For a long while, Ember simply stared into the fire. Its flames licked and twisted, their movements mesmerizing but offering little comfort. Not tonight. The estate seemed to sigh around her, settling into its deeper silence. No creaking floorboards, no groaning doors. Whoever still lingered had found their rest.

Only then, when she was certain she was alone, did Emberlyth rise. Padding softly, she made her way to her desk as if any sound might summon unseen eyes. Her hands moved with practiced precision, retrieving a small, handheld mirror.

She paused, listening. Nothing but the rain tapping gently at the windows. Still, she glanced once more at the drapes, double-checking that they were drawn tight. Her gaze flicked to the door, its lock turned firmly in place.

Why the secrecy? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was the weight of old taboos, the whispered warnings of a world that feared what it didn’t understand. Aethermarks were a gift, yes—but one often wrapped in shadow.

Six years. That was how long it had been since Ember had etched these marks into her skin. Here, in this very room. Some had called it folly, the reckless act of a child too young to know better. Others had deemed it desperation.

If there had been another way, perhaps she would have waited. Perhaps she would have sat quietly, obediently, and let her fate be decided for her. But she didn’t regret what she’d done. Not then. Not now. The Aethermarks had chosen her as much as she had chosen them. Let the rest of the family whisper in their dark corners, their sneers twisting over how she’d ruined herself. How she’d made her ascension—their ascension plans for her—so much harder.

Convenient lies. Convenient fears. The blame never disappeared, it only changed form.

Even three years younger, Vaelen had always gotten what Emberlyth desired. She got to travel through the Abyss, got to see Erboria, and got to be where things happened. She had been given her Aethermarks even before she turned nine, even though Emberlyth kept being told how impossible it was to find suitable ones for her—how she was too young. Yet when she’d found marks of her own, they’d called her reckless. A fool. They’d said her then retainers were not fit to oversee a young Draekart’s growth.

Emberlyth had been so confused back then. She thought they would be happy, impressed by what she’d done. That they would see her desire to get stronger. She had been excited, certain she would finally be allowed to travel with Uncle and her cousin whenever they left the estate. Instead, her fragile world had begun falling apart. The last people she loved and cared for had disappeared, and her beautiful marks had been deemed a failure.

Still, she didn’t regret what she’d done. If she hadn’t marked herself, Ember would still be just another girl in a gilded cage; a daughter of a forgotten Draekart line. At least this way, she had carved something of her own.

Maybe that’s why I can’t let go? she thought. This is the last thing that is truly my own.

She turned the mirror in her hands, tilting it to catch her reflection through the larger one. It was still difficult to get a proper angle, even after all these years. She twisted slightly, leaning into the firelight until the marks across her upper back and shoulders came into view.

The three circular cores remained—one nestled at the base of her neck, the others perched on a shoulder blade each. But the lines that connected them, the intricate swirls like delicate flames, were not the work of a twelve-year-old girl wielding a trembling hand and stolen quill. Not by half.

She remembered the rush that followed, the panic. How they had summoned an inkmaster from the Abyss as if plucking a star from the sky. For years, they’d claimed such things were impossible. Too far. Too costly. Too much to ask. But when Emberlyth carved her rebellion into her skin, suddenly impossibilities became mere logistics. Funny how that worked.

They called it mending. She called it control.

The marks had grown elegant under the inkmaster’s hand. Beautiful, even. Emberlyth could admit that. But beauty was a hollow thing when it came paired with failure. And these days, seeing those marks brought with it a familiar heaviness in her chest, like iron settling into her bones. As if the ink that wove through her skin had tangled around her soul, locking it in place.

It wasn’t far from the truth. Aethermarks shaped you, molding a person’s potential into something tangible, something real. They were supposed to be a conduit, a forge. But when Ember stared into the glass, all she saw was stagnation. No growth, no change. The same intricate design, stuck in place as if frozen in amber.

She tilted the mirror again, catching the full expanse of her back in the firelight. Nothing. Just the same winding lines and the same empty spaces waiting to be filled. She whispered “Surge” under her breath, watching as the core on her right shoulder flared weakly to life, its faint glow creeping through the ink like cooling tar. No fire. No power. The light barely reached her spine before it dimmed, flickering out like a dying ember.

Weak. The word might as well have been etched there alongside the others. For years, Emberlyth had clung to the belief that her marks would lead her to her Ascension Path, that they would grow, evolve, stretch across her back in a grand tapestry of strength. But her back remained a half-finished canvas, the rest of it blank as ever.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

All the way up until last year, she had begged for another inkmaster, for guidance, for something. Every time, the response was the same.

“Few inkmasters would make the journey for a project so uncertain.”

“We haven’t identified a suitable path for your marks yet.”

“Do you know how many strings your grandfather pulled last time?”

Ember clenched her jaw at the memory of those conversations, her fingers tightening around the mirror’s frame. They’d even suggested starting over. Scrapping her marks entirely and choosing something simpler, something ‘proper’. As if she could strip away her identity and stitch on a new one like changing a dress. The thought of it made her stomach turn.

No. The marks were hers. Fuzzy, flawed, and fractured, but hers. To abandon them would be like cutting off her own legs and trying to learn to run again on the stumps.

She turned the mirror over. She had seen enough. The lines would grow. The marks would spread. She just needed time. Time to figure out what had gone wrong, and how to fix it.

Because something was wrong. That much she knew.

With a tired exhale, Ember returned to the desk. Vaelen, younger by years, hadn’t needed any time. Was their talent really so different?

Not all who skirted the edges of the Abyss were destined for greatness. In fact, exceptionally few were. Maybe her promised Aethermarks were nothing more than a ticket to mediocrity—a parlor trick for some wandering caravan, juggling flames for bored onlookers. Or maybe her tall, wiry frame was meant for tilling fields, her hands better suited to the rough pull of a plow than the delicate shaping of power. Was her real curse the name Draekart? A cruel tether, pulling her from simple, honest lives and thrusting her into a world she could never fully inhabit?

With a careless toss, Emberlyth returned the mirror into its drawer. It rattled, wooden edges protesting against each other. At least it hadn’t shattered. If it had, the desk itself would’ve followed shortly after, reduced to kindling in the fireplace. That night, her temper was on the verge of breaking. She yanked her journal out from a stack of books, her hands moving with sharp, annoyed precision.

They didn’t even say goodbye. Her fingers found the last ink-stained page, eyes skating over the familiar lines. They didn’t even wait for me to wake up. Easier that way. No half-hearted farewells, no awkward assurances. Just silence. The black sheep of the Draekart family, left to bleat alone.

She exhaled through clenched teeth, filling her lungs with fresh air, her mind with better thoughts. So be it. She didn’t need them. She never had.

Her gaze fell to the pages, to the sketch she’d made of her own Aethermarks. It was crude, more an exercise in memory than artistry, but it served its purpose. It kept her honest. It kept her from chasing phantom shifts in the ink, from convincing herself that she had seen some faint glimmer of change. It was her anchor, proof of her stagnation.

“Abyss swallow me whole,” she muttered, tracing a finger over the page. The lines were unchanged, exactly as she’d scrawled them months ago. One squiggly line in particular caught her eye, the one she’d pinned her hopes on, as if by sheer will it might one day curl into something different. Something meaningful.

“What was I even hoping for?” she whispered bitterly. “That this line would decide to bend left instead of right? As if that would mean anything…”

She leaned back in her chair, letting her eyes drift to the books stacked neatly beside her. Tomes filled with theories, diagrams, and the desperate scribblings of scholars who had spent lifetimes trying to unravel the mysteries of Aethermarks. She didn’t even bother reaching for one. What was the point? The wisest minds across a thousand worlds had clawed at these truths for centuries, and still the marks remained an enigma. What hope did Emberlyth have of breaking through where they had failed?

Her flames, weak as they were, were still more than most people could ever dream of. A gift. A rare thread of power.

Maybe she was greedy to want more. Maybe she was foolish.

Rubbing her face, Emberlyth let her thoughts drift, unbidden. Her eyes fell on another book, one of many scattered across her desk. This one spoke in absolutes, its pages worn thin with conviction. Not everything is given, it preached. Some things are earned in the deepest reaches of the Abyss. Greatness is not a gift, but a purchase made in blood, sweat, and toil. At the brink of despair, your true self either breaks or is reborn.

Her finger hovered over the edge of the dog-eared page, but her mind was elsewhere. Erboria lay in the Third Layer, deep within the Abyss, where civilization clung to life like moss to a damp stone. But between here and there? Two wild, untamed layers stood as barriers.

In the old days, all who sought the Abyss had to descend the traditional way: step by treacherous step, layer by deadly layer. Not all descenders bore noble names or swore fealty to a house for the privilege of a swift transport. Once, the path to Erboria was carved by footfalls and blade, not by the winches of towering machines. Those who survived the journey often emerged stronger, sharper, forged by the savage crucible of the Abyss’s lower reaches.

Her gaze drifted toward her bed, beneath which lay a carefully packed rucksack. It had been a companion to her restless nights for months now. Always waiting. Always ready. Silent Kiss, along with her silver knife, nestled within, their weight a silent promise. She had re-packed the bag more times than she cared to count. Every fold, every strap was a ritual of preparation, and yet the final step eluded her.

Wilbur’s Perch wasn’t far. A few hours’ silent walk at most, and from there, the Winching Tower. How far did its cables reach? Did they skim the edge of the First Layer, or plunge deeper without pause? And if she stepped off into that unknown, how would she even know she’d crossed into a new layer? What borders marked the descent, what signs heralded the shift? That uncertainty had stayed her hand time and again. The plan, as tempting as it was, reeked of bad ideas. But it was an option. And one day soon...

Her midnight scheming was interrupted by a noise. A faint sound, just beyond the edges of her awareness. She froze, ears straining. The estate had quieted after the guests left. With so few people remaining, any sound this late at night was strange. A servant sneaking off for a midnight snack, perhaps? But the kitchen was far from here.

She waited, her breath caught in her throat, as the silence pressed in once more.

Nothing, huh? She thought with a yawn, stretching as she left the chair behind for her bed, picking up her tray of food on the way. I supposed its only fitting. Why wouldn’t my mind falter when everything else in my life already has?