The ruin did not welcome them, but neither did it drive them away. It simply existed, hollowed and broken, a forgotten chamber waiting to be used again. The expedition began their slow work of turning it into a camp.
Hunters shuffled toward the gaping mouths of side tunnels, dragging slabs of fractured stone and rusted beams across the openings. The scrape of rock against rock filled the air, harsh and grating. Sparks jumped when metal struck stone. Each sound seemed too loud, as though the ruin were warning them not to draw attention. Yet the hunters pressed on, muttering under their breath, sweat streaking their pale faces.
Others unrolled bundles of resinous moss, spreading it along the floor where water seeped through cracks. They coaxed it to flame with bone flints, and soon dull fire smoldered in shallow bowls, coughing out thin smoke. The light painted the walls in sickly hues, shadows long and uneasy. The smell of burning resin mixed with damp stone, acrid but familiar.
Children huddled close to their mothers, wide-eyed and whispering. Every sharp sound made them flinch. A few older boys clutched practice spears, trying to mimic the hunters, though their trembling hands betrayed them. Mara kept her boy close, smoothing his hair when he twitched at the scrape of stone. The markings along her arm glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with her breath.
Dorian watched it all from the center of the ruin. Clothed now in the patched shirt and trousers Mara had given him, he felt no less out of place. The fabric itched against his skin, still raw from the cocoon. His chest rose and fell too quickly. His legs shook when he tried to stand. Yet he could not simply sit idle while they worked.
When Bren approached with a bundle of rope and hooks, Dorian took it without protest. The weight was awkward but not impossible. He carried it toward the hunters blocking a side tunnel. Each step felt heavier, the bundle pulling at muscles not yet accustomed to work. He knelt to set it down, but his arms betrayed him—weakness flooding through his limbs, grip faltering. The bundle slipped, rope spilling across the floor with a clatter.
Laughter cut through the ruin. Garrick leaned on his spear, scar twisting as he sneered. "Holy child, is it? Can't even lift a satchel without dropping it. Better the Mother had blessed us with another spear instead."
A few hunters chuckled, though their laughter was thin, uneasy. Others kept silent, eyes flicking toward the sisters who sat nearby.
Dorian bent, gathering the rope again. His arms trembled, sweat rolling down his temple, but he forced the bundle back into his arms and carried it the last few steps. He set it carefully against the stone barricade, jaw clenched. Then he straightened and met Garrick's gaze.
"Strength comes in time," he said quietly.
The words were simple, but the calm in his voice unsettled Garrick more than anger would have. The scarred man snorted and looked away, though the sneer remained.
Bren stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Dorian's shoulder. "You've done enough for now." His tone was not unkind. "Rest before your legs fail you."
Dorian nodded, grateful though he did not show it. He returned to the spot where his cloak lay and sank onto the rough floor, chest heaving. The faint pulse of the mark beneath his shirt throbbed in time with his breath, steady and inescapable.
Around him, the camp slowly took shape. Spears were stacked within reach, packs unrolled to make crude bedding. Hunters rotated in pairs to keep watch at each blocked tunnel, listening for the scrape of claws or the hiss of ghouls outside. Murmured voices carried through the ruin—low, uncertain, edged with fear.
Dorian caught fragments.
"…the priests say he's chosen…"
"…or cursed, more like…"
"…the Mother doesn't mark men anymore…"
"…what if it draws them to us?"
The whispers cut into him like small knives. He lowered his head, staring at his hands. They still shook faintly from exertion. He pressed them against his knees until the tremors stopped.
Nearby, Mara gathered with two other women, both mothers clutching children. Her voice was tight, low but firm. "Keep them away from him. The priests may call him holy, but demons wear fair forms too." Her words carried the bitterness of someone who had seen too much to believe easily.
Garrick muttered darkly to Bren as they checked a barricade. "We should leave him here. Let the ruin take him. Better that than carry a beacon that will lead every ghoul in the tunnels to us."
Bren shook his head. "The sisters named him marked. We don't turn our backs on that. Whether it's blessing or curse, it's not for us to decide."
"The priests see signs in shadows," Garrick growled. "You know that."
"And you know better than to spit on their word in front of them," Bren shot back, quiet but firm.
The elder sat apart, hunched over his broken staff, muttering. His voice rose and fell like waves against stone. "…the light-born walks again… the womb of earth opens, the seed returns… prophecy fulfilled, prophecy twisted…" He chuckled, shaking his head. "…fools, all of us, to think we'd escape the story."
Dorian listened, though he pretended not to. The words of faith, fear, and prophecy tangled together until he could no longer tell which belonged to truth and which to desperation.
Althea and Nyra had not moved far from him. They sat cross-legged, hands folded, blindfolds turned faintly toward his chest. Their silence was not empty—it pressed against him, heavy with meaning.
Finally, Althea spoke. Her voice was soft, but the ruin seemed to hush to hear it. "The mark is a gift… and a burden both."
Dorian's hand rose unconsciously to his chest. He felt nothing but the faint pulse beneath his skin, yet her words carried weight. "What does it ask of me?" he murmured.
Nyra turned her face toward him. Her voice was sharper, carrying the bite of steel. "Do not squander it. Gaia does not grant lightly."
He frowned. "I don't understand."
"You don't need to," Nyra replied. "Not yet."
Althea inclined her head, gentler. "Do not fear it. The Mother does not mark in vain."
Dorian studied them both. Their devotion was absolute, but not blind. It was as though they stood in shadow yet followed a light only they could see. "Why do you follow Her so faithfully," he asked, "in a world like this? Buried in darkness, hunted by monsters, half-starved. What has your Mother done for you?"
Althea's lips curved faintly, though her blindfold hid her eyes. "Faith kept us when stone and blood tried to swallow us. Faith is the rope that holds us from falling. Without it, we are nothing but beasts in the dark."
Nyra said nothing, but her silence was as deliberate as a spoken vow.
Dorian lowered his gaze. He thought of sunlight, of his friends' laughter, of a world not yet swallowed. Faith had not saved them. But he kept the thought to himself.
The ruin slowly fell into uneasy rest. Guards rotated at the barricades, their silhouettes tense against the flickering moss-fire. Mothers hushed children into sleep. Hunters lay with spears at arm's reach, eyes half-closed but never truly resting.
Dorian lay on his cloak, staring up at the cracked ceiling. The damp stone glistened with faint lichen, casting a weak glow that did little to drive away the shadows. His body ached with exhaustion, but sleep would not come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw faces—Rylan, Asha, Elric—calling from a world that no longer existed.
The mark beneath his shirt pulsed faintly, steady as a heartbeat. It reminded him with every throb that he did not belong only to himself.
Across the ruin, Garrick's voice carried in a low growl. "Light only brings death. Remember that." His words were meant for no one, yet they settled over the camp like a curse.
Althea whispered a prayer in response, soft as the drip of water, steadying the air. Nyra sat silent, her blindfold turned toward Dorian as though weighing him in ways he could not understand.
He shifted, pulling the cloak tighter. The ruin was cold, but colder still was the weight pressing on his chest—not from the mark, but from the eyes of everyone who had already decided what he was meant to be.
Dorian realized, as the camp drifted into restless half-sleep, that he was no longer simply a man pulled from a cocoon. To some, he was hope. To others, he was doom. And though his body was frail, expectation already weighed heavier than any stone he had failed to lift.