He walked another step.
“Someone marked you,” Mingxi said. “Long before tonight.”
Marked.The word lodged in her chest and began to pulse. Her parents’ voices rose immediately, overlapping, relentless.
“Penelope is marked for this.”
“She was marked before birth.”
“Do not interfere, Lysandra. She is already marked.”
Penelope kept walking. She did not slow. Her face did not change.
Marked.Not beloved. Not protected. Designated.
Mingxi continued, clearly unaware of the damage unfolding beside him, “This was not random. Whoever orchestrated the attack singled you out. That pattern predates the massacre.”
Predates. As in decided. As in inevitable.
She steadied her spine with a slow inhale.
“And what conclusion,” she asked evenly, “does the Councilor draw from that?”
“That you are connected to the instigator in a way we do not yet understand.”
Memory surged without warning.
Cold marble under bare feet. Candlelight. Chalked sigils.
Her father’s grip on her wrist.
Her mother’s calm voice.“Penelope is the one it wants.”
Penelope did not stumble. She did not falter.
By the time they reached the private chamber door, her expression had settled into marble. Uncracked. Unreadable. Inside, she would come apart. But not here. Not with him.
The Guardians opened the door. The chamber beyond was spare and pale. Stone walls. Silk hangings. A narrow bed meant for containment, not comfort.
Penelope stepped inside without hesitation. The door closed behind her. She turned the lock herself.
Silence followed. Real silence. The kind that presses inward.
She stood with her hands braced lightly against the doorframe, breath slow, measured. Nothing visible gave way.
Marked.The word returned, quieter. Heavier.
She crossed the room and stopped before the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, composed and distant. Her stomach twisted sharply, nausea blooming, but her posture remained perfect.
Her mother’s voice slipped in, precise and satisfied. “Lysandra is beloved. Penelope is needed.”
Needed. Useful. Expendable.
Her hands tightened against the dresser. The only sign, barely there, that her body remembered what her mind had buried. She exhaled. Another memory surfaced, slower, more dangerous.
Her father’s voice. Cold. Certain. “Stop resisting. You were born for this.”
Lysandra had stepped between them. Fierce. Shaking.“You will not take her.”
