Zareth's POV
I'm halfway up the Celestial Spire's endless stairs when the pain hits.
My legs buckle. I grab the railing to keep from falling, biting my lip so hard I taste blood. The silver marks on my arms feel like they're on fire, burning from the inside out.
Through my sleeve, I see light bleeding through the cracks. Bright. Wrong. Getting worse.
"Get up," I whisper to myself. "You're almost there."
But my body won't listen. I slide down to sit on the cold stone steps, breathing hard. Sweat drips down my face even though it's freezing in here.
A door opens above me. Footsteps echo on the stairs.
"Zareth?" A familiar voice. Young. Worried. "Is that you?"
I look up to see Marcus, one of the junior Reapers. He's only sixteen, still has most of his emotions because his marks aren't complete yet. He looks at me like I'm his hero.
If only he knew the truth.
"I'm fine," I say, forcing myself to stand. The pain screams through my arms, but I don't let it show on my face. "Just tired from the hunt."
"Did you get him? The Timekeeper?"
"He's dead."
Marcus grins. "One hundred and twenty-seven! That's a record nobody will ever beat." He steps closer, and his smile fades. "Zareth, your arms..."
I pull my sleeves down quickly, covering the cracks. "It's nothing."
"But they're glowing—"
"I said it's nothing." My voice comes out sharp, cold. The way a Master Reaper should sound.
Marcus steps back, hurt flashing across his face. Then he bows his head. "Yes, Master Zareth. Sorry for bothering you."
He hurries past me down the stairs, and I feel something twist in my chest. Something that shouldn't be there. Something that feels like... guilt?
No. The marks keep emotions away. I don't feel guilt.
Except I just did.
I climb the rest of the stairs faster, ignoring the pain. High Luminary Cassian is waiting for me in his tower office. I need to report the successful hunt. I need to figure out what's wrong with my marks. I need—
The door to Cassian's office swings open before I can knock.
"Zareth! Come in, my dear. Come in." Cassian's voice is warm, welcoming. The voice of the man who saved me from the Mourning Districts when I was six years old. The voice of the man who made me into something powerful instead of nothing.
I step inside. The room is full of floating star-globes that cast everything in blue light. Cassian stands by the window, his back to me. He's tall and thin, with silver hair that matches the color of my marks.
"One hundred and twenty-seven," he says without turning around. "Magnificent. Simply magnificent. The Timekeeper was three thousand years old, yet you ended him in less than an hour."
"Forty-three minutes," I correct automatically.
Cassian turns, and his smile is proud. "Of course you counted. That's what makes you perfect, Zareth. You're precise. Focused. Everything a Reaper should be."
Something about the way he says "perfect" makes my skin crawl.
"Sir, I need to report something—"
"The marks are cracking." He says it casually, like he's talking about the weather. "Yes, I know."
My heart stops. "You... know?"
"Of course I know. I created them." Cassian walks toward me, hands clasped behind his back. "The silver marks aren't just tattoos, my dear. They're living magic, woven from fallen star essence. They suppress your emotions, yes. But they do so much more than that."
"What do you mean?"
He stops in front of me, studying my face like I'm one of his experiments. "They keep you contained. Stable. Safe." His hand reaches out, and before I can move, he grabs my wrist and pushes up my sleeve.
The cracks are worse than before. Silver light bleeds from them like blood. Some of the cracks have spread to form patterns—shapes that almost look like... words? Symbols?
Cassian's smile widens. "Perfect. It's happening exactly as predicted."
"What's happening? Sir, something's wrong. The marks have never done this before—"
"They've never been ready before." He releases my wrist and turns away. "Tell me, Zareth. Did Meridian say anything before he died?"
I hesitate. Should I mention the message written in blood? The warning about someone knowing I'm coming?
"He said someone was waiting for me," I answer carefully.
"Lysander Ashencrown."
"Yes. How did you—"
"Because everything is going according to plan." Cassian waves his hand, and one of the star-globes expands, showing an image of a man's face.
My breath catches.
Golden eyes. Dark hair. A sad smile. The face from my impossible memories—the father who called me "little anchor."
"This is Lysander Ashencrown," Cassian says. "The Star-Devourer. The last Undying Sovereign. The most dangerous parasite alive." He turns to face me. "And your final target."
The room spins. "My... final?"
"After one hundred and twenty-seven kills, you've earned rest, my dear. One more hunt. One more immortal. Then you can retire with honor, knowing you saved the Empire from its greatest threat."
Something in his voice is wrong. Too eager. Too excited.
"What happens after I kill him?" I ask.
Cassian's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "After you kill him, the world becomes safe forever. No more Undying to steal magic. No more threats to our people." He places a hand on my shoulder. "You'll be a hero, Zareth. The hero who ended the immortal plague."
"And the marks?"
"They'll stabilize once Lysander is dead." He squeezes my shoulder. "Trust me. Everything will make sense soon."
But nothing makes sense. The cracks hurt worse when he touches me. The light bleeds brighter. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice that sounds like my own—but younger, frightened, real—screams that he's lying.
"When do I leave?" I ask.
"Tomorrow night. During the eclipse." Cassian hands me a folder filled with papers. "Everything you need to know about Lysander is in here. His last known location, his abilities, his weaknesses. Study it carefully."
I take the folder. My hands are shaking again.
"Zareth?" Cassian's voice softens. "Are you afraid?"
"No, sir. I don't feel fear."
"Of course not. The marks prevent that." He smiles. "You're my perfect weapon. You've never failed me. You won't fail me now."
I bow and turn to leave.
"Oh, and Zareth?" Cassian calls after me. "One more thing."
I look back.
His eyes gleam in the star-light. "If Lysander tries to talk to you, don't listen. The old ones are expert liars. They'll say anything to make you doubt. To make you weak. To make you hesitate."
"I never hesitate."
"I know. That's why you're still alive."
I leave his office and walk down the hallway in a daze. My arms hurt so badly I can barely hold the folder. The marks pulse with each heartbeat, and with each pulse, I see flashes—
A woman singing. A little girl laughing. A man with golden eyes lifting the girl onto his shoulders. "Look, little anchor. The stars are dancing for you."
I stumble into an empty hallway and press my back against the wall. My vision blurs. The pain is unbearable.
I pull up both sleeves and stare at the marks.
The cracks have formed words. Actual words in a language I shouldn't know but somehow understand:
REMEMBER
REMEMBER
REMEMBER
And beneath my skin, beneath the silver ink and the bleeding light, something pulses. Something that feels like power. Like magic. Like life that was locked away for twenty-one years and is finally clawing its way free.
The folder slips from my hands. Papers scatter across the floor.
One lands face-up, showing Lysander's face again. But this time, there's something written at the bottom in Cassian's neat handwriting:
"Kill on sight. Do not engage in conversation. Subject is extremely dangerous and must not be allowed to speak with Reaper Mourningveil under any circumstances."
Why?
Why would talking to him be dangerous?
I bend down to gather the papers, and that's when I see it—a photograph that must have been stuck to the back of another page. It shows a group of seven people standing in front of a city made of light. They're smiling. Happy. Powerful.
One of them is Lysander, looking younger, less sad.
And next to him, holding his hand, is a woman with silver marks glowing gently on her arms.
My hands.
My face.
My mother.
The photograph is dated three thousand years ago.
That's impossible. That's completely impossible. I'm twenty-seven years old. I wasn't alive three thousand years ago. My mother couldn't have been—
The marks on my arms crack wider.
Light explodes from them, so bright I have to close my eyes.
And when I open them again, I'm not in the hallway anymore.
I'm in a memory. A real memory. Not a dream.
I'm six years old, hiding behind my mother's legs. Silver Reapers—so many Reapers—surround us in our home. Their leader steps forward. He's younger, but I recognize him.
Cassian.
"Please," my mother begs, her hands glowing with power. "She's just a child. She doesn't know what she is—"
"Exactly," Cassian says coldly. "And we'll make sure she never finds out."
A Reaper drives a silver blade through my mother's heart. Gold blood—not red, GOLD—spills onto the floor.
I scream. "MAMA!"
Cassian kneels in front of me. His smile is gentle. Kind. Terrifying.
"Forget," he whispers, and his hand glows with silver light. "Forget your mother. Forget your sister. Forget what you are. You are a weapon now. Nothing but a weapon."
Pain rips through my head. Everything goes dark.
I slam back into the present, gasping for air.
The hallway is the same. The papers are still scattered. But I'm not the same.
I remember.
I remember everything.
My mother was Undying. Which means I'm—
"No," I whisper. "No, no, no..."
But the marks don't lie. The cracks spell it out clearly:
HALF-UNDYING
Cassian didn't save me. He murdered my mother and turned me into a weapon to hunt my own kind.
For twenty-one years, I've been killing immortals—my mother's people. Maybe even my family.
And Lysander knows. That's why Cassian doesn't want me to talk to him.
Because Lysander knows the truth.
The folder falls from my shaking hands. One paper lands on top—a map showing Lysander's location.
Aeternum. The First City. The ancient ruins where it all began.
He's waiting for me there.
And suddenly, I know with absolute certainty: if I go to kill him, either he dies... or everything I've ever believed does.