Page 135 of The Devil's Canvas

“Honestly?” I add, glancing at Seth, “I’m happy for them. Even if the PDA is aggressively excessive.”

Seth raises his glass. “You’re going soft.”

“I’m adapting,” I reply, dry. “Big difference.”

He laughs, eyes flicking to the dancefloor. “Weird, right? Seeing him like this?”

“I thought the world would end before he smiled like that,” I admit, sipping slowly. “And meant it.”

“And yet… here we are. Happy endings and all.”

“Don’t push it.”

He laughs and walks away. I just stay there. Something inside me feels broken. A piece missing.

I turn to get another drink when I hear a squeal—sharp, sudden, too full of joy for a room of demons.

Ophelia.

She’s running toward someone in the far corner, arms wide.

I glance over. Expecting a cousin. A friend. Another dead soul back from the ashes.

But it isn’t just another woman.

It’s her.

The moment I see her, something in me stills. Not freezes. Not startles.Stills—like the world paused to breathe around her.

She’s dressed in emerald, the color catching the light like fire trapped in silk. Her hair spills in loose waves, dark and glossy, framing a face I shouldn't remember but somehow do. Lips parted in surprise. Eyes that haven’t met mine yet—but I already feel them. Like the moment before a storm cracks open the sky.

She glows.

“My sister got married!” she announces with a squeal, her joy cutting through the music as she races across the room.

She throws her arms around the man beside her and another woman, looping them both into a breathless, spinning embrace. They’re laughing, all of them, caught in the kind of happiness that only happens in moments like this—when pain feels distant and the future feels like sunlight.

The woman lifts her eyes to meet his.

I feel it the same moment she does.

A sudden heat blooms beneath my skin, not soft or subtle, but violent—alive. It coils up my arm like a brand being pressed into flesh, ancient and unforgiving. I glance down, already knowing what I’ll see.

The mark.

Seared into my forearm. Shining.

Undeniable.

The moment I register it, I hear the scream.

Not a cry. Not a gasp.

A scream that tears the air in half, guttural and strangled—like her soul is being torn open.

She stumbles back, clutching her chest, her fingers clawing at the fabric of her dress, at her skin, like she can rip the pain free if she digs deep enough. Her knees give out. Her body twists, wracked with agony she doesn’t understand, and she lets out another raw, broken wail.

Ophelia is already beside her, catching her before she hits the floor, arms wrapping tight around her trembling frame. She’s saying something, voice low and urgent, but I can’t hear it over the pulse roaring in my ears.

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