The morning sun hung low over the Greythorn Road, a worn ribbon of asphalt twisting through the hills between the small town of Ashwick and the bustling sprawl of Clyne. On one side, dense woods of pine and oak stirred gently in the spring breeze; on the other, open fields shimmered with dew, catching the light like scattered glass. The air was sharp with the scent of earth and sap, tempered by the warmth of daybreak. It was no haunted place, not in the morning's glow, but the silence seemed to listen, to wait.
Kane crouched beside his car, a 1971 Dodge Demon, its matte black paint scuffed from years of hard roads, the devil-head grille glinting faintly under the sun. The muscle car rested on the gravel shoulder, hood propped open, a red fuel can at his feet spilling the sharp tang of gasoline into the forest's earthy air. His hands, calloused and sure, poured fuel with practiced ease. Tall and lean, with broad shoulders hinting at coiled strength, his black hair was cropped short, faint silver threads at his temples belying his late twenties. His gray eyes, sharp as flint, flicked up occasionally, scanning the road with a predator's instinct. His angular face, shadowed with stubble, carried a faint, easygoing smirk, as if he found the world's chaos quietly amusing. Dressed in a worn leather jacket, dark jeans, and boots caked with the dust of countless towns, he looked like a man who belonged to the road itself.
Across the way, a young woman trudged along the gravel edge, her boots scuffing faintly. She was in her early twenties, her black hair a tangled cascade over her shoulders, framing a face pale and drawn, with shadows under her eyes and a faint bruise blooming on her cheek. Her clothes—frayed jacket, cargo pants, a worn backpack slung over one shoulder—were practical but tattered, marked by days of relentless travel. Her hands, smudged with grease, clenched into tight fists, trembling not from cold but from something raw within. She moved with a stubborn resolve, each step heavy with exhaustion, yet her hazel eyes, flecked with gold, burned with a storm: anger, grief, resentment, sadness woven deep. When her gaze fell on Kane, her shoulders tensed, her steps faltering for a fraction of a second, a guarded reflex as if braced for a threat she couldn't name.
She studied him first, her eyes tracing the easy slope of his shoulders, the deliberate way he handled the fuel can. His smirk unsettled her, too casual for a stranger alone on a quiet road. Those gray eyes—unreadable, like a storm held at bay—felt familiar, though she couldn't place why. She wasn't skilled at reading people, but something in his presence tugged at her, like a shadow of her own pain. Her fingers twitched, curling briefly, but she kept moving, though her gaze lingered, caught in his orbit.
Kane noticed her then, his hand pausing on the fuel can. Their eyes locked, a silent collision across the empty road. His expression remained a mask, but a spark of curiosity flickered in his gaze. He took her in: the battered posture, the grease-stained hands, the storm in her hazel eyes. His gaze drifted to her arm, where her sleeve had ridden up, revealing a mark: a ring of thorns, jagged and precise, encircling a single crimson drop. Not a mere tattoo, but a brand. Kane's smirk faded. The Temple of Pain, one of two ancient temples devoted to Mara, descendants of Beda. He knew it, though few did. Whispers of their order lingered in the Ripple's shadows—torturers, warriors, priests, travelers, their roles veiled in dread, their mark a death sentence in the wrong eyes. She seemed unaware of its weight, carrying it openly, naively. Was she a torturer, cruel and ruthless, or a traveler, cloaked in mystery? He couldn't tell, not without knowing their secrets. But in her eyes, he saw something unmistakable: the glint of a killer.
'Interesting'