The night swallows me, rasping, riddled with red shards behind my eyelids. My palm still bleeds, the glass shard tucked in my sleeve. I run, stumble.
— Faster, the hooded figure hisses beside me. They're coming.
I force myself up. My leg falters. Pain throbs, hot, alive.
— It… burns, I rasp.
The figure glances back beneath the hood.
— What did you leave in the lock?
— A name.
— Not enough. Not for the next one. Be ready.
Boots hammer behind us. My breath rattles in my throat. The Mark pulses through my arm, hissing at my temples.
— You feel it?
— What?
— It's calling. It wants more.
A laugh, cruel, cuts through the fog.
— Drop your weapons! a voice bellows in the dark.
I press the shard to the rune of another gate. Cold bites deep.
— You sure you can do it? whispers the figure.
— No.
The Mark writhes in my skull.
— Open… it croons. Give. Again.
I press harder, palm bleeding on the rune. A dirty light seeps into the lock.
— It'll take a heavier memory, warns the figure.
I hesitate. Voices draw closer. Vertigo sways me.
— If I refuse?
The Mark snarls, impatient.
— Then you stay here. You die. And so do I, it sneers.
Boots. Panting. A crash against the door behind me.
— You don't have to give in, Tracer, the figure tugs my shoulder. You can choose. Take it from your body, not your memory.
I stare at the rune. The red veins throb. I breathe deep.
— Fine, I whisper. I'll try.
I drive the shard into my arm. A bolt of pain. I feel the Mark gush, devouring my blood—this time not my memories.
The lock groans, opens. I choke back a scream.
— It works… but it's worse…
— Debt, Tracer. Always debt. If you pay with flesh, it's flesh that fails, the figure warns.
I reel. The gate yawns open into night, into forest. Cold air.
— Move! the figure snaps.
We rush out. Soldiers shout, fire. Heat of a bullet grazes my skull.
— This way!
The figure drags me. My blood dots the snow. I feel hollow, drained. The Mark thrums, stronger than ever.
— You see? it snarls in my head. I take what you give. But it's never enough.
I collapse behind a tree. My breath smokes in the black air.
— Did we win? I ask.
The figure stares.
— No. We only delayed the moment you'll have to choose: your body… or your memory.
The Mark laughs, cold. In the snow, another gate forms. Darker. Alive.
— You thought there'd be only one? it whispers.
I close my eyes. I still hear a key turning, somewhere, ready to demand its price.
— So, Tracer… how far will you go?