The forest tightened around Kael as he reeled beneath its canopy, lungs burning, legs heavy. The soldier's screams still echoed in his mind although the man had been dead for some time. With every step, he moved deeper into the trees, further from the ruins of his village, further from the life he had known.
The mark on his arm burned. Not like fire—fire was clean, slicing. This was different. It pulsed with a dark hunger that settled in his bones. Shadows twisted at the edge of his vision, lengthening more than they should, curling against the moonlight as though straining to reach him.
When he could walk no longer, Kael collapsed onto the earth at the base of a tree. His body trembled with exhaustion, but his eyes never wavered from his arm. The mark moved restlessly beneath his skin, writhing and squirming like a living serpent. He crushed his fingers against it, trying to rub it off, but the moment his touch lingered the pain sliced through him, cruel and merciless.
He plunged his arm into a nearby stream, scrubbing with broken nails until he bled. But the black lines clung tenaciously, absorbing the moonlight. The harder he scrubbed, the deeper the mark seemed to sink.
Finally, Kael broke, falling back into the damp grass. He stared up at the sky through branches that swayed gently, their leaves whispering in the dark. The moon glowed through, silver and dim, but the shadows it cast twisted and squirmed unnaturally, curling towards him like claws.
He squeezed his eyes shut. It's not real. It can't be real.
But when he opened them again, the shadows hadn't gone.
He was not alone.
At the edge of the clearing, a form was draped in tattered robes, hair bleached white as bone, face hidden in the shadow of the hood. A woman, thin and weak, propped on a bent staff. She had been standing there silently, eyes glimmering dimly in the dark.
Kael jerked upright, heart pounding. "Who are you?"
The woman's voice was like dry leaves. "A question every lost child asks. Best you ask instead—who are you?"
Kael's throat tightened. "I'm no one."
"Wrong," the woman spat, stepping closer. Her staff hit the earth with every step. "You bear the Mark. You are chosen."
Kael's head reeled as he stepped back, his shoulders slamming into the tree trunk. "I didn't choose this! I don't even know what this is.
The woman stopped before him. Her bony face was lined and drawn, eyes milky with age yet hawk-sharp. She lifted a hand, skeletal fingers trembling, and pointed at his arm.
"The Heir of the Forgotten Night," she whispered, her voice rapt with awe and horror. "Line of blood fated to finish what was begun. Not savior, boy. Destroyer."
Her words cut into him like a blade. Kael swallowed hard, but his mouth was dry. "Destroyer?"
"You carry the shadows," she said, leaning close enough that her breath chilled his skin. "They are hunger. They are ruin. They will feed on you, and through you, they will feed on the world."
Kael's pulse thundered in his ears. "No. You're wrong. I'm not—"
The woman's voice rose, wild, half-crazed. "Run if you would! Deny it if you must! But the night has claimed you already. You are the heir, and heirs do not have a choice."
With that, she turned and vanished into the trees, her figure dissolving into mist as though she had never been there at all.
Kael was immobilized, air locked in his chest. He gazed down at his arm again, at the black veins pulsing beneath his skin.
For the first time since the fires had taken his village, hunger was no longer the keenest pain in his flesh.
The shadows beat like a second heart inside him, and Kael knew with a cold certainty that the woman had spoken the truth.
He was marked.
Not for glory. Not for salvation.
For destruction.
And there was no escaping it.