“Don't be afraid, Miss Rose,” the monk called out with an accent I couldn’t identify. “You must believe me. I wish you no harm.”
I stared at him, prepared to run if he came any closer. But he remained where he was, his feet planted in the sand. I didn’t know who I could believe or trust. For all I knew, this was another ploy to capture me and hand me to the Gatemen.
I looked back towards the Gate, wondering if he had come through it or if he belonged to this world already. Or maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me.
“Who are you? I demanded.
“Miss Rose, you don’t know me, nor would you know my kind. But I know the truth of your mark.”
I stepped back warily. “What do you know about me?”
“I am a keeper of visions,” he said, his words sounding unbelievable. He stared almost entranced at me.
“My Order came to this world long before your histories began. Wewere taught to watch for certain signs and bloodlines.” His gaze drifted to my forehead, then to the scars on my arms.
“Yours is one of them.”
A cold ripple moved through me.
“Your mark is not a symbol of power,” he continued softly, “but of inheritance. A fragment of magical energy that once existed in full—a force tied to the constellations themselves. Most would never sense it. Most would never recognise it. But those who guard the old knowledge… we see it, we know it exists.”
My pulse hammered.
“Why me?”
“Because a piece of what was lost survives in you,” he said. “A thread of star-born energy woven into your blood. It is faint, but real. And the world has begun to feel its stirring.”
“Why?” The wind shifted, cold and sharp against my skin.
“We are here because that fragment has awakened,” he said. “And when it awakens, balance shifts.”
I swallowed hard, unsure whether to run or listen.
“Miss Rose… the time for visions and stories has passed,” the monk said quietly. “What matters now is the truth of your mark.”
Time seemed to stand still as his words resonated in my mind. I could only wonder how much of it was true.
“I was instructed to wait here at this time,” the monk continued. “My task is simple, to give you what was meant for you. Nothing more.”
I said nothing as he reached into his robe and retrieved a rolled-up document tied with a leather string. He held it reverently and gazed at me with earnest dark eyes.
“I’ve heard too many stories, most designed to mislead or confuse me. I've no reason to believe you.”
The monk watched me.
“I’m not here to convince you,” he said. “I’m merely an instrument, sent to deliver what has been guarded for generations. This parchment was never meant for anyone else.”
“Another tale, another story.” I muttered, stepping away. “Another attempt to tell me who I’m supposed to be.”
“Not who you are supposed to be,” he corrected softly. “What you already are.”
A chill rippled through me.
“Why now?”
The monk’s gaze drifted to my forehead, then to the scars on my arms. “Because your mark has begun to stir. And when it stirs, it calls to the factions who know how to listen.
My pulse hammered.
