His Mark, Her Purpose

"Of all that is written, I love only what a person has written with his own blood."

— Friedrich Nietzsche

———

The forge breathed like a living thing, its bellows pushing air through glowing coals that painted the stone walls in shifting amber and crimson. Lyra had abandoned her task of organizing the supply inventory an hour ago, maybe longer—time moved strangely in this hidden sanctuary they'd claimed as their own.

Her Master stood before the anvil, and she could not look away.

The academy's pathetic third son had vanished entirely, shed like an unwanted skin. What remained was something raw and elemental—a creature of fire and purpose that made her blood sing dangerous songs. His shirt lay discarded on a workbench, forgotten in the heat of creation. Sweat traced silver lines down his back, each drop catching the forge-light before disappearing into shadow.

The hammer rose and fell, a concussive heartbeat against the anvil. Each strike birthed a firefly swarm of sparks that died on the stone floor. She watched the muscles in his back shift and knot, his sweat-slicked skin catching the forge-glow like oiled metal. The sound reverberated through the chamber—metal on metal, creation through violence, the oldest song in the world.

She pressed herself against the cool stone pillar, needing something solid to anchor her as heat built in places that had nothing to do with the forge. Her fingers curled against the rough surface, nails scraping stone as she fought the urge to cross the space between them. This was her Master in his truest form—not the nervous boy who stumbled through academy halls, but the architect of destinies who bent the world to his will through sheer force of intellect and determination.

The hammering stopped.

She watched him lift the piece he'd been shaping—a caltrop, its four points honed to wicked sharpness. Steam erupted when he plunged it into the quenching bucket, the hiss violent and almost obscene in the quiet space.

He turned, and his eyes found hers across the forge-lit darkness.

Those grey eyes held depths she was still learning to navigate—storm clouds shot through with lightning, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. They studied her with the same focus he'd brought to his metalwork, reading her like a text written in a language only he understood.

"You're supposed to be cataloguing supplies," he said, setting the hammer aside. His voice carried a roughness that hadn't been there before, scraped raw by heat and exertion.

"I was." The words came out breathier than she intended. "But you..."

"I what?" He moved toward her, each step deliberate and unhurried. The forge-light played across his chest, highlighting the lean muscle that spoke of hidden strength. When he reached her pillar, he didn't stop—just kept coming until the heat radiating from his skin became a tangible presence against hers.

"You're distracting," she whispered.

A smile touched the corner of his mouth—not the nervous, placating expression he wore for others, but something sharp and knowing. "Am I?"

His hand came up to brace against the stone beside her head, and she found herself caged between cool rock and warm flesh. The scent of him surrounded her—clean sweat, hot metal, and something indefinably male that made her want to press closer despite the furnace heat of the chamber.

"Every weapon must be tested before battle," he said, reaching for the caltrop he'd just finished. The metal still radiated warmth, its points gleaming like fangs in the firelight. "It must be honed. Tempered. Made to understand its purpose."

He brought the blunted base of the caltrop to her lips, the touch feather-light but commanding. Her mouth parted involuntarily, breath catching as the warm metal traced her lower lip.

"Tell me, my sharpest blade," he murmured, his gaze never leaving hers. "Are you ready to draw blood?"

She was his weapon, his tool, his instrument. The knowledge wasn't just a purpose; it was a whetstone, sharpening every edge she possessed until she hummed with it.

"I am ready to be wielded, Master."

He tossed the caltrop aside, its clatter on the workbench loud in the sudden quiet. His focus had shifted. His empty hand dipped to his own collarbone, thumb coming away dark with a mixture of soot and sweat.

When he reached for her, she held perfectly still. His touch was gentle but possessive as he traced the line of her jaw, painting her skin with his mark. The soot felt warm against her throat, a brand of ownership that she wore like the finest jewelry.

His thumb settled over her pulse point, pressing just hard enough to feel the frantic rhythm beneath her skin. "Good. Because tomorrow, we hunt."

Tomorrow would bring the warren assessment, the first real test of their carefully laid plans. Team Seven would walk into their assigned death trap, and her Master would be there to rewrite their fate—not out of mercy, but because he needed what they could offer.

"And when we return..." His voice dropped to a whisper, each word a caress against her overheated skin. He leaned closer, until his lips brushed the shell of her ear and his breath became a brand of its own. "When the blood has been spilled and the victory is ours... I am going to claim what's mine."

The promise hit her like lightning, stealing her breath and setting every nerve ending ablaze. She could only nod, too overwhelmed by want and worship to form words. Her Master's smile was sharp as a blade when he pulled back to look at her.

"Rest well tonight, Lyra. Tomorrow, we begin to tear down their world."

He stepped away, leaving her pressed against the stone pillar with his mark cooling on her throat and fire burning in her veins. The forge still glowed, casting dancing shadows across the walls of their sanctuary, but the chamber felt colder without his presence filling it.

She touched the soot on her skin, a brand of ownership she would wear into battle. Tomorrow, she would be his blade. And when they returned victorious...

She would be his reward.

❖❖❖

End of Act 1