Elira sat bolt upright in bed, her breath ragged and her skin clammy with sweat. The dream still burned behind her eyes: a crumbling stone temple, a lone warrior bathed in starlight, and a voice she could not place whispering her name.
She glanced at the clock—3:17 AM. The apartment was silent, save for the distant hum of the city. Pushing the tangled sheets aside, she swung her legs to the floor. Her body felt different, heavier somehow, as though something unseen pressed upon her.
As she reached for the glass of water on her nightstand, pain flared on her inner wrist. She gasped, dropping the glass with a sharp crack. Her heart pounded as she turned her arm over.
A faint symbol, no larger than a coin, now marred her pale skin—an intricate mark woven from lines of silver and deep indigo. It pulsed faintly, as if alive.
Elira rubbed at it, half-expecting the mark to smudge away. It remained stubbornly etched into her flesh.
"What is this?" she whispered, panic tightening her throat.
A sudden knock at the door startled her. She wasn't expecting anyone. Moving cautiously, she pulled on a robe and padded to the entrance.
Through the peephole, she saw an elderly woman wrapped in a faded shawl, her eyes wise and piercing. Elira hesitated, but something compelled her to open the door.
The woman smiled, as though she had been expected.
"It has begun," the stranger said softly. "The Mark of the Promised One has awakened."
Elira stared, her voice caught in her throat. "Who are you?"
"My name is Maevra," the woman replied. "And I am here to prepare you for what is to come."
Before Elira could respond, the Mark on her wrist pulsed again—this time stronger, sending a wave of warmth through her arm.
The ground beneath them seemed to hum faintly, as if an ancient power had just stirred from its long slumber.
In that moment, though Elira didn't yet understand, her life had changed forever.