Draven's gaze drifted, unfocused, as a thought crossed his mind.
*That dumb piece of granite…*
After everything—it had still remained intact long enough to **hatch**.
"…Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath.
Aldric shifted beside him.
"That's not the only mark you've got," he said grimly. "You should check your other side."
Draven frowned and turned slightly.
His right shoulder burned.
He pulled the fabric aside—and froze.
Etched into his skin was a **golden symbol**.
An open **eye**, wide and unblinking.
And driven straight through it—vertically, without mercy—was a **blade**.
The symbol pulsed faintly, holy light crawling along its edges, as if it were still *alive*.
"…What the hell is this?" Draven said flatly.
The maid's expression darkened.
"That brand," she said, "belongs to the Church."
Lyriana spoke next, her voice tight. "It's the **Mark of Claim**. They place it on those they consider theirs—prey, or targets marked for execution."
Aldric scoffed, though there was no humor in it.
"It's basically a tracking spell," he said. "But don't let the word *tracking* fool you."
He looked straight at Draven.
"Doesn't matter how far you run. Doesn't matter where you hide. Mountains, continents, sealed spaces—it doesn't care."
His fist clenched.
"They can find you whenever they want."
Silence settled over the cave.
The small black cat's ears twitched.
Aldric continued, voice low.
"They retreated, sure. But now that this mark exists? They'll be back. Royal blood or not, they won't let this go."
Draven's eyes narrowed, a faint crimson light flickering within them.
"So they already know where I am," he said.
"Yes," Lyriana answered quietly. "Even now."
Draven stared at the golden eye, feeling its pulse—measured, patient, arrogant.
"…Tch."
He straightened.
"So the only way to stop them," he said slowly, "is to get rid of it."
The maid nodded.
"Or sever its connection."
Draven's fingers curled slightly.
Golden light. Church magic. Tracking bound by divine law.
He shifted his grip, calm and deliberate.
Lucifer and Elenya were adjusted carefully against his right arm, balanced as if they weighed nothing. The small black cat flowed with the movement, stepping onto his forearm and settling there, purple eyes half-lidded, tail flicking once.
Only then did Draven raise his left hand.
His fingers slid to his shoulder.
They closed around the golden mark.
And tightened.
There was no hesitation.
His grip dug into his own flesh, and with a sharp pull, he tore away the skin where the symbol was carved—clean, brutal, efficient.
For a heartbeat—
The mark was gone.
Then his flesh **knit itself back together**.
Skin smoothed.
Blood vanished.
Bone and muscle restored.
And the golden eye was there again.
Perfect.
Untouched.
Still pulsing faintly, almost amused.
Draven stared at it.
"…Damn it," he muttered.
Aldric clicked his tongue, stepping forward.
"Don't bother," he said. "That won't work."
Draven didn't look at him.
"That brand isn't just ink on skin," Aldric continued. "It's a judgment. A declaration. You don't scrape it off."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"Which of those church bastards did you kill, anyway?"
Draven's fingers flexed.
"Killing some random holy knight wouldn't get you branded like that," Aldric went on. "This level of mark only appears when you cross a **threshold**."
His gaze sharpened.
"So what was it?"
A beat.
"Did you kill a Saintess?"
"…A holy knight captain?"
"…Or a paladin?"
The cave went silent.
Lyriana's breath caught.
The maid already knew the answer.
Draven finally lifted his head.
His red eyes were steady—too steady.
"…Saintess," he said.
One word.
Flat.
Unapologetic.
The air grew heavier.
Aldric exhaled slowly. "Yeah… that'd do it."
Lyriana swallowed. "Then this isn't just tracking," she said. "It's a **beacon**."
The golden eye on Draven's shoulder pulsed once—brighter.
As if confirming it.
Draven looked down at his siblings, still asleep, unaware. Then at the cat perched calmly on his arm.
"…So no matter where I go," he said quietly, "they'll keep coming."
No fear.
No panic.
Just acceptance.
His fingers curled into a fist.
The cat's tail swayed once.
Slow.
Satisfied.
The thought settled heavily in Draven's chest.
*If they can find me anywhere…*
His gaze dropped to the two small forms in his arms. Elenya's fingers were curled into his sleeve. Lucifer's breathing was slow, steady—unaware of gods, churches, or judgment brands.
*Then staying near me puts them in danger.*
That alone decided everything.
It didn't matter how strong he became.
Didn't matter how many he killed.
Didn't matter how many Apostles fell.
If the mark remained, **they would never be safe**.
His jaw tightened.
*I can't let that happen.*
Whether it meant removing the mark…
Or hiding them somewhere even the Church couldn't reach…
Or burning the entire system that allowed this brand to exist—
Their safety came first.
Always.
Without another word, Draven turned and walked.
The others didn't stop him.
They followed.
The cave mouth opened ahead, light spilling in. As Draven stepped outside, the air shifted—cool, damp, heavy with the scent of earth and leaves. Above him, the sky was thick with unmoving gray clouds, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Towering trees surrounded the clearing, their canopies tangled high overhead. No birds sang. No wind stirred.
Only silence.
Draven paused.
He looked up at the sky, then down at his siblings.
The golden mark pulsed faintly beneath his clothes.
"They'll keep coming," he said quietly—not to the others, but to himself.
His red eyes hardened.
Then he moved.
No sound.
No hesitation.
One moment he was there—then he wasn't.
The forest blurred as he carried his siblings, shadows bending around his steps. Branch to branch. Trunk to trunk. The others followed instinctively, barely keeping pace as he **pushed forward without pause**.
Move.
Move.
Time lost meaning.
Then—
He stopped.
Draven landed lightly at the edge of a vast clearing.
Too vast.
The trees didn't thin gradually.
They **ended**—cut off as if erased by a god's hand.
Before him stretched a massive crater, so wide it swallowed the horizon. Its edges were jagged and glassed over, the earth scorched into black-red stone.
Miles.
Hundreds of miles.
Nothing grew there.
No life.
No sound.
No mana flow.
Just a wound carved into the world.
Draven stood frozen.
His breathing slowed… then hitched.
Memories came unbidden.
His mother's voice.
Her hands in his hair.
The warmth of her presence—
His vision blurred.
Tears spilled down his face, silent at first, then trembling. His shoulders shook once.
Then—
His eyes widened.
His hands shot up.
He touched both ears.
Felt—
Nothing.
His breath caught sharply.
"My… earrings—"
His fingers trembled as he searched again, slower now, as if denial might change reality.
Gone.
The earrings his mother had given him.
The ones she had placed there herself.
The last thing she had ever given him.
His chest tightened violently, like something was crushing his heart from within. A broken sound escaped his throat—half sob, half breath.
"I—"
His knees buckled.
He dropped to one knee at the crater's edge, clutching his siblings tighter without realizing it. His forehead lowered until it nearly touched the scorched ground.
Tears fell freely now, splashing against dead stone.
"I lost them…" he whispered.
"I… I lost them too…"
Behind him, no one spoke.
Not Aldric.
Not Lyriana.
Not the maid.
Even the forest remained silent.
The crater stretched endlessly before him—a grave without a body.
And Draven knelt at its edge, shaking, seeing not destruction—
—but the place where everything he loved had been torn away.