I follow him because I'm reckless.
Because I'm angry.
Because if I stop now, I'll have to admit what just happened wasn't a nightmare, wasn't a hallucination.
He doesn't speak as we walk. Just glides through the rain-slick alleys like he owns the shadows.
"Where are we going?" I ask, nearly slipping on the cobblestones. "If you're taking me to some underground cult, I swear to all seven hells—"
He glances back. Just a flick of his eyes. No smirk. No sarcasm.
"You want answers," he says. "I have them."
I narrow my eyes. "Do you always kidnap girls after midnight, or am I just special?"
He doesn't answer. Of course not. Bastard probably thinks silence makes him mysterious.
We cross a bridge that groans under our weight, pass two beggars who don't even look up. The city feels different now. Not just because I'm bleeding or because something under my skin is glowing like coals. It's like I'm... shifted. Slightly out of place.
Wrong and right at the same time.
Finally, he stops.
A crumbling chapel looms in front of us. The roof's half gone. Ivy's eaten the bell tower. This place hasn't heard a prayer in years.
"You seriously brought me to a ruin?" I scoff. "What, going to exorcise my demons with some dramatic chanting?"
"No," he says, pushing the door open with one arm. "You already did that part."
Inside, the air smells like soot and stone. Candles flicker to life along the walls as we enter — not with matches, but with magic. Some kind of trigger he steps over.
Ritual circle. Scorched floor. Books and scrolls in languages I can't read.
"This is where I train them," he says.
"Them?"
He looks at me, really looks. Something in his gaze scrapes against my walls.
"The Blood Marked."
The words hit like a fist.
"That's not real," I say. "It's just a street story. Bedtime terror to keep slum kids from wandering after dark."
"It's real," he replies. "You're proof."
I cross my arms. "And what? You're my personal prophecy guide?"
He steps closer. I don't move.
"You're the first in over fifty years to activate your mark without dying. The last one... lost control. Burned half a city block to ash."
"Comforting."
He's still watching me — not like I'm a threat, but like I'm a puzzle.
Like if he stares hard enough, he'll see what even I don't.
I hate how my skin reacts to it. How heat creeps up my neck.
"Why me?" I ask. My voice almost breaks. "Why now?"
He exhales, the sound soft. Almost regretful.
"I don't know yet," he says. "But I think you're dangerous."
Something about the way he says it...
Not afraid.
Not accusing.
Just a quiet, terrifying truth.