Mireth didn't make it far.
Her legs gave out just as the forest began to thin, the trees pulling back into warped silhouettes against the grey morning sky. She stumbled, caught herself on nothing, and fell hard.
The ground rushed up.
Darkness swallowed her.
She dreamed.
Not of the forest.Not of the hunters.
She dreamed of a sky split open.
A silver wound stretched across the heavens, light spilling from it like blood. Beneath it stood figures made of fire and shadow—gods, she knew instinctively, though their faces were wrong. Too many eyes. Too many mouths.
They were arguing.
Not in words, but in will.
One turned toward her.
It had no face—only a burning sigil where its features should be.
Mireth.
Her name echoed, not spoken but pressed into her bones.
"You're not real," she said, though her voice trembled.
The god tilted its head.
You wear my scar.
Pain lanced through her chest. She screamed as the mark flared, silver light tearing out of her skin and into the sky. The other gods recoiled, hissing, their forms cracking.
They feared what we would become, the faceless god continued.So they silenced us.
The sky collapsed inward.
And Mireth fell with it.
She woke choking.
Her body convulsed as she rolled onto her side, retching bile onto the forest floor. Every nerve burned. Her head pounded as if something inside it was trying to claw its way out.
Morning light filtered weakly through the trees.
She was alive.
Barely.
Mireth pushed herself upright, hands shaking violently. Her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as though they belonged to someone else. When she tried to stand, her vision darkened at the edges.
"No," she whispered, forcing air into her lungs. "Not now."
She checked her chest with trembling fingers.
The mark was still there—but it looked different.
Fainter.
As if something had been taken.
Her stomach twisted.
She tried to summon the silver fire.
Nothing happened.
Panic surged.
"No—no, no, no," she muttered, pressing her palm harder against the mark. "Don't do this."
A faint flicker responded, weak and distant, like an ember buried under ash.
The voice returned—but softer. Strained.
You took too much, it said.Now you pay.
"What did you take?" Mireth demanded aloud.
Silence.
That scared her more than the pain.
She staggered to her feet and began walking again, slower now, each step measured. Without the power at her fingertips, the forest felt sharper. Louder. Alive with threats she could no longer burn away.
By midday, she reached a narrow dirt road leading toward a walled town perched on a low hill.
Stonewatch.
She knew the place.
Neutral ground. Trader routes. Mercenaries. And rumors.
Rumors were dangerous.
But she needed food. Water. Answers.
Mireth pulled her hood low and joined a small group of travelers heading toward the gate. Her head throbbed with every heartbeat, and strange gaps tugged at her thoughts—moments where she felt she should remember something but couldn't grasp it.
A name.A sound.A face.
Gone.
She swallowed hard.
At the gate, guards inspected each traveler carefully. Silver charms hung from their armor—anti-mark wards.
Her pulse spiked.
When it was her turn, a guard narrowed his eyes. "You look unwell."
"Travel sickness," Mireth replied quickly.
He studied her for a moment too long, then waved her through.
Stonewatch was loud, crowded, alive. Vendors shouted. Children ran between stalls. Somewhere, steel rang as weapons were tested.
Normal life.
She felt like a ghost walking through it.
Mireth slipped into a narrow alley and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Her reflection stared back at her from a cracked mirror propped against a stall.
Her eyes were wrong.
Not glowing—but sharper. Older.
She touched her face slowly.
This is how it starts, the voice murmured faintly.The forgetting.
Her breath hitched.
"What do you mean?" she whispered.
Power does not come from nothing. It feeds.
Her heart hammered. "Feeds on what?"
This time, the answer came immediately.
You.
A sudden shout echoed through the street.
"HUNTERS IN THE CITY!"
Chaos erupted.
People screamed. Merchants abandoned stalls. Guards shouted orders as armored figures pushed through the crowd, silver sigils flashing.
Mireth's blood ran cold.
Too soon.
She turned to run—and collided with someone solid.
Strong hands caught her shoulders.
"Easy," a low voice said. "You look like you're about to faint."
She looked up.
The man from the clearing.
Alive. Standing. Watching her too closely.
Before she could react, he leaned in and whispered:
"They're not here for you."
Her breath caught.
"Then who?" she whispered back.
His eyes flicked toward the hunters advancing through the square.
"Me."
And in that moment, Mireth knew one thing with terrifying clarity:
Running alone was no longer an option.