Short breaths. My bloodied hand sticks to the bark. The hooded figure waits by the next gate, eyes glinting in the dark.
— Hurry. They're coming.
— I… I feel the Mark… It's pulling. I've nothing left to give.
— Find something else. Or we both die.
Boots hammer through the fog, slicing the silence. My arm throbs, burns. I raise the shard of glass toward the rune. A hiss rips my jaw tight.
— No, wait, it'll…
— Do it, Tracer! No choice!
My breath rasps. I press the shard to the rune. A spike of cold drives into my skull.
— Give me a memory, the Mark offers. Or your flesh. Or…
— Or what?
— Or your debt.
My teeth chatter. The figure glances back, panic in their voice:
— They're here, do you hear me?! The door—open it!
The Mark coils inside me, starved. Vertigo spins. I search my memory—hollow, torn, eaten. No names, no clear faces. I grit my teeth.
— I have no memories left to give.
— Then it's your debt, the Mark murmurs.
The rune flares, dirty red. My wrist twists, pain folding me.
— Tracer! Move or I leave you!
The Mark pushes, tugs, threads through my muscles. My arm stretches, something unseen latching to the rune. Like a wire dragging something vital out.
— What are you giving it? the figure breathes, voice pale.
A shock tears through me. It feels like something living ripped away—a future, a possibility.
— It's taking… my time.
— Your time?
— I think… I think I'm aging.
A hiss of laughter from the Mark.
— The more doors you open, the shorter your road, Tracer.
The gate groans, opens halfway. My mouth dries. I stagger.
— Quick, through!
— Shut up, I… I can't walk right. My bones… they're different.
The figure hauls me, drags me on. Behind us, shouts. A bolt whistles through the night.
— Can you last?
— I don't know.
We stumble into brambles. My skin prickles, fingers tremble, slower.
— Each door eats you, Tracer. You won't make it like this.
I grit my teeth, panic crushing my chest.
— Are there… other ways to open them?
— Not without paying. Or being devoured.
A muffled laugh slips into my skull. The Mark revels.
— You can give something else, Tracer. Someone else, maybe…
The figure stops dead. Their grip tightens on my arm.
— You heard that?
— Yes.
A growl in the forest. The fog stirs. Heavier steps approach. Not human.
The Mark whispers louder, clearer:
— Another bearer. An exchange. You're not alone, Tracer.
I recoil, stomach knotted with fear.
— What do you mean?
— Quiet, the figure hisses.
The mist parts. Two massive shapes emerge. Eyes gleam, inhuman.
The Mark thrums, ravenous, straining toward them.
— Tracer… we're not alone.
I clutch the shard, ready to strike or flee.
The Mark only smiles.
— Take. Choose. Feed me.
The night yawns open, hungry.