The circular mark on Elara's fingertip resembled a pale silver tattoo, pulsing with a faint warmth that seemed to sync with her breath. She rubbed the skin repeatedly, but it remained smooth—no raised edges, no irritation, yet undeniably real. The ancient chant continued to echo in her mind, every syllable etched into her soul, filling her with a growing sense of inexplicable dread.
"Elara? Are you truly alright?" Old George's voice broke through her panic. He had returned from sorting the commission documents to find her sitting dazedly in her chair, her face as pale as parchment.
Elara jolted back to her senses, instinctively curling her fingers into a fist to hide the mark. She forced a fragile smile. "I'm fine, George. Just a little exhausted. The text... it's quite demanding."
She dared not let him see the brand. In a London where supernatural shadows lurked beneath the veneer of normalcy, any abnormality was a target. She couldn't even begin to imagine the consequences of "resonating" with an artifact this volatile.
Old George studied her with a lingering doubt, but ultimately let it rest. "Then take a break. The commission can wait. By the way, the client left a note—if you make any discoveries during the restoration, you're to contact this number immediately." He placed a slip of paper on the workbench and turned to leave. He had a museum handover to attend to, leaving the studio in its usual afternoon silence.
The moment the door clicked shut, Elara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She stared at the mark, then at the book. The volume lay innocent on its soft cloth, the moonbeam seal now motionless. But the heat in her fingertip told a different story: she had been pulled into something far deeper than a simple restoration.
Experimentally, Elara picked up a magnifying glass to examine the second page. The pictographs were arranged like a dense army of ink. She tried to copy one of the simplest characters into her notebook. As she finished the final stroke, the mark on her finger flared with heat. The ink on her notepad emitted a faint silver shimmer before fading away.
"It's the book," she whispered, her heart sinking. She had spent years trying to be the "ordinary" girl, avoiding the supernatural world at all costs. Now, fate had played a cruel joke.
Suddenly, a sharp rapping against the glass window startled her. Knock. Knock. Knock. The sound was harsh, metallic, and jarring in the quiet room. Elara looked up to see a man in a black windbreaker standing outside. A wide-brimmed hat cast a deep shadow over his face, revealing only a sharply set, pale jawline.
"May I help you?" Elara asked through the glass, standing up slowly. The man's aura radiated a suffocating chill that made her skin crawl—an oppressive cold that felt dangerously familiar.
The man didn't speak. Instead, he raised a gloved hand and pointed directly at the ancient book on her workbench.
"I'm sorry, this is a private studio. We don't take walk-ins," Elara said, her voice trembling slightly as she stepped in front of the book to shield it. The mark on her finger began to tingle—a warning. "If you have a commission, you must make an appointment."
The man finally spoke. His voice was a hoarse, grating whisper, as if his throat were lined with gravel. "Give me the book, and I can give you anything you desire." His gaze pierced through the glass, heavy with a weight that made it hard to breathe.
"This is a client's property. I cannot give it to you." Elara's hand crept toward the silent alarm button under the table.
The man let out a low, mocking sneer. "An ordinary girl with no power, trying to guard a treasure that doesn't belong to her?" He pressed his palm against the glass. A wisp of oily black mist flickered from his fingertips. A second later, the reinforced glass began to spiderweb, groaning as it prepared to shatter.
Elara stumbled back, terror seizing her. As the glass began to give way, she acted on pure instinct. She thrust her hand forward, and the silver mark on her fingertip erupted. A bolt of pale light shot through the glass, striking the man's hand.
The intruder hissed in pain, recoiling as if he had been branded with a hot iron. He stared at her hand, shock and predatory greed warring in his eyes. "The Mark of the Moonlight Covenant… So, you are the Contractor!"
Before he could lunge again, the studio door was flung open with such force that it hit the wall with a deafening bang. An icy, majestic aura instantly flooded the room, snuffing out the intruder's dark mist.
Samuel Blackwood stood in the doorway, framed by the silver halo of the afternoon sun. He looked as if he had stepped out of an 18th-century oil painting—his black tuxedo sharp, his features as finely carved as marble, and his deep crimson eyes burning with a lethal cold.
"One of Valerius's curs dares to touch what is mine?" Samuel's voice was a low, velvet growl that sent shivers down Elara's spine.
With a flick of his wrist, an invisible force slammed into the intruder. The man in the windbreaker was launched across the sidewalk, hitting the opposite wall with a sickening thud before coughing up a spray of dark, ichorous blood.
Elara stood frozen, her heart thundering against her ribs. She recognized him. Not by his face, but by the obsidian ring on his finger—the twin to the mark on her hand.
Samuel turned his gaze toward her. For a fleeting second, a flash of something complex and hauntingly soft passed through his red eyes before they returned to their usual frozen state. He walked toward her, his presence commanding the very air in the room. He reached out, his slender fingers hovering just inches from her marked hand.
"Who are you?" Elara stepped back instinctively, her eyes wide with wary defiance.
Samuel's hand paused in mid-air. He looked at her—at the fear and the fire in her eyes—and a faint, shadow of a smile touched his lips. It was a cold, distant expression, yet it carried the weight of a century-old promise.
"Samuel Blackwood," he said, his voice dropping to a haunting whisper. "Your Contractor."