I lean against the door. Cold gnaws at me everywhere, worst at my side. I hold my breath. Behind me, the night breathes. I feel the Mark under my skin—scratching, screaming.
— Move. Now.
The voice. It shoves me. I clutch the shard of glass, blood dripping from my palm.
— You want all the doors, don't you? the Mark whispers in my head. You want to get out.
— Shut up. You're draining me.
Boots. Shouts farther off. They're already searching the courtyard. I press the shard to the lock. The rune bleeds on the metal, hissing, eating through.
— You'll die, murmurs the figure. Hurry.
The Mark slides, burns through my nerves. My strength pours away. My knees buckle.
— More… one more key… give it to me…
I grit my teeth. If I let it, it'll devour me. I have to measure it.
— Just the slit, not the whole door, I whisper. Got it?
The lock shudders. A flash of light lances through me, stabbing my gut. I scream. The stench of hot iron, of dead flesh.
— Stop! shouts the figure behind me. That's enough!
I pull the shard away. I stagger. The door creaks open, slow, like a wounded beast.
— Go! the figure yells.
I hurl myself outside. The wind freezes my blood. I stumble over the cobbles, bite my lip to stay awake.
— This way! Over here! The keys, I want the keys!
Voices, soldiers. I press to the wall, clutch my side, wound throbbing.
— You'll fall, whimpers the Mark. You're holding me back too much. I could open everything. I could heal you.
— You lie.
A hiss. A whistle. An arrow cracks stone inches from my face. I drop flat.
— Give me control. Just a moment, the Mark croons, coaxing. Let me devour a little, you'll see.
I fight it. My fingers shake. I feel the hunger of the Mark—not mine alone, but its. Another door ahead, sealed with a heavy chain.
The figure appears beside me.
— You have to choose. If you use the Mark, the wound worsens. If you force it without, you'll never break through.
My breath quickens. I raise the shard toward the chain. The Mark thrums, eager.
— What are you hiding? Why the price? I growl at the figure.
— Every door with the Mark is a debt. It takes what it wants, sooner or later. Not just flesh.
I stop. The Mark claws inside my skull.
— Then what? My memory? My will?
The figure nods. Footsteps close in.
— Choose. Now!
I close my eyes. The chain glows, the shard too.
— A life for a lock, the Mark murmurs, almost gentle.
The steps draw nearer. I clutch the shard, torn.
— Tracer! Surrender! a soldier bellows.
No more time.
I…