They are banging on my door, but they cannot open it.

My back faces the mirror. Arcene's too, her hair swept aside so I can see her sigil clearly. It is like an hourglass slowly running out of sand. I strain, the small silver knife she fashioned for me in one hand as I drag it through the flesh on my back. Every cut is agony. I clench my jaw around the bunched up shirt in my mouth. My vision wavers, watery and black at the edges. Blood oozes from every scratch, every line, every part of the sigil. My breath comes in shallow gasps. The room swims. Bile coats my throat. But I can't stop. Not until the sigil is carved.

The knife twists awkwardly, digging deeper into my back. My scream is muffled as I bite down harder on the shirt. Tears stream down my face. I can't breathe through the scent of blood. But I keep carving.

Just a little more. Then I will never fray again. Then I will never be broken. No one will touch me again. No one will lie to me or about me because the power will be mine. I will never part from Arcene.

But I won't leave the Blackwoods to their silver and lies. I won't let them crawl from the pit they dug. No, I will drag them deeper.

The mirror cracks. Arcene encourages me to keep going. Her silver hand reaches through and steadies mine, cold and smooth. Another cut. My head is spinning. Everything is red and black.

They are banging on my door, calling my name, begging me to return.

I don't need them anymore. Not their name, not their silver, not their whispers.

I keep carving. I will not stop until the sigil is mine. And that instinct is all that drives me when pain wracks my body and my strangled cries ring in my ears.

What is it you desire, Kyren? As long as you bear my sigil, I will fulfill any wish of yours.

They love their silver. They love this house and refuse to leave. They love power and wealth and status and words. They love silver, Arcene. Let them have it. Let them have all the silver they desire. Let them be smothered in it.

✶✳✶