The ruin had grown too quiet. It wasn't the quiet of rest but the kind that comes after a storm, when everyone waits to see if the world is finished with them. The air felt thick with held breath. Every drop of water falling from the ceiling seemed louder than it should have been, the echoes carrying through the fractured hall as though the ruin itself were listening.
Dorian sat where they had placed him, the damp cloak clinging stubbornly to his skin, his chest rising and falling too quickly for his liking. His limbs felt untrustworthy, heavy as if stone had been poured into his bones while he slept in the cocoon. The liquid that had birthed him was drying in patches, leaving his skin clammy. He tried to ignore the sensation, but every shift in his body reminded him of how new and weak he still was.
The pale faces of the expedition ringed him like a living wall. Some looked at him with narrowed suspicion, others with wariness, a few with awe. None of them seemed at ease. Fingers clenched shafts of bone spears tighter than necessary. Shoulders hunched. Eyes flicked between him and the sisters who remained close. Fear wrapped the group together more tightly than discipline.
The blindfolded women had not stepped back after giving him the gift of understanding. They knelt nearby still, their heads inclined toward him as though hearing what no one else could. The taller one moved with a calm certainty, her gestures smooth and deliberate. The shorter one was more restless, her hands fluttering, her posture taut. Both carried an unsettling composure, as though they were bound to laws no one else could see.
"Sit straighter," the taller sister said suddenly.
Her tone was soft but it pressed against him with an invisible weight. Dorian obeyed before thinking, pulling himself upright against the broken wall. The rough stone dug against his spine, but the command carried more force than discomfort.
The shorter sister raised her hand, hovering it above his chest. She did not touch him, but Dorian felt her presence like a needle drawn close to skin. The hairs along his arms stood as though bracing for lightning. Her breath caught faintly, and she tilted her head as if listening to his heartbeat without ears.
Garrick's voice cut the silence like a jagged knife. "Hold." The scar across his face tugged his mouth into something uglier, his spear angled forward, point leveled at Dorian's throat. His tone left no doubt—he would kill if the sisters went too far.
Bren's hand landed on Garrick's arm, steady as a stone pillar. "Let them," he said quietly. His words carried no fire, yet the restraint in his voice made Garrick hesitate, if only barely.
The shorter sister's hand trembled as though drawn to something beneath Dorian's skin. Then her lips shaped a single word: "Here."
The taller sister inclined her head and spoke again, her voice low but firm. "Open the cloak."
Dorian stiffened. The cloak was his only barrier between him and these strangers, a meager shield of rough fabric. Yet her voice carried an authority that unsettled him—it was not a command barked like Garrick's, nor the calm guidance of Bren, but something deeper. It was as if she were not asking him but reminding him of something already decided.
He loosened the ties with clumsy fingers. The damp cloak slipped from his shoulders, baring his chest to the ruin's stale air. Cold rushed across his skin.
Gasps rippled through the gathered expedition. Spears shifted, whispers cracked like sparks in the air.
Dorian glanced down. Just beneath his collarbone, faint light pulsed from beneath his skin. Not a scar, not a wound. A mark. It throbbed softly, a pale ember beating in time with his heart. The glow was subtle, but in the ruin's dim light it was unmistakable.
The shorter sister's lips parted. "Light," she whispered, almost reverently.
The taller one straightened, rising to her feet with slow grace, as though the act itself deserved solemnity. Her covered eyes turned toward the others. "Mark of Gaia."
The ruin seemed to hold its breath again. Even the drip of water paused long enough to make the silence heavier when it resumed.
Dorian's chest tightened. Gaia. The name stirred fragments of memory—heat, the roar of battle, the distant echo of something vast and celestial—but nothing complete. He was left only with the uncomfortable certainty that he was the only one here who didn't understand what his own body was telling them.
"Superstition," Garrick spat. His spear didn't waver, though his grip turned white. "It's nothing but a scar that glows."
Bren's eyes lingered on the mark. His face, weathered and calm, betrayed little, but his voice carried quiet weight. "I've seen scars, Garrick. I've seen curses. I've seen blessings. This… isn't any of those."
Mara's gaze darted between Dorian and the mark on his chest. Her tattoos flared faintly beneath her sleeve, her lips pressing thin as though pain had lanced through her. She clutched the boy close, holding him against her side. "Nothing holy survives long in these tunnels," she said quietly. Her words sounded less like an argument and more like a lament.
The elder chuckled. His voice was brittle, worn with age but edged with delight. "Oh, you'd be surprised what holiness learns to wear when the world forgets how to honor it." His grin widened, showing too many gaps in his teeth.
The leader raised his head and spoke at last. Just one word, low and firm: "Silence."
The ruin seemed to obey. Even Garrick bit down on the next insult clinging to his tongue. The air thickened, heavy with expectation.
The shorter sister pressed her palm gently against Dorian's chest, directly over the mark. Her touch was warm, and warmth spread outward through his ribs and into his breath. It wasn't painful—it was grounding, a reminder that his body was alive and tethered here, even if his mind felt unmoored. His breath hitched, and for a heartbeat he almost believed her touch could anchor him back to himself.
"What does it mean?" His voice was rough, low, betraying the confusion he could not hide.
The taller sister tilted her head toward him, her black blindfold unmoving, yet Dorian felt as though she were gazing into him. "The Mother dreams," she said. Her tone was steady, carrying the weight of ritual. "In Her sleep, the world breathes. And sometimes Her breath leaves signs. On stone. On water. And on flesh."
The elder's laugh rose again, cracked and triumphant. "On him, most of all."
Dorian clenched his jaw. "I don't feel like anything worth marking. I can barely stand."
"You are standing now," Bren said simply, his voice steady as a stone wall.
"You are not screaming," Mara muttered, though her grip on the boy was tight enough to betray her fear.
The boy himself peeked up at Dorian, his voice barely a whisper. "You're tall."
Dorian blinked. He hadn't expected the boy to speak. The observation was simple, but it carried a strange weight, as though the child had said more than he knew.
"Tall men fall farther," Garrick growled.
"Or they reach what the rest of us cannot," the elder countered, almost gleeful at sparring with him.
The taller sister lifted her chin. Her voice carried through the ruin with a clarity that left no room for doubt. "We will not abandon him. He belongs to Gaia. Gaia belongs to all."
The shorter sister pressed her palm against the stone floor beside her, lowering her head slightly. "If he dies, it will not be by our hands."
The camp stilled. Garrick's jaw worked, but he said nothing. His silence was not surrender, but he knew better than to challenge both sisters outright.
Bren exhaled slowly and broke the pause. "If he walks with us, he carries his share. That's all that matters." He nudged a bundle toward Dorian—rope, hooks, satchels filled with tools and stone.
Dorian's arms trembled as he reached for it. His body was still weak, his strength no more than that of an ordinary man. Yet he lifted the bundle, resting its weight against his forearm. It wasn't effortless, but he managed it without collapse. He set his jaw and kept his face calm.
Bren nodded once. "Good."
"Clothes," Mara said suddenly, her voice cutting through the tension. She pulled garments from a pack—a patched shirt and trousers, worn but serviceable. "Better than a cloak. Put them on."
Dorian accepted them with a faint nod. The shirt sagged awkwardly on his frame, the trousers tight where they shouldn't have been. Still, the fabric shielded him from the ruin's chill.
The shorter sister's hand hovered once more over his chest, her face angled toward the faint glow. She didn't touch this time, only turned slightly toward her companion. A silent exchange passed between them, subtle as the drip of water in the hall.
Dorian's throat tightened. "What do I call you?"
The taller sister hesitated. For a moment, the weight of her silence felt heavier than any word.
Bren answered in her stead, his voice respectful. "Sister Althea," he said, inclining his head toward the taller. Then, with the same quiet reverence, "And Sister Nyra."
The names settled into Dorian's mind with strange certainty, as though the syllables had been waiting for him all along. Althea—calm and steady, like water shaping stone. Nyra—sharp and quiet, precise as a blade hidden in silk.
Althea inclined her head, a faint acknowledgment. Nyra remained motionless, but in her stillness Dorian felt the weight of recognition.
The elder chuckled again, tapping his broken staff against the stone. "A fine collection. Dorian Forst, the tall stranger. Sister Althea. Sister Nyra. Garrick, who snarls. Bren, who steadies. Mara, who bleeds and does not break." He glanced at the boy and added, "And this one, who will tell us his name when the world is kind enough to ask it properly."
The boy blushed, burying his face in Mara's side.
Dorian pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders. The faint glow beneath his chest continued to pulse, unseen now but impossible to ignore. The sisters sat near, silent, their blindfolds turned faintly toward him. The rest of the group began to settle, though no one looked truly at ease.
For the first time since his awakening, Dorian felt the weight of something more than confusion or fear. Expectation pressed against him, heavy and unavoidable, as though the ruin itself waited to see what he would do next.