Chapter 2

The mark throbbed with a pain that was more than skin deep. It was a constant, burning reminder of her shame, of Valerius' s disgust. In the days that followed, Seraphina barely left her chambers. She would stare at her reflection, at the ugly symbol marring her skin, and feel a wave of self-loathing so strong it made her sick. She had to get it off. She had to erase it, to pretend it had never happened.

One night, driven by desperation, she took a small, sharp letter opener from the desk. Her hands shook as she held the cold metal to her skin, right over the withered flower. If she could just cut it out, carve away the tainted flesh, maybe she could carve away the memory, too. Maybe then Valerius would look at her again without contempt in his eyes.

Just as she pressed the tip into her skin, a gasp broke the silence.

"My lady, no!"

Her loyal maid, Clara, rushed forward and snatched the letter opener from her hand. Tears streamed down the young girl' s face.

"Don' t do this to yourself," Clara pleaded, her voice trembling. "This is not the way."

Seraphina collapsed into sobs, the last of her strength gone. Clara held her, rocking her gently. "There are other ways, my lady. I know of an old herbalist in the city. He has... potions. It will hurt, terribly, but it will work. It will leave a scar, but the mark will be gone."

A scar was better than this brand. A scar was a wound that had healed. This mark was a wound that festered. A flicker of hope ignited in her chest.

Clara procured the potion, a dark, thick liquid in a small vial that smelled of acid and bitter herbs. The instructions were simple: apply it to the skin and endure.

Seraphina sent Clara away. This was a pain she had to bear alone. She gritted her teeth, uncorked the vial, and tipped the corrosive liquid onto her shoulder.

The pain was immediate and blinding. It was a fire that consumed her skin, sinking deep into her flesh. A scream tore from her throat, but she muffled it with a piece of cloth, biting down so hard she tasted blood. She writhed on the floor, sweat beading on her forehead, her entire body convulsing with agony. The smell of burning skin filled the room. It felt like an eternity, but she held on, focusing on the single thought that drove her: Valerius. This was for him.

When the worst of the pain subsided into a raw, throbbing ache, she looked. The mark was gone, replaced by a raw, weeping wound. It was hideous, but it was clean. The brand of shame was gone.

It took days for the wound to scab over. Every movement was agony, but she bandaged it herself, her hope growing with each passing day. When she could finally walk without doubling over in pain, she dressed in her finest gown, one of an immaculate white, and left her rooms. She walked with a slight limp, her body still weak, but her heart was full of a fragile, desperate hope.

She found him in the grand hall, overseeing preparations for some event. He saw her coming, and a frown immediately creased his brow.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice cold and impatient.

She didn' t answer. Instead, with a trembling hand, she pulled down the collar of her gown, revealing the angry red scar on her shoulder. "It' s gone, Valerius," she said, her voice shaking with a mixture of pain and triumph. "I took it off. It' s gone."

He stared at the raw scar, his expression unreadable for a moment. She held her breath, praying to see a flicker of the man she once knew.

Then he laughed. It was a short, sharp, ugly sound. "You think that changes anything? A scar is just as ugly as a brand. It proves nothing."

Her hope shattered like glass. "Valerius..."

"Don' t," he cut her off, taking a step back as if her very presence was offensive. He looked at her, at her pale face and the desperate hope dying in her eyes, and his expression hardened into one of finality.

"I' m getting married," he announced, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. "To Isabella. The wedding is in a week."

The words hit her with the force of a physical blow. Isabella. Her cousin. A woman she knew to be cruel and ambitious.

"You can' t," she whispered, her legs feeling weak.

"I can, and I will," he said, his voice clipped. He turned away from her, a gesture of complete dismissal. "Now, if you' ll excuse me, I have a wedding to plan."

He walked away without a backward glance, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the hall. The physical pain from her scar was nothing compared to the gaping wound he had just torn open in her chest. She watched him go, the pristine white of her dress feeling like a mockery, until her legs finally gave out and she sank to the floor, her world collapsing into a silent, screaming void.