The stair shudders under my steps. My tongue burns; each breath tears out a voiceless groan. I clutch the cold rail, the figure urging me onward.
— Faster. They're climbing. You feel them?
I nod. Behind us, shadows scrape, hiss, call. My legs threaten to collapse.
— Still holding? The Mark isn't eating you whole yet?
I show my hand: the rune in my palm still throbs, a throat of dried blood. I mouth a word without sound, grimace, grit my teeth. My vow pulses, already gnawing at the futures I once held.
— I know, you can't speak. Listen: if you stop, the Mark takes everything. Even death won't be enough.
I reel. Vertigo. The Mark writhes in my chest, promising power if I let go.
A rumble above. Another door's glow further down.
— Almost there! You bargain with the rune, don't force it. What do you have left?
I search my pockets. Nothing, save the glass shard, crusted with my blood.
The rune on the door shivers, hungry. I raise the shard, hesitate.
— Not flesh. It wants more. A vow, or a true memory.
I shut my eyes. My head spins. I have no words left. No voice.
The figure yanks my arm, urgent:
— Give it your fear. The Mark feeds on the fears you hide.
I shake my head, stumble back.
— You'd rather let it take your memory? Forget why you're running? Give it fear, it'll be sated—just for a moment.
Claws scrape stone. Shadows closing.
I press my palm to the rune. Let the Mark rummage through my guts, hunting the blackest fear. My torn tongue bleeds. I shiver.
The door vibrates.
A breath cuts through me, ice cold.
My fear tears loose, ripped away. A piece of me gone.
The rune yields. A narrow passage gapes, stinking of ash.
— Run, the figure breathes. They won't cross if the fear stays behind.
I stagger through. My knees buckle; I crawl. Darkness swallows me.
The Mark croons, hoarse, pleased:
— Your fear feeds me. But mine grows too. Remember: a Mark never rests. It borrows, it steals, it never returns.
A shiver cuts through me. My fear is gone, yet something worse stirs beneath.
— Why does it still burn? Why do I feel like I left more than fear behind?
The figure crouches close, voice low, complicit:
— What you give the Mark, it seeds in the stone. Others will come. Others will taste your fear carved here.
I raise my hand. The rune in my skin fades, but a hollow grips my chest.
Behind us, the shadows shriek, furious, unable to enter.
I crawl onward. Another door glows in the dark, this one crawling with shifting sigils.
The Mark chuckles, coiling under my flesh:
— Next time, give me your desire.
I freeze, heart pounding. The figure is silent, tension strung like wire.
I know: before this new door, I must choose—move forward empty, or surrender what still drives me.
Cold sweat beads on my brow. My throat burns.
A voice—familiar, rough—rises from the far wall:
— Tracer… open. I know what you hide. I can teach you to take back what it stole.
I hold my breath. The Mark shivers, eager.
— What are you waiting for? it hisses. Choose…