The east wing of Delmire Manor is always cold.

  Not from the weather, but by design. The hallways are long, and the walls are white marble. The columns are taller than any person—each one carved with the faces of Delmire ancestors. Stoic, cold eyes follow me as I walk. They’ve always watched me like this. But today, their eyes are heavier. They’re waiting for something. I can feel it.

  I clutch the silk sash at my waist. The Delmire crest is embroidered in silver thread: a blindfolded flame. The mark of the family who Calls through silence and stillness, not fire or war. I’m thirteen. And today, I will Call.

  My stomach twists.

  What if nothing answers? Or worse, what if it does, and it's a joke?

  I swallow hard.

  No. You’ve earned this. You bled for this. They can’t ignore you if the gods don’t.

  My heart pounds in my chest. It feels like it’s all they’ll see.

  Let them see. Let them choke on it.

  I want this. Not for glory. Not for praise. I just want proof. Proof that I matter. Proof that I’m not nothing.

  All my cousins have Called already. Elrin with his shadow mimic, Lysette with her voice that can stop a heartbeat. They’ve changed. They’ve emerged glowing, untouchable. I’m still here. Still this.

  What if nothing happens? What if I walk out of here the same empty thing they think I am?

  I glance sideways at two of my cousins. Ric is standing in the doorway, sharp-jawed, eyes already dismissing me. His robe’s trimmed in silver. He doesn’t speak to me.

  My palms are slick with sweat.

  Don’t look at them. Don’t give them the pleasure.

  I straighten my back. I’ll force them to see me.

  The Calling room is circular and cold. The kind of cold that isn’t just temperature—it’s something ancient. Something deep in the bones of the world. The circle of chalk on the floor feels like a barrier, like if I step in, I’ll be trapped. A bowl of water glimmers beside a slab of black stone—obsidian, raw and veined. A conduit. A tool. The bridge.

  My mother stands near the far wall. She’s unmoving, arms crossed, face unreadable.

  I feel her eyes on me, but I can’t meet them.

  “You may begin,” she says, without warmth.

  The words hit me like a slap, sharp and empty. She hasn’t said anything else since this morning. She never does. But now... now, it’s like she’s been holding something back. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it.

  I step into the circle.

  My breath catches as I kneel. My fingers brush the stone. My pulse is loud in my ears. Everything feels thick. Too thick. Too heavy. I close my eyes and whisper, my voice shaking but steady enough:

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  “If anything hears me… I am ready.”

  Nothing.

  The silence presses in on me, heavier than before. It’s wrong. And then—nothing.

  It’s not like the stories. There’s no fire. No light. No flash of power. There’s just… darkness. It wraps itself around me. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

  I feel something, something cold, ancient. A presence.

  Something reaches for me from the shadows. Not just around me, but through me. I can feel it wrap around my chest. Its fingers dig in, icy cold, and it pulls, hard. My heart seizes in my chest as if it’s being ripped from my ribs. My breath is a ragged gasp, and I can’t get enough air. The pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt—like fire, like a thousand needles. It’s inside me.

  I scream, but it’s like the world is dead. My mouth won’t move. The air chokes me.

  Why this? Why this?!

  Then I feel it—something marking me. A symbol sears itself into my soul. It’s not on me. Not physically. It’s deeper. It burns in me, through me. And all I can hear is the voice in my head:

  You are marked.

  The words ring in my skull, and I want to rip them out. But I can’t. The mark burns through me, deeper and deeper, until I think I’m going to die from it.

  And then…

  It’s gone.

  I’m back. The stone. The cold air. The room. The suffocating silence.

  I gasp for air like I’m drowning, my body slick with sweat. I glance down at my chest, but there’s nothing there—no mark. Nothing visible. Nothing I can see.

  But it’s still there. I can feel it. That cold, that presence, deep inside me.

  And then my mother speaks, pulling me back into this miserable reality:

  “Is that all?”

  I can barely speak. My voice is shredded, raw, like I’ve been screaming for hours.

  “I… I think something happened.”

  She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even blink.

  “What can you do?”

  I hesitate. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to admit that what’s inside me is all I have now. It’s not fire or power. It’s just this. I swallow and force the words out:

  “I… I can mark people.”

  A silence stretches out too long.

  “That’s it?” Her voice is like ice.

  I nod, my chest still burning, still feeling the mark inside me.

  “I think so.”

  She stares at me like I’m a disappointment. Like I’m beneath her.

  She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. She just looks at me like I’m nothing. Then she orders, “Remove it.”

  I look down at my chest, at nothing. But I feel it there, deep. I don’t know how, but I reach inside myself and pull it out. The mark fades in an instant, leaving nothing behind but the burning ache.

  The attendant looks at me, eyes wide.

  “…It’s gone.”

  “Remove him,” my mother orders, coldly.

  No applause. No smile.

  Ric is waiting outside the door. His eyes narrow when he sees me, but he doesn’t look surprised.

  “Well,” he says, voice dry, “at least you didn’t cry.”

  ***

  They don’t let me return to my room.

  They drag me to a holding cell beneath the manor. Cold stone walls. Rusted hooks. A rat, staring at me from under the cot. A hunk of stale bread and a tin of water are dropped on the floor, and the servant leaves without a word. It’s all I get.

  Why a mark? Why this? Why couldn’t I have gotten something else?

  I sit in the dark, my body shaking from the memory of it. Time blurs. I don’t sleep.

  When the door opens, it’s not my mother. It’s guards, and Geydon.

  “This is correction,” he says. “Be grateful we don’t bury our mistakes.”

  I should’ve screamed. I should’ve fought back. Burn this place down.

  They drag me to the courtyard. My name is burned into a crate. Not Delmire. Just Isen.

  They’ve erased me.

  My mother doesn’t look at me. My cousins look right through me. Only Aelira speaks.

  “He is still blood.”

  “He is still rot,” my mother replies.

  They toss a cloak and waterskin at my feet like I’m nothing.

  “You will leave before dusk. Those at Deadreach take the unCalled.”

  The gates open. The wind cuts through me like a blade.

  I look back once. Aelira meets my gaze. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t stop it.

  Then the gate slams shut.

  And I walk into the dark.