"Tiamat Slave Mark."
The words left Phei's mouth in a hush that rang like the final sentence of doom pronounced in the hush of an empty abyss, the quiet decree of a name carved forever into the ledger of eternity.
For one heartbeat, the realm held its breath.
Then Kyle's forehead ignited from within.
The Mark did not descend from Phei's thumb like some tame brand upon skin — it erupted upward from the blackest depths of Kyle's soul, clawing through spirit and every marrow and flesh and his very being with the slow, inexorable fury of a star being born in reverse.
A sigil, final-and-violet glory with authoruty blazed forth where Phei's thumb pressed, small as a coin at first, then swelling, then exploding outward in living rivers of cosmic fire, branching in savage, beautiful fractals that devoured every inch of Kyle's flesh.
It did not stop at the brow.
It claimed him.
