The bone gate slams shut behind me. My legs tremble. Stench of rot, of old blood. My arm throbs with every step.
— You won't last long, the hooded figure whispers at my side.
I press my sleeve against the wound. Warm, sticky. I left a secret behind, yet the Mark growls, demanding more.
— Another one? You want us to die here?
My breath rasps. I lean against the wall—rough, cold. I murmur:
— Feel that? Something else… beyond.
The Mark stirs under my skin, laughter rasping.
— You want out? Give. Always give.
I grit my teeth.
— Shut up. Not now.
A sound ahead. Groan or wheeze. I raise the glass shard, ready to bite another rune. The figure grabs my arm.
— Wait! You're bleeding too much.
— If we stay, they'll catch us. We have to choose.
— If you use the Mark again… what do you lose this time?
Vertigo. A blurred memory, a black hole in my skull.
— I don't know. A name, a face. Maybe you.
— Try without it. Just once.
The Mark screams, searing under my flesh.
— Without me, you open nothing, Tracer.
I press my hand to the next rune. It throbs. Thirst.
— We're out of time. I hear the boots.
I meet the figure's gaze. Uneasy shadow.
— Do you trust me?
— No. But I'll follow.
My palm against stone. I push. Pain. Nothing. The rune won't yield.
The Mark slides in, curling under my fingers.
— Give me your fear.
— My fear?!
It pulses. Another burn.
— Your fear, or your flesh, or your voice.
The figure shouts, panicked.
— Stop, you'll—
Too late. I open to the Mark. Black flood, acid. My throat clenches. A scream tears loose. Something of me drifts away, gone. I don't know what I've lost.
The rune unlocks. The door slides, revealing a yawning abyss. Vertigo. Absolute void.
The figure catches my arm.
— You're pale as death, Tracer. Can you stand?
— I… I think so. The Mark laughs. It fed again.
In the abyss, movement. Something approaches. Massive, pale-eyed. I step back.
— We jump, or wait to be caught?
— There's no bridge, look!
— The Mark can… can carry, right?
— It can. But it'll take more. Much more.
My arm shakes. My head hums.
— Do you still have anything left to give? the figure asks.
I search. A fear. A memory. Maybe just one breath of life.
Voices rise behind us. The hunters. The abyss screams ahead.
— Decide, the Mark growls.
I close my eyes.
— Then take. But let me cross.
The Mark surges. I leap.
The rest dissolves in darkness.
An unknown word, a promise, the Mark whispers:
— Other Marks. Other abysses.
And I fall, not knowing if I'll rise again.