I TRACE MY FINGER slowly along the printed words. Charles is right beside me, wearing a hole into the library carpet. The Dark Section is dimly lit because no one comes here to read on our history. Anything said by the Consul is the only doctrine.

I blink back to the words on the page and begin reading again. My heart constricts and Charles' muttering is somehow heightened to my senses.

Forsaken\ fər-​ˈsā-​kən
: to renounce or turn away from entirely.

Forsaken is a  word deadly to it's very core. It refers to a person tainted by his fate. A fate so heinous and frightening that even being associated with one who bears it would invoke the fear of being corrupted by the Marks' evil nature.

Being Forsaken is not a choice. It is a destiny laid out for a person through no fault of their own. It is should be seen as a necessary and helpful step to separate the good and the bad from ever entwining as decreed by King Hades after the First War.

The only way of ridding oneself of being a Sinner is to fulfil the Mark's destiny in the care of the Keepers of Hades, under advise of the Consul and the General. The inmates in the cells must complete a series of vigorous tests tailored to their destinies.

These tests often end in fatal and unfortunate accidents—

I slam the book shut and Charles jumps. He puts a hand on his heart and looks at me incredulously. "Do you really have to slap every book to show your agitation?"

I press my lips together. "Shut up."

Charles shrugs and moves to pull out a chair next to me. "Look, Thea, I understand, you want to help Amelia and that's commendable. But hear me out. You cannot fix every single situation. And reading—"

I hold up my hand, silencing him. "It's my choice, Charles. This book," I wave it in front of him, "literally says I'm not in control of my own actions anyway. Let me help. Maybe I was meant to."

I put my head in my palm and flip through the yellowing pages. They have faded over their four hundred years of existence but they are supposed to contain every bit of information about the Forsaken. I am hoping to find a loophole that can help Darius Jones.

The Jones' have always been an exemplary family. They led perfect, kind lives and even their own son's sentencing had not taken it away. Consul Lane had praised their resilience on quite a few occasions.

It never really mattered if Darius worked a secret coup all along. I know I'm supposed to be furious. It's the General who looks after law and order and Darius put my father in the worst possible light.

But how am I supposed to side with the Council when I myself don't believe in it anymore? How can a person's entire worth be placed on a Mark that they themselves had no power over? How was that fair?

"Fine." I snap back to the present and I see Charles nodding. "I don't like this, there's a lot at stake and our father is literally on the rocks. But if it makes you happy, I'm in."

It takes me a moment to realise that Charles has indeed agreed to help me bail out Darius. My heart feels so full and as soon as I reach out to pull him into a hug, he steps back.

"Uh huh," he wags a finger at me. "If we're doing this, we do it efficiently and without overt expressions of emotion. Yes?"

I smile. "Yes." I turn back to the book and open the Association section. Fifteen minutes later, I finish skimming the laws and I find that it is absolutely airtight. There are no loopholes and only one punishment: Death by hanging for anyone who befriends, aides or houses a Forsaken.

Darius' son and Amelia's brother, Matthew Jones was the kind of boy you'd meet across the street, fall in love with and forget his existence all in a matter of ten seconds. He was a rare presence, seen only during meetings and gatherings.

Five years ago, at the Proclamation, Matthew bore the terrible Mark of Wrath, a mass of scribbled lines on his palm. He was dragged away, while his parents sat stonily, not reacting. We were amazed at their indifference but now we know better.

I thumb through page after page but without any luck. I am about to give up of exhaustion and frustration when Charles gasps audibly and peers closer into a book he's holding.

The book is dark leather and torn at the edges. There is a small lock at it's side which is open because of years of negligence. It stares back at us now, screaming at us to stay away. But the temptation is too strong and I lean towards my brother.

"What? What does it say?" I inquire, trying to get a better look at the fading words.

"I— I don't know? This— it shouldn't be possible," Charles says, visibly shaken. His dimples disappear and thin lines of tension make their way around his lips.

"Charles, what isn't possible?" I ask again, my head throbbing. I press a palm against my head to stop the pounding in my ears.

"This." Charles presses a finger next to a few lines and shoves it in front of me. "This. It should be impossible."

I blink hard, forcing my eyes to focus on the swimming alphabets in front of me. They rearrange themselves and soon, I am looking at a poem of some kind that makes no sense to me.

THE FLAME PROPHECY

Our Lord Hades, God of Death,
Saviour of the Flame Crown,
Cloaked the Sins in his dying breath,
Bathing us in a new Dawn.

Our Marks are his salvation,
Trust what it brings to you,
The forces of nature and creation,
Shall not turn their backs on you.

One such child born of Persephone's desire,
Unleashing pain and destruction,
Shall gain Hades' fire,
To end a torture of the God's own production.

In the moonless year of the Proclamation,
Tyranny shall face a worthy opponent,
Betrayed by love and condemned to damnation,
The Flawed One shall save the coronet.

She who shall rise like the Holy Phoenix,
Blood on her hands and love in her heart,
Will be a herald of a spiralling matrix,
Or a new day to again bless the earth.

"What is this about Flame Crowns and Holy Phoenixes? I'm sure those don't exist anymore, right? That's impossible," I say, still holding the book close to me. The poem seemed to hum a tune, as if trying to pull me in.

"No, Thea, look closer. "A moonless year". That's not possible. The Proclamation always happens under sacrifices and blessings from Artemis.

And "a child born of Persephone's desire" and "shall gain Hades' fire". That shouldn't be possible. Death and Life on the same child? It would kill her." Charles taps his foot under the table, the lines of worry deepening by the second.

"It probably means nothing," I say, ignoring the tight knot of reluctance in my chest. I have no idea why but my heart keeps telling me I'm wrong. About what? I don't know.

"No, it does mean something. This poem has never been seen before or I would know it. This is clearly hidden away from the public. The Council has all records of every written script. Then what is the government hiding from us?" He turns to me and looks at me with great fear in his eyes.

Suddenly the silence in the library feels a little bit more cold like a blanket of ice enveloping us. I swallow against my will. I cannot deny that. The verses were pretty straightforward about Elara's doom and the Council was quiet.

The only question I keep going over is what did the poem mean by dying breath? Was Hades—?

"Cynthia!" Someone yells and Charles screams. I drop the book on the ground out of shock and it lands straight on my toe. I yelp and quiet down. Charles' breathing becomes ragged and he picks up a heavy book from the table and wields it like a weapon.

"Who's there?" He asks, his voice shaking. He looks pale as death and he keeps smacking his lips to moisten them.

A person with fiery red hair steps out of the shadows, with her hands raised and I relax. The tension leaves Charles' muscles and he drops on the floor, hanging his head.

"Woah, why the violence?" Christina looks at us worriedly as she rushes towards Charles. "Are you okay? Do you need to go home? Cynthia what's—"

"No, I'm fine." Charles takes her outstretched hand and gets up off the floor. He brushes himself off and throws a salute in my direction before disappearing. I grip one of the chairs tightly and grit my teeth.

"O—kay. That was not suspicious at all." Christina raises an eyebrow at me but I do not say anything. My mind is still reeling from the idea of a flawed one, someone who would either save or condemn Elara. An idea so bizarre, it had to be fiction.

But was it?

"This is starting to creep me out, Thea. Why do you keep staring at the ground like it's going to break into two?"

I snap back into attention and shake my head. "Nothing, really." I smile brightly. "You were looking for me?"

Christina pipes up. "Yes! You remember the ball your mom was talking about? Well, William scored all of us passes so, it won't be a boring 'adults only' party anymore!"

I nod, surprised. Harvey Lane agreed to allow my friends to a ball, purely designed to show off to dignitaries? I shrug. If William said they could come, he must have permission. He wouldn't step out of a box if his father told him not to.

"That's wonderful, Chris. We'll go together, of course."

"Don't you understand? This is amazing! I can help you not screw up at the ball and Tyler can keep an eye out for people we don't like. Besides, we're allowed to bring plus ones too and I have someone in mind!"

"You do?" I ask, absentmindedly. Flawed One? What in the Underworld was that? Was it some kind of a monster? Who would fight it? Technology had died with the First War and we had since relied on magic.

Would magic be enough? Does the Council even endorse wizards anymore? I haven't read about one in any book so far. How far can the Keepers go? Why are they—

"Thea! You don't listen to half the things I say anymore. Find me when you're not busy being a ghost," Christina snaps. She stomps out of the library before I can utter a word of protest, just when the lamps in the Dark Section flicker out and die.

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