The road south was little more than a scar of frozen earth, a narrow vein of mud and ice threading through a lifeless land. Its edges were rimmed with frost-stiff grass, brittle beneath the pale winter sun. No birds. No smoke. No warmth.
Only silence.
And Caelen's shadow, long and alone, trailing him like the ghost of the village he left behind.
He didn't just walk away from Grayeve. He fled.
From the fire. From the System that had chosen him. From the sight of his mother's back turning—her last words broken by sobs she thought he didn't hear.
"If it finds you, run. If it speaks, never answer."
But it had spoken. And he had answered.
He could still feel the cold breath of the shrine, the whisper curling in his ear like coiled smoke. Awaken. That one word had unraveled something inside him. Something old, buried, and hungry.
And now it stirred with every step. The second heartbeat. A silent thrum beneath his ribs, quieter now, but always there—like a wolf pacing just behind his skin.
He didn't look back. Grayeve was ash. His mother was gone. And the man in white who descended with light and fury... he had called Caelen a sin. A mistake.
So what did that make him now?
The satchel bounced against his side, burdened not just with scavenged gear but with memory. A broken blade, barely sharp. A red cloth torn from his mother's shawl—its edges still smelling faintly of her warmth. And a pendant—his father's, maybe—dug from the rubble of their home, burned but intact. Unfamiliar symbols lined its surface, pulsing faintly now that they were away from the village.
He hadn't noticed it glowing before.
Each time he stepped, a dull warmth seeped up through his boots—a faint hum beneath the soil. The road pulsed with quiet life. The System Road. His mother had whispered of them, once, when he was younger and still believed the world had rules.
"These roads were carved before the Fracture. They remember what came before—who walked them, who bled on them. They listen. And sometimes… they whisper back."
Now he knew what she meant. Symbols lined the path's edges, worn from time but still visible. When he passed them, they glimmered faintly—responding not to his touch, but to something inside him.
Like they recognized him.
Or the thing that walked with him.
The land changed as he walked. The plains surrendered to frost-choked hills, then to the edges of a place the locals once called the Witherwood. The trees there grew twisted, bone-white, and leafless. The air smelled of dust and rot. Even snow refused to gather beneath the canopy.
This road was supposed to lead to Havenreach, an old trading post. But the System Road had curved away, almost deliberately, threading deeper into the forest.
Caelen followed.
Because where else could he go?
It was midday when he heard the first voice.
Sharp. Commanding. Too crisp for a scavenger. Too precise for a merchant.
He crouched behind a stone outcrop, knees trembling. The second heartbeat in his chest quickened.
A fire burned in a clearing just ahead—small, controlled, recently built. Around it stood six figures, half-armored, their faces shadowed by hoods and helms. Their clothes were layered for travel, but the glint of steel betrayed their purpose.
And the sigil on one of the wagons?
A black sun, its rays replaced by chains.
Caelen's breath caught in his throat.
The Chainmarked.
Slavers. Faithless. Mercenaries who served no banner but coin. The same symbol had been on the paper nailed to the crumbling watchtower in Grayeve—the one marked with his name.
"Bounty marked by the Order. Seize alive."
His name. Written in black ink. Stained with blood.
They were looking for him.
He tried to step back.
A twig snapped beneath his boot.
Heads turned.
"Over there!" one of them barked.
Panic surged through Caelen. He ran. Not toward the road, but deeper—into the bramble, into the cold. Branches scraped his face. Roots caught his boots. Still he ran.
A voice inside him screamed to keep moving—not his own, but older, echoing in his bones.
"Flee now. Fight later. Survive."
They caught up to him by the ridge.
Two riders flanked him, weapons drawn. The third stood behind, bow notched.
"Stop!" one shouted. "Drop the blade, brat!"
He hadn't realized he'd drawn it.
His hand trembled around the chipped hilt. His breath came ragged. The second heartbeat was pounding now, drowning out everything.
The blade felt... wrong in his hand. Not because it was old. Because it was hungry.
"You're not alone anymore."
The one in front stepped forward.
Caelen didn't plan what happened next.
He just moved.
The blade lashed out—low and fast—slashing across the man's thigh. The mercenary screamed, stumbling. Caelen pivoted, twisted, drove the blade into his gut.
The man fell.
The second one charged. Caelen ducked under the swing, then stabbed upward—raw, brutal. Steel punched through flesh.
Two down.
The archer loosed a bolt. It scraped Caelen's shoulder—white-hot pain—but he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
He was not in control.
By the time it was over, he stood among four dead men. Blood soaked the snow. His hands trembled. His legs nearly gave out.
The heartbeat inside him was quiet again.
Satisfied.
The woman they'd captured—tied, ragged, gaunt—stared at him from where she knelt beside the wagon.
He hesitated.
Then cut her bonds.
She flinched.
"Why… why help me?" she asked.
He didn't answer. His hands were shaking too much. Blood covered his palms. Not all of it was theirs.
"You shouldn't be alive," she murmured. "Not after what you just did. That wasn't skill. That was… something else. Something using you."
He looked down at the blade.
It no longer glowed.
Only dripped.
"It's in you now."
Her eyes widened. "You're marked. The Chainmarked won't stop. And others will come. Do you even know what you are?"
He didn't.
Only that it started at the shrine. Only that his mother had tried to hide him. Only that something ancient now pulsed in his chest and refused to let him die.
The woman reached into her cloak, pulling out a bone token etched with a familiar symbol—the same one in his dream, hovering above the shrine.
"You need to go to Hollowreach," she said. "That's where answers begin. But know this—no truth there comes without pain. The city is built on a dead god's spine. And no one walks out whole."
Caelen met her eyes.
"I've already lost everything," he said.
She nodded, grim.
"Then maybe you're ready."
He left her there, taking only what he needed—food, a cloak, a strip of cloth for his shoulder.
The System Road pulsed again beneath his feet. The symbols ahead glowed faintly, lighting the way.
He didn't trust it.
But he walked anyway.
Not because he had faith.
Because he had nowhere else to go.