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The grotto smells like old blood and something sweet I can't name. My hands won't stop shaking.
I'm last in line. Again. Dax went first this morning because of course he did—clan heir, golden boy, the one Dad actually looks at when he talks about the future. He walked out two hours ago with an Enhancement ability so clean the elders actually clapped. Strength boost, reflex spike, the kind of thing that makes you better at killing without any mess attached.
I'm hoping for Tracking. Maybe Detection. Something useful. Something that'll make Dad stop looking through me like I'm a window.
The elder at the cave mouth is old Garrett, and he's got that expression he always gets around me. Not mean, exactly. Just tired. Like he's already apologizing for what's about to happen.
"Rona Kash," he says, and his voice echoes wrong off the stone. "Your turn."
I walk in. The grotto is smaller than I thought it'd be. Just a depression in the rock with a pool of something dark at the center. Not water. The air tastes like copper.
There's no ceremony. No speech. Garrett told me yesterday that awakening is just your blood deciding what it wants to be. You touch the pool, your ability wakes up, and that's it. Five minutes, maybe less.
I kneel. The stone is cold enough to hurt. I reach out, and my fingertips break the surface.
It doesn't hurt. That's the first surprise. I thought it would burn or sting or at least feel like something, but it's just cold. Cold enough that my whole arm goes numb, and then the numbness climbs into my chest, and then I can't feel my heartbeat anymore and I think maybe this is it, maybe I'm the first person to just die in the grotto like an idiot.
Then the words come.
Not out loud. In my head, but not in my voice. Something old and flat, like someone reading off a list they've read a thousand times before.
*Bloodline recognized. Ability: Blood Covenant. Activation: physical contact with target. Duration: sustained by contact or renewable through ingestion of target blood. Effect: skill replication tier one.*
I pull my hand back. The water doesn't drip. It just slides off, and the skin underneath is bone-white for a second before the color comes back.
Garrett is staring at me.
"Well?" His voice is careful. Too careful.
I open my mouth. My tongue feels thick. "Blood Covenant," I say. "I have to—" I stop. Try again. "I touch someone and I can copy their skills. But I have to keep touching them. Or I have to drink their blood to make it last."
Garrett's face does something complicated. He's old enough to know what that means.
"Come on," he says quietly. "Your father's waiting."
The clan hall is full. They're always full on awakening days, because everyone wants to see what the kids got, wants to see who's going to be useful and who's going to spend their life on perimeter duty or worse.
Dad is standing in the center with his arms crossed. He's got that look he gets before a hunt, all locked down and unreadable. Dax is next to him, still riding high on his Enhancement. He's got his shirt off even though it's cold, showing off the way his new ability makes his muscles sit different under his skin.
Mom's portrait is on the wall behind them. She's smiling in it. I don't remember her smiling.
"Well?" Dad's voice carries. Everyone shuts up.
I swallow. "Blood Covenant."
Someone laughs. I don't see who. The sound spreads, not cruel exactly, just—awkward. The kind of laugh you get when someone says something so stupid you don't know how else to react.
"Explain it." Dad's face hasn't moved.
So I do. I tell him about the contact, about the skill replication, about the blood. My voice sounds tinny and far away, like I'm listening to someone else talk.
The laughter gets louder. Someone in the back—one of the uncles, maybe—says, "So she's got to hug her targets to death?"
More laughter. Dax isn't laughing, but he's smiling, and somehow that's worse.
I look at Dad. He's staring at me, and his face has gone the color of old paper. He's not laughing. He doesn't look embarrassed. He looks—
Terrified.
That's the word. Terrified. Like I just told him I've got three days to live.
"Everyone out," he says. His voice is too quiet. Nobody moves. "I said out."
They leave. Dax goes last, throwing me a look I can't read. The hall empties in under a minute, and then it's just me and Dad and Mom's portrait watching us from the wall.
Dad takes a step toward me. Stops. His hand moves like he's going to reach for me, then drops.
"Don't use it," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"Don't use it. Don't touch anyone for skill work. Don't experiment. Don't—" He stops. His jaw works. "Just don't."
"But—"
"Rona." He says my name like it hurts. "I'm not asking."
I've never heard him sound like this. Not when Mom died. Not when the Belker contract went bad and we lost three hunters. Not ever.
"Why?" The word comes out too small.
He doesn't answer. He just looks at me, and his eyes are doing something I've never seen before, something that makes my throat close up.
Then he turns and walks out. The door slams behind him. The portrait watches me. Mom's smile doesn't change.
I stand there for I don't know how long. My hands are still shaking. I feel like I should cry, but nothing comes out. I just feel hollow and cold and so, so stupid for thinking today might be different.
Finally I make myself move. I head for the door. My wrist itches.
I look down.
There's a mark on my skin. Not a scar. Not a tattoo. Something in between, dark red and faintly glowing, like someone drew on me with a pen full of blood that hasn't dried yet. It's shaped like a chain link, broken in the middle.
I don't remember getting marked. The grotto didn't do this. I would've seen.
The mark pulses once. Twice. Then it starts pulling.
Not physically. I'm not moving. But I can feel a direction, a tug in my chest like something on the other end of a rope I didn't know I was holding. It's strong enough that I have to brace myself against the doorframe.
The pull is pointing east. Toward the practice yard. Toward—
I'm walking before I decide to. Out of the hall, across the compound, past the supply sheds and the kennels. The mark pulls harder with every step. My heart is hammering now. I don't know what this is. I don't know if this is part of Blood Covenant or something else, something wrong.
The practice yard is empty except for one person.
Dax is there, running drills, his Enhancement making him faster than he was this morning. He moves like water, like something that was always supposed to be this good. He doesn't see me yet. The mark on my wrist flares hot.
The pull is pointing straight at him.
I stop walking. My breath is too loud. The mark burns now, not painful but insistent, like it's trying to tell me something I should already know.
Dax turns. Sees me. His expression shifts—confusion, then something sharper.
"What're you doing here?" he says. He's breathing hard, but his voice is steady. Controlled. He wipes sweat off his face with the back of his hand.
I can't answer. I'm staring at him, at the space between us, at the invisible line the mark is drawing from my wrist to his chest.
He takes a step forward. The pull gets stronger. The mark flares so bright I think he must see it, but he's not looking at my wrist. He's looking at my face.
"You okay?" he asks, and I can't tell if he actually cares or if he's just being polite because someone might be watching.
I should say something. I should ask what this is, why the mark is reacting to him, why it feels like something just locked into place between us without either of us agreeing to it.
But I don't. Because Dax is still walking toward me, and the mark is burning hotter, and somewhere behind us I hear footsteps—Dad's footsteps, I know the rhythm—and his voice, sharp and cold:
"Rona. Get away from him. Now."