I was supposed to be chosen by the Light.
The cathedral had rehearsed the miracle for weeks: white candles, gold choir, the High Bishop's hand above my bowed head as heaven named me its new vessel.
Then the altar crystal turned black.
Purple fire climbed my veins and wrapped around my spirit-root before I could scream. The choir fell silent. The bishops stepped back.
A shadow opened where the blessing should have been.
King Calyx of the Dead Court emerged from it with frost on his lashes and a crown made of moving night.
"A saint?
" His cold fingers circled my wrist, thumb brushing the frantic pulse at my throat. "How generous. The gods sent me a gift with teeth."
Darkness slid toward the core of my soul.
My palm flashed with a forbidden countermark older than the cathedral, older than the throne, older than the war that had split light from shadow.
Calyx stopped smiling.