The night the stars bled, she first heard the whispers. A voice, neither human nor divine, slithered through the cracks of her dreams, murmuring promises drenched in shadows. "You are the key," it hissed, "the one who will break the world or save it." When Elara woke, her skin was stained with ink-black veins, pulsing like living sigils of a forgotten curse. The village elders called it a blessing—the Mark of the Chosen. But blessings, she soon learned, were only curses in disguise.
The prophecy spoke of a savior, a lone soul who would stand against the Devourer of Worlds, an ancient god imprisoned beneath the earth, hungering for rebirth. Yet no one told her the cost. Not the priestess with hollow eyes, nor the knight who kissed her throat before offering her to the dark. To wield fate was to dance with madness, and Elara was no hero—only a girl with a heart half-shattered, and a will sharp enough to carve her own path through the ruins of destiny.
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The Chosen One Comments