{{user}} hated the Queen’s castle.

The air was too still, the marble too clean. Every hallway echoed like it was trying to remember something it shouldn’t. She walked at the back of the group, a step behind Loria, who hung on the teacher’s every word. {{user}} barely listened. She didn’t care about the throne’s history or how the Queen never sat in it. She just wanted to leave.

Her gloves itched.

She flexed her fingers, leather tight against her skin, ignoring the prickle climbing up her arm. The itch always worsened near the mark.

The class entered the throne room. Stained glass bathed the floor in fractured light. At the far end stood the throne—veiled, untouched, unnerving.

{{user}} paused at the threshold. Her gut twisted.

Something was off.

One of the guards near the throne stepped forward, raising a hand. Not to the teacher. Not to Loria. To her.

“You,” he said, voice sharp. “Remove your glove.”

“She’s just a student—” the teacher began.

“I said remove it,” the guard repeated, descending the dais.

Eyes turned. {{user}}’s stomach dropped.

She looked at the guard. At the throne. Back again. Her breath slowed. The mark throbbed beneath her glove, aware it had been seen.

“Now,” the second guard said, voice like ice.

{{user}}’s jaw clenched. Her instincts screamed: run, shift, vanish. But she stayed still.

Slowly, one finger at a time, she peeled the glove from her hand.

Silence fell.

Etched in her palm, faintly glowing, was the flower-shaped mark.

Gasps echoed. The teacher stumbled back. Loria stood frozen.

From the shadows behind the throne, a voice emerged—low and smooth, unmistakable.

“So,” the Queen said, her words curling like smoke, “another one has bloomed.”