The mask itched against his skin.
Mazen adjusted the rough cloak Shadow had thrown over his shoulders and kept moving with the others through the darkened gorge. The Howling Pact moved in near silence — weapons ready, boots crunching gravel underfoot.
He was supposed to feel terrified.
Instead… something sharp crackled in his blood.
It started as a headache, a faint throb behind his eyes, then rolled down his spine. The air tasted metallic. Every sound — the creak of leather straps, the scrape of a dagger against rock — felt sharper, closer.
Shadow appeared at his side.
"You'll feel it soon," he said quietly.
Mazen frowned. "Feel what?"
"The land. It changes you."
Before he could ask more, Calen Wolfscar growled ahead.
"Eyes up. Convoy's coming."
The warband slipped into position behind jagged stones and gnarled roots, overlooking a narrow stretch of road.
Mazen crouched low. His pulse quickened, but it wasn't fear anymore.
It was something else.
An ache in his hands.
A tension in his legs.
Like his body already knew what was about to happen — and had been waiting for it.
A part of him wanted to run.
Another part hungered to strike.
When a line of Crown wagons and armored riders appeared down the path, Mazen's hands tightened on the stolen dagger at his belt.
And though he'd never fought a man in his life… his muscles shifted like they'd done this before.
Somewhere deep in his bones, Vortrex had already claimed him.
The Emberfall rebel scouts moved quick through the ash-thick woods, staying low beneath jagged roots and mist-draped stones.
Shina — Nermin now — kept pace, her heart pounding harder with every step.
She gripped the small, curved dagger Mirra had forced into her hand earlier.
It felt awkward. Heavy. Unfamiliar.
And yet…
A strange warmth crept up her arms the closer they got to the canyon road.
Her breathing slowed without her trying. The sounds around her sharpened — the rustle of dry leaves, the scrape of iron-tipped boots on stone, the faint snort of a horse up ahead.
"What's happening to me…"
The land felt alive beneath her feet. Like it was watching. Whispering.
Mirra's voice cut through the mist ahead.
"Convoy's near. Positions."
Shina crouched beside a crooked tree stump, dagger raised.
Her stomach twisted in fear — but her hands didn't tremble.
If anything… they felt eager.
A pulse of cold spread through her fingertips. A thrum in her bones.
And when the first rider's silhouette appeared between the stone spires, a voice in her head — hers and not hers — whispered:
Strike first.
She clenched her jaw, trying to steady herself.
She had no training.
No skill.
But something inside her did.
And whatever this place had done to her, it wasn't done yet.
The convoy rolled into the narrow pass.
Six wagons. A dozen armored riders. Two war hounds on thick chains.
It was a clean kill zone.
From the cliffs above, the Howling Pact struck first — arrows slicing down, riders toppling from their mounts. Calen let out a guttural roar, and the rebels charged down the slope.
Mazen — Mark Arkios now — moved with them, his dagger tight in his hand.
His heart pounded, but his hands didn't shake.
The world felt slower somehow. Clearer. Every movement mattered.
He met the first soldier head-on, ducked a wild swing, drove his blade deep into the man's side, and yanked it free.
I shouldn't be able to do this.
Another came at him, and without thinking, Mazen pivoted, let the man's own weight carry him forward, then slammed his elbow into the soldier's throat.
It's like my body moves before my mind…
A flicker of motion to his left.
A figure in a tattered cloak, masked, dagger raised.
It's Nermin herself!
Small frame. Fast.
He turned, caught the edge of the blade against his forearm.
Pain flared, sharp and clean.
Their eyes met for a breathless second.
Amber eyes.
Something inside him lurched — familiar, wrong, impossible.
The masked figure hesitated too.
Shina — Nermin — stared into those gray eyes through the shifting mist.
For a moment, she swore it was him.
It can't be…
She tightened her grip, forced herself to swing again.
Mark parried it with a grunt, shoved her back hard.
"Move," he barked, voice low and rough from the mask's distortion.
The voice — the way he said it — made her freeze again.
She didn't drop her guard, but a crack of uncertainty spread through her chest.
Why does he sound like…
A shouted order from behind her broke the spell.
"Fall back! Reinforcements!"
Both rebels pulled away in opposite directions.
The clash over.
Neither knowing how close they'd just come.
Shina darted through the rocks, her breath ragged, heart pounding harder than it had during the fight itself.
The masked figure's voice echoed in her head.
"Move."
It wasn't what he said.
It was how.
The sharp edge in his tone. The clipped, stubborn way Mazen always snapped when something panicked him. She'd heard it in Cairo, in the old park, at the faculty when he thought no one was watching.
And now, halfway across an impossible world, it came out of the mouth of a killer in a mask.
She ducked behind a fallen pillar and yanked the mask from her face, dragging in deep, cold breaths.
It's not him. It can't be.
But the way he'd fought — awkward, instinctive, desperate but strangely fast. Like someone doing it for the first time, but moving as if something older was guiding his hand.
Just like her.
Mirra appeared beside her, eyes narrowing.
"You freeze up back there?"
Shina didn't answer.
Mirra followed her gaze, reading the storm in her expression.
"You think you know him, don't you."
A harsh laugh.
"Bad idea. This land's full of ghosts. Don't chase one."
Shina swallowed hard, forcing the mask back over her face.
She didn't say a word.
But deep down, something old and stubborn refused to let it go.
The Howling Pact made camp by a dry creek bed as dusk bled into the sky.
Mazen sat apart from the others, rolling his sore wrist, staring at the crimson smear on his dagger's edge.
He should've been proud.
First fight survived.
Blood spilled.
Name earned.
But his mind kept circling back to a moment in the chaos.
Amber eyes.
A dagger raised.
And something old and sharp twisting in his gut.
He didn't even know why he cared.
It wasn't her. It couldn't be.
She never made it through. Shadow had said it. Vorak's scouts would've found a body.
He shook his head, trying to force the thought away.
Focus on what's ahead. End this war. Find a way back home.
And leave ghosts buried.
Across the valley, Shina sat by a low ember fire.
Mirra tended a wound on her arm, but Shina barely felt it.
Her thoughts spun tighter around that voice.
That impossible voice.
She'd heard it through the mask, thick and distorted — but beneath it was something unmistakable.
She knew she should let it go.
But she couldn't.
And deep down, a voice whispered:
He's here. I know it.
And she was going to find him.
Even if it killed her.