Mara woke to pain.
It seeped into her bones before her mind fully surfaced-cold iron biting into her wrists, her ankles shackled, her body suspended just enough that her toes barely touched the stone floor. Every muscle screamed in protest when she moved. The air was damp, metallic, thick with the scent of blood that was not entirely her own.
She gasped-and wished she hadn't.
The room spun. Torchlight flickered against ancient walls carved with symbols she didn't recognize, yet something deep inside her recoiled from them. They burned her eyes. Rejected her.
Memory crashed down like a blade.
The Blood Moon.
Her family.
The screams.
Mara thrashed against the chains, a raw sound tearing from her throat. The iron seared her skin, sending jolts of agony through her veins. She bit down hard, tasting blood, refusing to scream again.
Slow footsteps echoed.
Figures emerged from the shadows-robed, silent, watching her the way predators watch wounded prey. One stepped forward and dragged a blade across her arm, not deep enough to kill, just enough to hurt. Fire exploded beneath her skin.
She cried out this time.
They asked questions she refused to answer. When she stayed silent, the pain came-silver pressed to flesh, heat burning through her veins, strange tools that hummed against her skin, awakening something furious and dangerous inside her. Each scream fed them. Each wound was measured. Intentional.
"You endure more than you should," one of them murmured. "Interesting."
Hours-or days-blurred together. Hunger clawed at her. Thirst burned. Still, she lived.
Still, she refused to break.
Then the door creaked open again-but this time, only one figure entered.
He dismissed the others with a wave of his hand.
He stepped into the light, pale eyes locking onto hers, a slow smile curling his lips.
"You're not dying," he said softly. "You're becoming."
He reached for her chains-and the iron began to glow red.
Mara screamed as something inside her answered.
And the chains began to crack.
