The warmth of the bakery was a stark contrast to the drafty shack Kaelen had just vacated. The old woman placed a thick, steaming slab of golden-brown bread on a clean wooden board in front of him. The aroma was intoxicating, but Kaelen didn't dive in.
He picked up the bread, turning it over slowly. He checked the crust for unusual discolorations, felt the weight for any hidden density, and even took a cautious sniff to detect any chemical aftertaste. It was a habit born from years of high-stakes play where even the slightest environmental variable could be a trap.
The old woman let out a hearty, melodic laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Goodness, lad! It's just flour, water, and a bit of yeast. You're far too young to be looking at a loaf of bread like it's a hidden viper."
Kaelen didn't smile. He simply tore a piece off and ate it, the flavor exploding against his starved palate. "Vigilance is what keeps people alive where I'm from," he muttered between bites.
"Perhaps," she said softly, her laughter fading into a look of pity. She reached under the counter and produced a heavy wooden cup, filling it with hot water from a kettle on the hearth. She set it down beside the bread. "But a boy your age shouldn't have to look at the world through such cold eyes."
She leaned forward, her gaze dropping to the dark, angry ring around his throat. "That mark on your neck... it wasn't there two days ago when I saw you shuffling through the square. What happened to you, Kaelen?"
Kaelen paused, the bread halfway to his mouth. He felt the phantom pressure of the rope for a fleeting second before pushing the memory aside. He took a slow sip of the hot water, the warmth spreading through his chest, but his expression remained as flat as a frozen lake. He gave a sharp, singular shrug and looked away, focusing on a stray crumb on the table.
The woman watched him for a long moment, waiting for a confession or a plea for help that never came. She sighed, recognizing the wall he had built around himself.
"Fine," she said, patting his hand gently. "Keep your secrets. But you look like you haven't slept in a week. You're welcome to stay here by the hearth as long as you need. The back room is full of flour sacks, but it's warm and dry."
She turned and headed toward the back of the shop, her voice trailing off. "I have more dough to prep. Just yell if you need more water."
Kaelen watched her disappear behind the heavy curtain. He was alone in the quiet shop, the heat of the fire finally beginning to thaw the chill in his new bones. He reached up and touched the mark on his shoulder. The mask was silent, but he could feel its potential humming beneath his skin, waiting for the next move.
Beyond the heavy wool curtain, the simple warmth of the bakery vanished. The back room was unnervingly large, filled with shadows and the heavy, sweet scent of drying herbs that didn't smell like wheat at all.
The old woman, Kana, stood by a stone table. The kind, grandmotherly curve of her spine straightened, and the shaking in her hands stopped completely. She reached out and touched a small, obsidian bowl, her eyes shimmering with a faint, venomous yellow light.
"A Gray Ink mark," she whispered, her voice no longer raspy, but sharp like a hidden blade. "It wasn't there when I saw that pathetic boy crying in the mud three days ago. Now, he carries a mask on his skin that feels like it's breathing."
She began to pace the stone floor, her mind sifting through possibilities like a predator tracking scent.
"Possibility one," she murmured, counting on her long, thin fingers. "He found an Artist. Someone carved his soul and turned him into a Tattooed. Impossible. The boy is a beggar, and Artists don't waste their needles on trash in the middle of nowhere."
She paused, looking toward the curtain where Kaelen sat.
"Possibility two. A Fake. An Imitator used a corrupting ink to trick him. But Imitators are rarer than the Artists they mimic. They wouldn't bother with a small, dusty village like Crimson Creek. There's nothing here for them to steal."
A slow, sinister smile stretched across Kana's face. She thought about the dark, heavy bruises on the boy's neck—the marks of a successful suicide—and the cold, ancient look in his eyes that didn't belong to a sixteen-year-old.
"The third choice," she hissed, licking her lips with a tongue that seemed just a bit too long. "A wandering soul. A reincarnation. The boy died, and something else—something powerful—slid into the empty shell, bringing a gift from the void."
She let out a low, bubbling laugh that sounded like oil on a fire. She was ninety percent sure now. Kaelen wasn't just a lucky kid; he was a rare prize.
"A fresh soul with a fresh mark," she whispered, her eyes glowing brighter in the dim light. "He'll make a perfect sacrifice. He's exactly what that person has been looking for. Rest well, little soul. Eat your fill. I want you nice and strong before I offer you up."
She picked up a heavy iron cleaver and began to chop at a piece of meat with a rhythm that was far too fast for a normal old woman.