
Each line soaked into my skin like wine into cloth.
Each syllable hummed across my nerves.
And then something strange began to happen.
My body responded.
Slowly. Subtly.
My breath shortened.
My skin warmed.
My thighs pressed together as a low ache bloomed in my core—uninvited, but not unwelcome.
The book didn't ask for permission.
It knew.
The next passage was a poem—or maybe a warning.
She who bears the mark must not yield quickly.
She must hunger.
She must burn.
And in the burning, remember the name she was never given.
I blinked.
My throat went dry.
A strange image flashed behind my eyes—my own reflection, only older. Crowned. Wrapped in shadow and silk. My mouth was open in a silent scream—or a moan—I couldn't tell which.
And behind her…
A figure with eyes like knives.
Not Vasilios.
Not Marek.
Not even Malenthros.
Someone else.
Watching.
Waiting.
I turned the page, trying to shake the vision loose.
More gold ink. More heat.
There is no greater truth than the surrender of knowing.
There is no greater lie than control.
My hands trembled.
I'd thought I came here for answers.
But this book wasn't giving answers.
It was unmaking questions.
I turned another page.
And stopped breathing.
There was a drawing now—rough, but unmistakable.
A woman kneeling in front of a circle of flames. Her wrists were bare. Her hair wild. Her eyes wide. Behind her stood three figures.
The Triumvirate.
Vasilios. Marek. Malenthros.
The image was captioned in a language I didn't speak, but somehow understood.
First they feed. Then they claim. Then they choose.
One to love. One to burn. One to bind.
My vision blurred.
The room tilted.
I closed the book.
Too much.
Too soon.
But part of me didn't want to stop.
Part of me ached to turn another page.
To find out if I was the one who would be loved, burned, or bound.
I took a deep breath.
My chest still ached.
My body still hummed.
And I realized—
The book wasn't teaching me.
It was remembering me.
Footsteps echoed behind me.
I spun.
But no one stood there.
Just the shadows.
Just the walls.
Just the House, watching.
And the book, still warm in my hands.
Still waiting.