The air in the hallway was a blur of motion and panicked scents, but I barely noticed. My vision was tunneling, the world shrinking down to the pulsating fire in the center of my right palm. I practically threw myself into the restroom, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind me with a dull thud that masked the distant sounds of screaming and clashing steel.
I leaned over the marble sink, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. My hand didn't just itch; it felt like someone was pouring molten lead beneath my skin. I forced my fingers open, and my heart nearly stopped.
"What is this?" I whispered, my voice trembling in the tiled silence.
Carved into the flesh of my palm was a dark, blood-red mark—the sharp, lethal shape of an arrow. But it wasn't just a physical wound. Wisps of oily
