They stood with two dozen other new arrivals in a cavernous, torch-lit hall. The air was cold, smelling of steel and stone dust. Before them stood Varien, a figure of shadow against the flickering light. This was their first lesson. The memory of the world outside was still a fresh wound.
"Listen well," Varien's voice cut through the nervous silence. He rolled up his sleeve, revealing his own Mark—a sharp, scimitar-shaped crescent of absolute black, encircled by a perfect, darker ring. "There is an old story. A story of the first blood spilt by a brother's hand. The killer, Caine, was branded for his sin. His penance was to walk the earth, a wanderer forever known by his deed."
His gaze swept over the small, frightened faces. "We are his kin. Our Mark is his legacy. It sleeps within you, a dormant seed. There is an insatiable push that drives every marked to their first kill and grows stronger with time, with no exception, which is partly why some call us the cursed. Upon your first kill, the Mark awakens. It grants you an… Essence. A unique manifestation of your nature, brought to life by that first death. With it also comes a Penance, a private torment, a personal debt that you must carry forever."
He let the words settle in the chilling air. "The Marked do not speak of their Penance. It is a weakness, a vulnerability to be exploited. It is your secret to bear alone." He paused, his eyes lingering on the three he had brought here. "You will be reshaped. Everything you were is over. Everything you will be, you will earn. Any questions?"
The silence was absolute, born of terror and confusion.
Varien's lips quirked into his thin, mirthless smile. "Good. The first lesson is this: a weapon does not ask. It does not speak. It simply is."
Two years passed.
Two years of breaking and remaking. The city below the Anvil, a sprawl of soot-stained slate and desperate alleys, became their training ground. The children grew. Their limbs lengthened, and their movements gained a lethal grace that was at odds with their age. A childish roundness still clung to their cheeks, a last remnant of the softness being systematically stripped from them.
Atop a slick slate roof, three figures moved with the quiet fluidity of ghosts. A boy with brown curly hair and a spiderweb mark on his hand, a girl with pale white skin, blonde long hair and a teardrop mark on her left earlobe and the last-a boy with raven black hair, bronze tan skin and his mark not immediately visible.
The boy with the obsidian spiderweb on his hand crept to the edge. He peered across the alley, a chasm wider than a man is tall and frowned. He turned back, his hands moving in the swift, precise dialect of silence they had mastered.
Too far. No jump.
The second boy, his own Mark still a secret path beneath his tunic, circled the rooftop. His eyes, missing nothing, found it: an old length of barbed iron fencing, stretched taut from their corner to a chimney stack on the target roof. He pointed.
The girl, the teardrop on her earlobe a stark black against her skin, saw the rust and the wicked-looking barbs. She made a sharp, slicing motion across her own palm with her finger.
It will cut.
The second boy shook his head. He took a slow breath and stepped onto the line. His arms outstretched for balance, he wobbled once, twice, then found his rhythm, his focus absolute.
The other two watched as he reached the other side. The girl went next, moving more slowly, her breath held tight in her chest. She made it. The first boy followed. He was almost across when his gaze faltered, dropping for a split second to the dizzying drop below. His foot slipped.
A choked gasp was swallowed. He fell, but his training was instinct. One hand shot out, hooking a roof tile. The other clamped down on the barbed iron. The metal bit deep into his palm. He stifled a scream, the pain a white-hot flash. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up onto the roof.
The girl was at his side. She took his bleeding hand. Her fingers flew.
Cut. Not deep. Move.
He nodded and surged ahead.
They moved along the high spine of the roof, a treacherous dance of runs and leaps. It was the girl who slipped. A tile, weakened by rot, cracked under her weight. She cried out, a small, sharp gasp of surprise, and fell, her fingers scrambling to catch the ledge.
She hung there, the sound of her own gasp echoing in her ears, a far greater failure than the fall. She heard the stone groan, the faint crack of her hold giving way. Then, a whip cracked through the air, the sound followed by an explosion of pain across her back. The agony made her fingers release their hold.
She was falling.
A hand, small but strong as an iron clamp, seized her wrist, halting her descent with a violent jerk. She looked up into a pair of calm brown eyes. She heard the sickening pop of his shoulder dislocating from the strain. A muffled grunt escaped his lips, and it was answered immediately by the sharp crack of the whip again, this time against his back. Pain flashed across his face, but his grip remained absolute. With a surge of strength, he hauled her, scraped and trembling, back onto the ledge. The other boy was there, his expression a mixture of concern and grim regret.
The girl looked at her saviour, her fingers forming a shaky sign.
Thank you.
He nodded once, his left hand clutching his now useless right shoulder.
"Your objective is forfeit."
The deep voice made them flinch. A figure stood on the roof peak above them, clad in dark robes, his face hidden behind a smooth, featureless plate of polished obsidian. Their first assigned teacher and torturer whom they would learn was reserved with his patience but generous with his punishments. The masked man was a walking weapon, a Glaive as they were called, one step away from being a Terminus like Varien and having a right to own a name.
"The allotted time has passed," the masked man continued, his voice devoid of emotion. He looked down at the trio.
"What does the first lesson say about pain?" he asked, the whip stained with the blood of their backs in his left hand, where they could see a glint of a mark like a flame on his wrist with an almost quarter circle around it.
"Pain is simply information. It is an indicator of damage, not a reason for failure. A weapon must continue to function while damaged. To react to pain is to give your enemy control." They replied in unison, their voices sounding unfamiliar to them after a long time without speaking.
He watched them nodding lightly before continuing while looking at the girl.
"Every step must be certain. An unsure step is a step not worth taking, and a weapon does not cry out even when faced with death. Your end would have been an expected consequence."
The obsidian mask then turned to the boy holding his dislocated shoulder. "You. You compromised the objective for the sake of another. The objective is absolute. But I do not punish you for your sentiment." The voice dropped lower, colder. "I punish you for the sound you made. A weapon endures in silence until it breaks."
The masked man's unseen gaze was a physical weight. They knew the whip would answer any unpermitted sound they made. They would learn that of all their teachers or tormentors, he would be the most cruel and vindictive for reasons they would never know. "Your shoulder is dislocated. Put it back. Then you will all begin again."
Tears of pain welled in the boy's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He looked at the boy with the spiderweb mark and signed with his good hand. The marked boy understood, his expression hardening. He held up his fingers.
Four… three…
On the count of two, he shoved the dislocated shoulder hard. There was a wet, grating pop. The boy bit down hard on his lip to trap the yelp, his body shuddering, but he stayed silent, after all, he thought, a weapon does not shed tears.