My fingers stick to the cold rune. Blood hammers in my split hand. The figure whispers close, breath ragged.
— Don't stall. You feel it? The bearers are coming back.
A shiver tears down my spine. Shadows batter the door behind us. The Mark quivers in my palm, sharper than ever.
I must move. Give me… give me a way, I think, throat raw, voiceless.
The figure studies the rune, presses the shard toward me.
— No easy vow this time. Lie to the Mark, and it'll strip you bare.
I nod, throat blazing. The bearers pound harder, their red runes flaring. A muffled voice leaks through.
— You can't run, Tracer! Hand it over and the pain ends!
I press the shard against the rune. My hand shakes. Symbols blacken, curl like a wounded beast.
— What are you offering? the figure growls.
I close my eyes. No memory. No fear. No vow left. My breath splinters.
The Mark claws my mind.
— You want through? Offer another's debt. Take from them.
I look up. The wounded bearer glares back, pure hate.
I extend my hand. The Mark snakes along my arm, reaching. My lips move, soundless. I fix on his vow, his fear.
The rune pulses, spits a filthy light.
The bearer screams, drops to his knees. Something tears loose from him, slides into me, cold and slimy.
I stagger. A foreign weight clings to my ribs—his terror, his memory of childhood devoured by the Mark.
— You stole it… You can do that? the figure hisses, startled, wary.
I want to answer. My tongue burns in silence. The Mark cackles in my skull.
— Not free. Now you carry his fear too.
The door unseals, slow. A rumble swells behind us. The bearers rise, furious.
— RUN! the figure barks.
I stumble through. Pain thrums from hand to throat. Something follows—fear that isn't mine. Cold. Thirst. The corridors spiral open.
The Mark whispers:
— More debts. More memories. How far do you think you can carry the fears of others?
The figure grips my shoulder.
— You're changing, Tracer. Take too much… you won't know what's yours anymore.
Behind us, another howl. The bearers won't relent. Light flickers. Ahead, another door—darker, crawling with starving symbols.
I halt, gasping. The Mark writhes beneath my skin, eager.
A new voice cracks sharp in the dark, from the door ahead:
— Let me in, Tracer. Share the Mark. Or stay here, trapped between oaths.
Blood runs down my palm onto the rune. This fear—this time—it's mine.