THE CRIMSON’S MARK

The Mark Stirs

The morning after the visions, Lyra woke with her head heavy and her heart and mind unsettled, seeking answers. The details of the dream clung to her like spiders to cobwebs, the giant sequoia’s shadow, her parents blurred faces, her uncle’s form lurking in the distance, the witches blurred words and the echo of a newborn’s cry. But it wasn’t just a dream. She could still feel the cold wind in her bones and smell the damp earth beneath her mother’s feet.

She sat up slowly, brushing her fingers against her left collarbone where the mark had laid hidden under her shirt. For a second, she thought she felt warmth there, a faint throb. Shaking her head, she pulled on her hoodie and tried to focus on the day ahead.

Maplecross was too small for secrets. Everyone knew everyone, yet somehow hers seemed to grow in the shadows between each heartbeat.

By midday, the air had shifted. The sky looked normal enough, but the breeze was strange, it seemed charged, almost like the static before a lightning strike. In school, whispers followed her. It wasn’t new. Ever since the incident at break last week “the “test” Rhett and Marek had played that somehow revealed she was different, eyes seemed to linger longer, voices dropped when she passed. She felt she was watched closely but it was just a mind working against her.

She caught sight of Rhett across the courtyard, his tall frame leaning casually against the stone wall. Marek was nearby, tossing an apple in his hand with that careless smirk of his. They weren’t speaking to each other, but she noticed how their gazes flicked toward her… not in rivalry, but in watchfulness.

“Are they guarding me,” she muttered under her breath, “or guarding everyone else from me?” She thought while bending her head toward the lawn grass.

The afternoon dragged until her last class, when Silas caught up with her in the hallway.

“Hey,” he said, out of breath. “You’re coming with me after school, right? Mom wants bread from that weird little shop near the bridge.”

Lyra frowned. “The one with the dusty shelves and jars that look like they belong to a haunted house?”

He grinned. “Yh, Exactly.”

The shop was cramped and smelled faintly of sage and old paper. Behind the counter stood a hunched woman with wiry hair and eyes sharp as glass. She looked up as they entered, her gaze sweeping over Silas before settling on Lyra.

The woman’s lips parted slightly. “Child…”

Lyra blinked. “Uh… hi?”

Her eyes dropped to Lyra’s collarbone — as if she could see through the fabric. “You carry it,” she whispered.

Lyra stiffened. “Carry what?”

“The mark.” The woman stepped forward, close enough that Lyra caught the metallic tang of bloodroot on her breath. “The Crimson’s Mark. Two moons… a sun that bleeds at dawn…” Her voice trembled, and suddenly she stepped back. “No. No, you shouldn’t be here. Go, leave.”

Silas laughed awkwardly. “Right. Bread. We’ll just….”

“No bread. No payment. Leave.” She interrupted.

The door slammed behind them the second they stepped out.

Lyra’s pulse hammered. She didn’t tell Silas what the woman had said, but the words wouldn’t stop replaying in her head. “The Crimson’s Mark”. It felt like a hook buried under her skin.

That night, she took the long way home. The sky was clear, the stars sharp, but there was that strange charge in the air again, all should could think about were the woman’s words, “is this a clue?”, she asked herself.

She heard footsteps and turned just in time to see Rhett stepping out from the shadows.

“You shouldn’t be walking alone in the dark,” he said.

“You sound like my mom and I can take care of myself,” she shot back, folding her arms. “Or is this just another vampire public safety announcement?”

He didn’t smile. “There are gatherings happening soon. Things you shouldn’t be near.”

Her brows drew together. “Gatherings?”

“Full moon night,” he said, then hesitated. “Lyra, you have to promise me” He stopped, jaw tightening.

“What?” she pressed.

But instead of answering, he stepped closer, his eyes searching hers like he was weighing a hundred decisions at once.

She could feel him and she thought was him just staying with her but he couldn’t.

“Just… please stay away,” he said finally, and then walked past her, leaving her standing in the street with the night air cold in her lungs.

She proceeded to walk back home swiftly.

She dreamed again.

The sequoia loomed against a sky streaked red with dawn. Her vision pulled her through its roots into a dark forest. Shadows ran ahead, her mother, holding a bundled infant close, her father glancing back in desperation. They moved fast, whispering words she couldn’t hear. Then the image warped, the trees twisting into Gravemoor’s winding streets.

Her father’s face blurred, but her mother’s eyes fierce, determined, burned clear in the dark, blue like hers. Behind them, in the far shadows, was a man she recognized instantly. Her foster father….. Watching. Always watching closely, like he was sent..

“Whyyy, what is he always doing in my dreams? Who are you really?”

She reached out to call to her mother, but the scene shifted again. Blood dripped but slow, heavy onto her bare skin, each drop spreading warmth over her birthmark. The mark began to glow faintly, pulsing like it was alive.

Lyra woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright. Her fingers found the spot immediately and this time, she felt it. Warm. Almost humming. It felt like… she had found peace with it.

Somewhere deep down, she knew. The dreams or visions weren’t just memories. They were warnings. And whatever The Crimson’s Mark was, it had begun to stir.