Chapter Four: The Echo Beneath Her Skin

Elira

The mark on her wrist burned like moonfire.

Not pain—something worse. Recognition.

Elira had never felt magic before. Not truly. The temples in Lysaria taught her to pray to a goddess who never listened, to trace rituals with no spark. She had been told again and again that she was moonless—a broken thing in a lineage of light.

But now, as Kaelen gripped her wrist and the mark pulsed brighter between them, that lie collapsed like ash.

She felt the magic waking.

It threaded through her veins like wildfire, ancient and silver-laced, alive with a voice she couldn't understand but knew she was born to answer.

Kaelen stared at the mark like it had betrayed him.

"This shouldn't be happening," he said under his breath.

"I could say the same to you," Elira snapped, yanking her hand back. "You told me I was powerless."

"I said what I believed. You weren't marked when you arrived."

"Then maybe your precious moon changed her mind."

Kaelen's jaw clenched, and for a moment she swore his eyes flickered—not just with emotion, but something inhuman.

"Elira," he said quietly, "you need to listen to me. That mark isn't a gift. It's a key."

"To what?" she demanded.

His gaze dropped to the stone floor. "To whatever the Hollow King sealed away."

A chill slid down her spine.

The Hollow King. The name had echoed in old stories like a curse. A creature who once wore a human face but carved kingdoms out of bone and void. A godless ruler who bound the night to his will—and who vanished when the world bled light.

And now he was stirring.

Because of her.

She turned away, suddenly unable to stand still. The fire inside her, this thing beneath her skin, was spreading. Every step sparked on the stone. Every breath felt like it came from a different, older version of herself.

"I didn't ask for this," she whispered.

"No," Kaelen said behind her. "But neither did I."

She glanced back—and this time, the mask was gone. No monster king. Just a man caught in the jaws of prophecy, trying not to drown.

Their eyes locked.

Something unspoken passed between them—an understanding born of too many scars. Of being used by fate instead of wielding it.

Kaelen stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. As if she were something sacred. Or dangerous.

"Let me help you," he said, voice low. "Before the power consumes you."

She could feel it now—how her magic pressed at the seams of her body, frantic, untamed. A second heartbeat thudded beneath her skin, faster, louder.

"If I let you in," she said, "you won't like what you find."

He reached for her—fingertips brushing the edge of her jaw. A single touch, electric and devastating.

"I already don't," he said. "And still I want more."

---

That night, she dreamed in silver.

She stood on a field of bone under a sky without stars. The moon bled down from the heavens, and something ancient moved just beyond the horizon.

A voice spoke. Soft. Seductive. Hollow.

"You don't belong to him."

Elira turned—and saw a shadow coalesce into a man.

Tall. Crowned. Eyes like burned-out suns.

"You are mine, little flame. You always were."

She woke gasping, her sheets soaked, the mark on her wrist glowing bright enough to light the room.

Kaelen was already there.

Perched on the windowsill like he'd been waiting for her scream.

"You saw him," he said, no question in his tone.

She nodded, pulling the blanket tighter. "He called me his."

Kaelen's expression was carved in fury. "Then it's already begun."

---

By dawn, she was standing in a circle of runes.

Kaelen's training chamber was unlike anything in the palace—raw stone, no furniture, only sigils and blood-stained floors. Runes etched into the walls shimmered with magic older than written language.

"This will help you contain it," he said.

"Why not just lock me in a tower?" she muttered.

Kaelen raised a brow. "Because towers are for princesses. You're something else entirely."

Then he moved.

Fast.

A wave of shadow magic erupted from his palm, striking her like a whip of smoke and cold. Elira staggered—then steadied, magic rising to meet the blow instinctively. Her hand flared with light. She threw it forward, wild and untrained.

The blast knocked Kaelen back five steps.

He laughed.

It was dark and sharp and thrilled.

"You're stronger than her," he said.

"Than who?"

He hesitated.

"Than the last moonmarked queen who burned my Court."

The silence crackled.

"You loved her," Elira guessed.

Kaelen's eyes narrowed. "I buried her."

Then he was on her again—training harsh, relentless, beautiful in its violence. She learned to shape the light, twist it into spears and shields, to breathe with it instead of against it. And every time their magic touched, it sang—a harmony neither of them could deny.

At one point, his hands caught her waist as she stumbled. Her body pressed to his. Her breath hitched.

"You're bleeding," he murmured, brushing a cut on her cheek.

"You did that," she replied.

"You can punish me later."

Their eyes met.

The moment stretched—hot, forbidden, and laced with the same fire that burned beneath her skin.

She kissed him.

It wasn't sweet. It was a challenge.

He answered it with a growl and pulled her closer, until shadow and moonlight blurred between them.

And for a breath, there was no prophecy. No Hollow King. No Court.

Only two monsters, wanting each other.

---

Later, when they lay on the cold stone floor, breathless and tangled, Kaelen traced the mark on her wrist.

"He'll come for you soon," he said. "The Hollow King doesn't wait long once he's chosen."

Elira turned her face into his neck. "Then let him come."

"I'll kill him."

"You might die trying."

He kissed her hair. "Then I'll die as yours"