Nox felt stronger than usual, as if he had gone back in time by at least six months. The narrow crescent seemed slightly thicker than before. He lightly pinched his own cheek.
He had no idea how it was possible or what had happened, but one thing was certain: this wasn't his end yet. Somehow, in a magical way, he managed to extend his life... or someone else had done it for him. The latter felt more likely, but that only raised more questions.
At last. He knew there was a cure. He didn't know what it was. A medicine? or something else entirely? All he knew was that it was working. For now.
He also wondered if he was in trouble again. Would Torven punish him? Would he be angry? The thought made his chest tighten. Nox wasn't sure how Torven would react to his escape attempt, especially now that he was back and healing.
His mind flicked to the door. Was it still locked? Was Velkan standing on the other side? For a moment, he hesitated, unsure if he should test the limits. He decided he will try it in a moment.
Nox glanced down at his leg. He began to move his toes without any issue. Then he carefully moved his foot in a round motion. There was some resistance, but no pain. His skin looked normal. He couldn't see any scars or signs that his bones had ever been shattered. Nox sat for a long while, deep in thought.
He had no idea how much time had passed when he heard the door handle turn. The door creaked open slowly, the familiar sound breaking the silence. He seemed a bit awkward, maybe uncertain.
Torven stepped inside but didn't come any closer. From a short distance, he asked:
"Good morning Nox, Feeling any better?"
"Yes, thank you," Nox replied. "Can you tell me what happened?"
Torven cleared his throat.
"I found you in the forest. I couldn't leave you there."
He paused briefly, then added,
"I'm sorry for keeping you locked up. You're free to move around the entire estate - except for that one outbuilding next to the stables. I understand if you want to write a letter to your family. I'll help you send it. But I ask that you stay here a little longer, at least until you start feeling better."
Nox furrowed his brow slightly and asked, "Hang on, how do you know my name?" He looked at Torven with suspicion.
"I read your farewell letter, remember? You signed it with your name." Torven sighed.
Nox nodded. "Ok," Then, as if suddenly remembering, he asked the question that had been weighing on him:
"Did you call a healer? Someone with the blue Mark?"
Torven studied him for a moment before answering,
"Yes. Something like that. I hope your leg heals properly. I have something for you, it took a bit longer to arrive than I expected, my apologies," and left a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, then offered a faint, almost apologetic smile, turning toward the door.
As he reached for the handle, he paused, glancing over his shoulder.
"If you need anything, just ask. Someone will be nearby."
Then, without waiting for the reply, he opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind him with a quiet click.
Nox immediately reached out and picked up the parcel. Inside, he found fresh white stationery, a fountain pen, and a small bottle of ink. With trembling hands, Nox filled the pen with ink. For a long moment, he sat frozen, unsure how to begin. But then, the words began to flow.
He started the letter with:
"Abram, Dad,
I'm still alive."
Nox wanted his family to know he was safe, that the Mark hadn't worsened, and that there was hope for Abram. He wrote a few details about Torven, about his time working as a mercenary and his travels with Gerhart.
In a few places, the letter bore heavy ink blots where his hand had trembled, and he pressed too hard.
He left out certain details, his encounter with Blint, and falling into the bear trap. He didn't want to worry them. Memories of the situation with Blint still haunted him. Nox couldn't bear the thought of anyone knowing what had happened.
Nox also decided not to mention the changes to his Mark. It wasn't that he wanted to hide it, but he didn't have any real answers to give them yet. The last thing he wanted was to give Abram or their father false hope.
When he was finished, he set the pen aside and read the letter once more. Satisfied, he decided to find Torven straight away. And with a slight limp, he slowly left his bedroom.
The manor was silent. So quiet that Nox wondered for a moment if Torven was even still in the building. He didn't know exactly which bedroom was his and certainly didn't want to barge in.
For a fleeting second, he imagined Torven asleep, hair spread across a pillow, the tension gone from his face. 'Would his broad frame fill the entire bed?' Nox quickly scolded himself for such foolish thoughts, willing a rising blush away, and stepped into the drawing room.
As if summoned by his thoughts, there was Torven, dozing in an armchair. Nox hesitated. Should he wake him or let him rest? The firelight danced across Torven's skin, making it shimmer. His relaxed face looked more peaceful than usual. His neck, however, was tilted at an awkward angle. Nox wondered if he should wake him or slip a pillow beneath his head instead, but then shook himself out of it. He felt he was going mad.
He looked around and considered leaving the letter somewhere visible, perhaps on the table. But as soon as he looked back, he saw Torven's eyes open, gazing directly at him.
"Leave the letter," Torven said hoarsely. "I'll see to it being sent."
Still stunned, Nox nodded and quickly left the room. As he walked down the corridor, his thoughts spiraled.
'What am I doing? Have I already forgotten how this man once treated me? Where is my backbone? A few kind gestures and I'm at his feet?' He shook his head. 'I must be losing my mind.'
He wondered briefly whether Torven would read the letter or respect the privacy of its contents, but he had no control over that.
'Perhaps I could trust him,' he thought, and with that, he returned to his room.
In his bed, he replayed every moment spent with Torven, the cold distance, the rare kindness, the quiet strength behind those black eyes. Was this change real or just a fleeting mask? But somewhere in his dark heart, a faint ember of fragile trust already began to glow.
Little did he know that in the mansion's drawing room, a large warrior was sitting by the fire, holding a glass of whiskey. He was wearing just a plain shirt rolled up at the sleeves and worn trousers. His sword was still within reach on the table. Just in case.
The whiskey was strong, but it did its job. He took another sip, staring into the fire with a blank expression. His calloused hand was getting cold as almost only the ice remained in the glass.
His mind wasn't focusing on the drink, though, but instead on Nox, a young warrior in the other room.
He'd seen the mark on his hand. 'That damned Mark. It had changed, without a doubt.'