The Strength to Go On | Write to Rank 2023

Brown Belt | The Power of a Goddess

The dark artist, clothed in black, lifted the iron tongs out of the fire. Lore saw his motion in the flickering shadows cast against her suite, tinted by the red-hot glow of the Heirloom. She didn't need to turn over her shoulder to know what it looked like. The image was burned into her mind, much like how it would soon be burned into her neck.

"Ready?" he asked. His voice was gruff, solemn, as if he, too, knew just what this moment meant to her.

Lore took a deep breath, and with shaking fingers, she parted her hair and draped it over her shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath. "Yes," she said. She was ready, but she was scared too, and she didn't expect her voice to sound so strong.

She dropped her hands into her lap, squeezing them tightly. "Yes," she repeated, this time as a whisper.

He was someone forbidden from the palace. The moment he was done, he'd return to the shadows he came from, and she'd never see him again. She didn't have to be an empress around him.

She could be scared. Rather, she should. Her life was about to change. And she wasn't even sure if it was for the better.

The weight of this moment unraveled like a cloak, drawing her shoulders down and rounding her spine. She tucked her chin to her chest, focusing on her deep, comforting breaths, like she was about to be hugged from behind by her aunt, and not kissed by burning steel.

She could do this. She had to. For her aunt. For her brother.

And yet, no matter how many days and nights she had spent bracing herself, nothing could have ever prepared Lore for the immediate roaring agony that rippled through her body when the artist pressed the Heirloom into her skin. Her flesh melted with a heat beyond anything a simple fireplace could provide, the contained magic activating and sinking its claws into each, individual vertebrae.

It had to have only lasted mere minutes. But to Lore, it felt like days. Generations of grief, frustration, and the ever so slight tinge of happiness flooded through her. Images flashed behind her eyes: Texts, inventions, archeological dig sites. Pressure built up in her skull like it was a steam kettle. She couldn't feel her fists clawing the hair from her head nor the artist as he muffled her scream with his arms wrapped around her.

And then, it was gone.

The Heirloom had marked her.

Lore collapsed against the artist's chest, gasping in sharp, ragged breaths that bit deep into her lungs like broken glass and sandpaper. With each breath, the pressure inside her released. Her muscles unclenched. Her hands fell limp to her sides, brushing against the polished wood of the stool she sat on.

She did it.

She did it!

The dark artist placed his hands on her shoulders and carefully pushed her off of him. For a criminal, he was surprisingly gentle with her. "Are you okay?"

She wasn't sure how to answer that. Her neck and scalp blazed with pain, and while with each breath it became more bearable, it really did feel terrible.

With caution, she touched the Heirloom, drawing a feather-light finger down the length of the metalwork. It was no larger than a hard candy, looking like a bronze, hand-crafted sun. And it was fully embedded into the nape of her neck, so much so that when the swelling went down with some ice, it would be seamlessly smooth. Only magic could do something like that.

A knock sounded on the door.

She tensed, her spine going rigid. That's when she realized she screamed. Someone was checking up on her now. Her eyes met the artist's.