The Mark of the Forsaken

The moon hung high in the sky, a silver blade cutting through the abyss of night. A hush settled over the kingdom of Valtheris, but inside the depths of its bustling capital, danger whispered through the streets. Hidden behind the towering walls of the Grand Arena, where warriors fought for glory, a girl was about to change the world's fate.

Lyria Draven moved like a shadow between the marble columns, her leather boots making no sound against the cold stone floor. Her raven-golden hair, tied back in a loose braid, swayed as she kept her breath steady. The underground chamber was dimly lit, the torches casting flickering shadows against the curved walls. She wasn’t supposed to be here. But then again, she was never supposed to exist in the first place.

The Mark of the Forsaken burned on her wrist—a swirling brand that set her apart from the rest of the kingdom. It was a curse, a legend, a death sentence. Those born with it were said to bring ruin.

The King had ordered every Marked child to be executed upon birth. Lyria had survived. Somehow.

Tonight, she would uncover why.

She reached the heavy iron door at the heart of the chamber. A thick chain ran through its handles, locked tight. With a flick of her wrist, Lyria pulled a slender dagger from her belt and twisted it between the links. A soft click echoed. The chain loosened.

Good. No alarms.

She slipped inside, closing the door behind her. A single pedestal stood in the center of the room, draped in crimson silk. Upon it rested an ancient blade—the Blade of Velmora. The steel pulsed with a faint blue glow, humming as if alive. The weapon of the first Rebel Queen. The only thing that could kill a god.

Lyria reached for it, fingers trembling.

The moment her skin brushed the hilt, a rush of power surged through her veins. Visions struck her like lightning—

A battlefield soaked in blood. A faceless warrior with burning silver eyes. A voice, deep and commanding, whispering her name.

Lyria… the time has come.

She gasped and stumbled back, but the blade clung to her palm as if it had chosen her. The torches flickered wildly, an unnatural wind howling through the chamber.

Then, a sound. A slow, deliberate clap.

She whirled around.

A figure stepped from the shadows. Cloaked in black, his golden eyes gleamed with amusement.

“Well, well. The lost heir finally comes to claim her birthright.”

Lyria’s heart pounded. She had seen this man before—in wanted posters, in the terrified whispers of the people.

The King’s Blade. The most feared assassin in Valtheris.

And he was blocking the only exit.

Lyria’s grip on the blade tightened, sweat beading on her forehead. Every muscle in her body tensed. She had trained for this and dreamed of the moment she would stand against the king's forces. But not like this. Not so soon.

The assassin took a slow step forward, his boots making a soft click against the stone floor. “You have no idea what you just did, do you?” His voice was smooth, laced with amusement, yet something more dangerous lurked beneath the surface.

Lyria kept her stance firm. “I don’t care what you think. I came for the blade, and now it’s mine.”

The assassin let out a low chuckle. “Yours? Do you even know what it is?”

“I know enough.”

“Then you should also know,” he continued, drawing his sword—a wickedly curved weapon with runes etched along its edge—“that touching that blade means you’ve sealed your fate.”

Lyria swallowed hard, but she refused to let him see her fear. “I’ve been living on borrowed time since the day I was born.”

The assassin tilted his head, considering her words. Then, in a blur, he moved.

Lyria barely had time to react. Steel clashed against steel, the force of the impact sending a jolt up her arm. She staggered back, but she held her ground, her instincts screaming at her to move, dodge, counter. He was fast—faster than anyone she had faced before.

“You have skill,” he admitted, pressing forward, his blade a blur of motion. “But skill won’t save you.”

Lyria gritted her teeth, parrying his strikes, searching for an opening. The vision she had seen still burned in her mind. The battlefield, the faceless warrior… was it him? Was this the moment that would decide her fate?

She had no time to dwell on it. He lunged again, and this time, she twisted out of the way, slamming her elbow into his ribs. He grunted but barely faltered. His golden eyes locked onto hers with something unreadable—curiosity, maybe? Or was it something far more dangerous?

A flicker of hesitation. That was all she needed.

Lyria dropped low and kicked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground with a sharp exhale, but before she could capitalize on the moment, he rolled back to his feet, his smirk returning.

“I’m impressed,” he said, wiping a speck of blood from the corner of his lip. “You’re better than I expected.”

Lyria didn’t reply. She knew better than to waste breath on words. Instead, she raised the Blade of Velmora, the glow intensifying as if responding to her resolve.

The assassin’s smirk faded. “You don’t even know what you’ve awakened, do you?”

Before she could demand answers, a deafening roar shook the chamber.

Lyria’s breath hitched. The walls trembled, dust raining down from the ceiling. The air grew thick with magic, crackling like a storm about to break.

The assassin cursed under his breath. “You woke it up.”

Lyria barely had time to process his words before the ground beneath them split apart—and something monstrous began to rise.