The rain had not stopped in two days.
It tapped faintly against the window of the small room, a rhythm that filled the silence Vivian had grown used to. The air smelled of medicine and damp sheets, heavy with fear she refused to name.
Macon lay motionless on the bed, his skin pale, his breath thin but steady. His chest rose and fell under the blanket, right above the faint scar that had terrified her—the one that had once vanished, only to return with a vengeance.
Vivian sat beside him, sleepless as always, her fingers curled tightly around the chair's edge. She'd lost count of how many nights she'd whispered his name, begged him to wake up, prayed that the flicker of red she'd seen under his skin wasn't something evil.
Then, just before dawn, he moved.
A shallow breath.
A twitch in his hand.
Then, slowly, his eyes opened.
"Macon?" Her voice cracked. "Macon, can you hear me?"
He blinked, the world swimming into focus. For a moment, his gaze looked distant—too distant—like he was seeing something beyond the walls, beyond this world entirely. Then his breathing steadied, and he met her eyes.
"…Vivian."
She exhaled sharply, tears pricking her lashes. "You scared me," she whispered. "You've been out for days. I thought—" She stopped herself before finishing. "You were burning, and the mark… it was glowing, Macon."
He looked down. Beneath the bandages on his chest, he could still feel the faint throb of the scar—the pulse of another world buried under his skin. The battlefield was gone, but its echoes clung to him.
"I'm fine," he said quietly, his tone calm—too calm.
"No, you're not," she shot back, rising from her seat. "That scar—it vanished, Macon. You remember that? It disappeared. And then it came back. You were bleeding from nowhere, talking in your sleep—saying things I've never heard before." Her voice trembled. "You said… 'The Merciless Dawn.'"
He froze. The name hung in the air like a blade.
Vivian's eyes searched his face. "Who is that?"
Macon hesitated, then gave the smallest of smiles—a lie masked as reassurance. "It's nothing. Just a dream, Vivian."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "You're lying."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the rain.
Finally, she turned away, her voice softer now, more afraid. "I don't know what's happening to you, Macon. But I know it's not normal. And whatever this is—it's changing you."
He didn't respond. Because she was right. It was changing him.
That night, after she fell asleep by his bedside, he sat awake in the dark. The house was silent except for the ticking clock and the whisper of wind through the cracked window. But beneath that stillness, something moved.
At first, it was faint—a murmur too soft to catch. Then it grew, like voices carried through fog.
"General…"
"Macon of the Dawn…"
"Rise… rise again…"
He shut his eyes, pressing his palms against his ears. The voices bled through anyway, ancient and distant, the language of the dead that no living soul should hear.
And then—one voice cut through the rest, gentle and trembling, almost human.
"She remembers."
His breath hitched. "Who?" he whispered. "Who remembers?"
No answer came. Only the faint hum beneath his scar, glowing dimly through the bandages like a heartbeat not his own.
He turned toward the mirror across the room.
For a moment, he thought it was only his reflection staring back. Then it moved—half a heartbeat slower than he did.
His reflection's eyes gleamed red for an instant. The faint curve of its lips didn't belong to him.
Macon went still, watching himself from the other side of the glass.
And then, softly, the reflection spoke.
"You can't save them."
The glass flickered. His reflection vanished.
The room was silent once more.
But deep inside his chest, the scar pulsed once—twice—like a warning.
And Macon knew this was only the beginning.