Marked by the Devil’s Touch.

The kiss haunted her long after he vanished.

She hadn't seen him since. Hours passed, maybe days, inside the timeless mansion. But that single kiss lingered—fiery, damning, intimate. It had burned a memory into her skin more vividly than his mark ever could.

She stood at the edge of the black garden now, barefoot on the frostbitten soil. The trees here were taller than towers, their branches like reaching arms. Leaves shimmered with silver veins, whispering secrets she couldn't understand.

Her trials were over—or so he'd said. But she didn't feel victorious. She felt cracked open. Her fear hadn't left her; it had simply learned how to sit quieter.

A part of her wished he'd come back. Another part wished she'd never met him.

A low hum vibrated in the air.

The mark on her collarbone pulsed once—then again. A summoning.

She turned toward the soundless call and followed it. This time, the corridor she walked through was narrow and curved, the walls breathing with every step she took. Candles flickered but gave no warmth.

He was waiting.

Not in the throne room. Not in the shadows. But at the end of a stone bridge beneath a sky that shimmered like broken obsidian.

He wore no coat. Just a black shirt, open at the throat, and gloves tucked into his belt. His hair was tousled. He looked... tired.

"I didn't expect to see you again so soon," she said, stepping onto the bridge.

He didn't smile. "I told you the trials were only the beginning."

"So what now? You teach me how to suffer with style?"

Something flickered across his face—almost a smirk. But it died quickly.

"I need to show you something," he said.

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and walked.

She hesitated for only a second before following. The bridge felt endless, suspended over nothing, surrounded by a sky that looked like shattered mirrors.

At the center of the bridge stood a door. Freestanding. No walls. No frame. Just a door—tall, black, and humming with power.

He stopped beside it and turned to her.

"Do you trust me?"

She frowned. "You just dragged me through trials designed to break my soul. Why would I trust you now?"

"Because if you don't..." he reached out and placed a hand against the door, "...you'll never know the truth about what you are."

Her heart clenched. "What I am?"

He nodded. "You think you're just a mortal girl cursed by a mark. But it's deeper than that. The mark doesn't just brand—it awakens. And it chose you because something inside you matches its origin."

"Which is?"

"Chaos."

She stared at the door, then at him. "And beyond that door?"

"A memory."

"Yours?"

"No. Yours."

She stepped forward slowly. "What happens if I walk through?"

"You see what was taken. You remember what was hidden. But be warned—memory changes everything."

She reached for the handle. Her fingers trembled, not from cold, but from the weight of knowing that nothing beyond this moment could ever be undone.

The handle was ice cold. It resisted her at first, as if sensing her hesitation. But she tightened her grip and turned.

The door opened not into a room, but into a memory.

She stepped through—and everything changed.

The black sky was replaced by a deep twilight. The scent of firewood and blood hung in the air. She stood in the middle of a ruined village. The ground was scorched, homes reduced to skeletal frames. And bodies... so many bodies.

She gasped. Her feet moved without command. She walked through the devastation, her eyes wide, her soul aching.

Then she saw her.

A younger version of herself—barefoot, wild-eyed, screaming. Her hands were covered in blood, though she didn't seem wounded.

Behind her, men in red cloaks chanted, trying to restrain her. But she erupted with light—black and violet flames spiraling from her skin, blasting them away.

She fell to her knees. She remembered this. She remembered the fear. The rage. The... fire.

He appeared beside her again, arms crossed. He watched the scene without flinching.

"I did this?" she whispered.

"You were born with it," he said. "The power. The chaos. You weren't cursed by the mark. You were chosen because the mark recognized you."

She swallowed hard. "I killed them all."

"Not all," he said, his voice gentler now. "But yes—many. That night, your power awakened. And someone sealed the memory to protect you."

"Who?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached out and touched her forehead.

Memories poured in. Not just one night, but dozens. Fires. Screams. Her mother's face—terrified. Her own reflection—burning with dark energy.

She stumbled back, breath heaving.

"Stop," she gasped.

He withdrew his hand.

She stared at him, a thousand questions clawing at her throat. But one rose above them all.

"What am I?"

He looked at her—not with pity. Not with cruelty. But with something like awe.

"You're not human," he said. "Not fully. You're half chaos-born. Your mother was mortal. Your father... wasn't."

Her knees gave out. She sat on the ground, surrounded by ash and memory.

"You're lying."

"Would that I could," he murmured.

She shook her head. "Why would I be sent to live a normal life? Why wouldn't anyone tell me?"

"Because your power was dangerous. Unstable. The council ordered your memory erased. You were hidden. Protected. But when the balance tipped, the mark sought you out again."

She stared down at her trembling hands. The very things she'd feared—the darkness inside her, the strange instincts—weren't just trauma. They were inheritance.

He knelt before her. "You have a choice now. To run from it. Or to wield it."

"You think I want this?" she snapped. "I didn't ask to be some weapon!"

"No," he said softly. "But you were made to survive. And now, to decide."

He stood, offering her his hand. She didn't take it. Not yet.

Instead, she stood on her own, wiping her face. Her eyes, once glassy with confusion, now held fire.

"If I take this power... I become like you."

He met her gaze. "No. You become what you were always meant to be. Not a puppet. Not a monster. Something more."

She turned toward the burning memory. The younger version of her collapsed in the dirt, the glow of chaos fading.

"Will I ever be free of this?" she asked.

He hesitated. "No. But you can master it. That's what I'm offering."

The scene faded. The door reappeared.

Together, they stepped through—and returned to the bridge.

She looked back. The door was gone.

But the fire it had lit inside her remained.

He didn't speak as they walked back. Neither did she. But silence between them no longer felt empty—it felt necessary.

By the time they reached the mansion's entrance, the air had shifted. The sky above rippled with distant thunder.

"War is coming," he said at last.

She turned to him. "Because of me?"

"Because of what you could become."

She clenched her fists. "Then let them come."

He stared at her for a long time. Then: "Tomorrow, your training begins."

She nodded once. No fear in her posture now. Only resolve.

He reached for her hand—but this time, it wasn't a command. It was a choice.

And for the first time, she chose him.

Their fingers laced together.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "You'll have to lose everything to win."

"I already lost myself once," she said. "Now I know what I'm fighting for."

He leaned in. His lips brushed her temple. A gesture not of possession—but of warning.

"They'll come for you. Angels. Demons. Mortals. You are the storm between worlds now."

She looked up at him, unflinching. "Then I'll make them kneel."

Behind her, the mansion groaned like a beast awakening.

Ahead, darkness rolled in like thunderclouds.

But she didn't turn back.

She walked through the gates, her Devil at her side, no longer a prisoner.

She was becoming something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Something divine.

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