Lysandra's pulse thundered in her ears.
Something was different.
She could feel it in the marrow of her bones, in the way the air pressed against her skin heavy, watchful, waiting.
The prince was still staring at her, silver eyes sharp with barely restrained urgency. "Tell me everything," he said.
Lysandra swallowed. "The first heir… he offered me a choice. To break the curse."
The prince's jaw tightened. "And?"
She exhaled. "I refused."
His reaction was subtle, but Lysandra noticed the faint parting of his lips, the way his fingers twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach for something.
Then, his voice dropped. "Then you have done something that no heir before you has dared."
Lysandra frowned. "I figured that much when the realm started collapsing under me."
But the prince wasn't amused. If anything, he looked—concerned.
"You don't understand," he said. "You weren't supposed to return."
Her breath hitched. "What?"
The prince took a step closer, his gaze locked onto hers. "The first heir doesn't let anyone leave. He either takes them or they take his deal."
Lysandra's skin prickled. "But he let me go."
The prince shook his head. "No. He sent you back."
Lysandra stiffened. The difference was small, but it meant everything.
She hadn't just been spared.
She had been marked.
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
Her hands curled into fists. "Then what happens now?"
The prince hesitated. And that scared her more than anything.
Then, softly, he said, "You changed the curse."
A gust of wind howled through the trees.
Lysandra barely had a second to process those words before pain flared through her chest.
She gasped, her knees buckling as an invisible force gripped her, burning through her very soul.
The prince's eyes widened. "Lysandra!"
She collapsed to the ground, fingers clawing at her skin as something seared beneath it.
She could feel it shadows writhing under her flesh, curling around her bones.
Something was being etched into her, something ancient, binding—
And then—
It stopped.
Lysandra's breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped from her brow.
The prince knelt beside her, hands gripping her shoulders. "What happened?"
Shaking, Lysandra forced herself to sit up.
And then she saw it.
A symbol—dark as ink, shimmering like shifting mist—glowed on the back of her hand.
Not just any mark.
The mark of defiance.
The prince stared at it, his expression unreadable.
Lysandra swallowed hard. "What does it mean?"
Silence stretched between them.
Then, the prince exhaled, his voice low and grave.
"It means the gods are watching you now."
Lysandra's blood ran cold.
Because in all the histories of the cursed heirs…
None of them had ever carried the mark.
And none of them had ever survived the gods' attention.