The lock throbs, red rune beneath my fingers. My hand shakes. I press the shard of glass. Blood runs hot. I hear the Mark. It scrapes my bones, growls in my gut.
— More, Tracer! Stronger!
The figure pulls me, voice rasping, burned with urgency.
— I've got nothing left to give.
Pain radiates. I bite my sleeve. Boots clatter behind us. Shouts, muffled by the fog.
— Open it or you die, the figure spits.
I feel the Mark. Its claws stretch wide. My vision blurs. The taste of iron floods my mouth.
— Just a moment, it whispers inside me. Let me out.
I shut my eyes, drag the shard against the rune. The lock screams. My wound bursts, hot, raw.
— Stop! You're killing yourself!
The figure holds me back. I sway.
— You want us caught?
— I don't want to die, I gasp.
Boots draw nearer. Clang. A voice roars.
— Open! Now!
The rune pulses faster. I release a sliver of the Mark. My arm quivers, pain climbing into my neck.
— You don't get it, the figure hisses low. The Mark takes more than your blood. It eats your memory, too.
I freeze. A vertigo. Faces slip away. A name. My own?
— Tracer! the Mark snarls. You want out? Pay!
I groan. Let just enough spill. The lock gives way. A jolt. I collapse to my knees.
The figure hauls me up halfway. Fevered touch.
— Move! You want to end up like the others?
I stumble forward. Doors screech. Behind, metal crashes. Pursuit.
— You see what it does? the figure whispers. Every time, you vanish a little more.
— I don't know… don't know if I ever had a brother.
A heavy silence. Quickening footsteps.
— We need the North Gate, the figure urges. After that, you decide: live with the Mark… or give it back.
A howl behind. A soldier lunges, blade raised. I dodge, clumsy. My wound bursts again, hot slick beneath my fingers.
— Surrender, Tracer!
I press the shard to the next rune. My vision reels, the Mark laughs.
— Give me a memory, just one, and I'll open everything.
I hesitate. Breath ragged. Cold biting. Boots near.
— Hurry! the figure cries. No more time!
I clutch the shard. The Mark waits, patient, starved.
— Which memory? I rasp, throat dry.
— The name of the first person you killed, it whispers. Offer it.
I open my hand. The glass shakes. I feel the memory slip, drained away. The lock bursts open.
A freezing wind slaps me. Outside, the night. I stagger, hollow, the Mark inside me, sated.
— Tracer, run.
I falter at the threshold, head empty. And far ahead, the light of a fire, flickering, calling me.