My hand clamps to my throat. No sound. Mist licks my lips, cold and coarse. I choke.
— Forward, the figure hisses behind me. You must cross.
I try to answer. Nothing. My voice stayed on the other side. I stumble back, the Mark snarling under my skin, ravenous.
— Faster, Tracer. They're coming.
Footsteps. Echoes rising from the abyss—metallic, frantic. I lift the shard of glass, hesitate before the gate of mist.
— What sacrifice this time? I think. The Mark whispers, forked tongue, venomous.
— Voice or flesh. You've few choices left, it laughs.
My throat burns. My arm throbs, blood sticky. Fingers tremble over the invisible rune.
— It won't take your blood, warns the figure. You need… something else.
I grit my teeth, desperate. Short breaths behind me, the mist vibrates. I press the shard toward the rune. The Mark pulses in my skull.
— Give me your tongue, it hisses. Speak me into it. Say what you hide.
My mouth refuses. I want to scream, but the air betrays me.
— Tracer, hurry!
Shadows leap forward. One hurls a spear. I dive down. The shaft cracks against the mist gate, bursting pale sparks.
The rune glows. My tongue prickles, dying flesh. I understand. I drive the shard into my tongue. White-hot pain, metal heat, taste of ash.
The Mark drinks the pain. It laps the blood. My thoughts blur. Memories of tongue unravel—first words, curses, the name of the one I killed to learn to truly speak… all erased.
The mist gate quivers, ajar.
— Quick! the figure growls, yanking my wounded arm.
I stagger. I try to whisper thanks, but nothing comes. The Mark exults inside my skull. The mist swallows me.
Behind, the shadows scream. A hand grazes me—too late.
I collapse on the cold ground beyond. I touch my mouth, blood and silence. The Mark whispers:
— Give me the rest, and I will speak for you.
I lift my head. Ahead, a new rune pulses, flesh-colored.
And for the first time, I cannot even pray.