The road stretched endlessly, a ribbon of gray and white winding between the skeletal trees.
No one spoke. The only sounds were the crunch of boots in snow and the creak of worn leather straps. The wind had picked up again, rattling through the branches like bones knocking together.
Alaric walked behind Elira, eyes fixed on her steady gait. She hadn't looked back since the fight. Her bow was still in hand, arrow nocked but lowered, as if the forest itself was an enemy waiting to spring.
Father Brenn's staff tapped a slow rhythm against the frozen earth ahead of them, a metronome to keep them moving.
Alaric tried to focus on the road, but the bandit leader's voice still haunted him. What are you?
He hadn't known how to answer then, and he still didn't.
By the time the sky began bleeding into twilight, they'd put several miles between themselves and the site of the ambush. A half-frozen stream cut across the road, forcing them to pause while Father Brenn tested the ice for stability.
Alaric crouched by the bank, cupping his hands to take a drink from a narrow gap in the ice. The water burned cold against his throat, but when he pulled his hands back, his breath caught.
Steam rose faintly from his skin.
"Elira," he called quietly.
She turned, and whatever she'd been about to say died on her lips. "Your hand…"
The skin across his palm and fingers was darker now, the faintest shimmer of red veins glowing beneath the surface. At the very center of his palm, a thin, jagged line had appeared—black as coal, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
Father Brenn was at his side in an instant, gripping his wrist hard enough to hurt. His eyes narrowed. "When did this appear?"
"I—" Alaric faltered. "I don't know. Maybe after the fight."
"It's not a wound," Elira said, crouching to look closer. "It's… burned in."
Brenn's jaw tightened. "No. Not burned. Marked."
Alaric's stomach turned. "Marked by what?"
The priest released his hand abruptly, as if it were dangerous to hold. "By something that saw you when you saw it. You've been noticed, boy."
The wind gusted harder, sending snow swirling around them. The forest seemed to press closer, listening.
They didn't stop for a proper camp that night. Instead, Brenn led them to the remnants of an abandoned watchtower just off the road. The roof had long since collapsed, but the walls still offered shelter from the wind.
They built a small fire in the lee of the crumbling stone, its flickering light casting long shadows across the walls.
Elira sat cleaning her bowstring, her face unreadable. Brenn murmured his evening prayers, tracing a sunburst pattern into the dirt with his staff.
Alaric sat apart, staring at his palm. The mark hadn't faded. If anything, it was clearer now, the black line stark against his skin, with faint crimson threads spidering outward.
When he closed his eyes, he saw… something.
A tall, antlered figure, half-shrouded in mist. Pale eyes like shards of moonlight. Fingers long and jointed wrong, tracing a line in the air as if drawing the mark into existence.
He snapped his eyes open, heart pounding.
"Could it be a curse?" Elira's voice startled him. She'd crossed the fire without him noticing.
"I don't know." His voice came out quieter than he intended. "It doesn't hurt. Not exactly. But I can feel it. Like it's under my skin, watching me from the inside."
Elira studied him for a long moment. "My grandmother used to tell stories about wraiths that could leave their mark on someone. Not to kill them—but to follow them. To… claim them later."
Alaric tried to laugh it off, but the sound was hollow. "That's comforting."
She didn't smile.
The fire burned low. Outside, the wind howled like a chorus of distant voices.
Alaric lay on his side, cloak pulled tight, staring into the dim red glow of the embers. He was just on the edge of sleep when he felt it—a weight, cold and pressing, against his chest.
His eyes flew open.
The fire was gone. The tower walls were gone.
He stood in a black field under a sky without stars. Mist curled low around his boots, clinging and wet. In the distance, something moved—a shape too tall, too wrong, gliding closer without sound.
The figure stopped several paces away.
Its antlers scraped the air.
It raised one long finger and pointed directly at his chest.
The black line in his palm flared crimson.
Alaric gasped, clutching his hand. The heat was unbearable now, as if molten iron had been poured into his veins. He tried to move, but his feet were rooted to the ground.
The wraith's voice came, not through his ears, but inside his skull—an icy whisper threading through his thoughts.
The flame survives the frost. The shadow waits for the sun.
Before he could speak, the figure dissolved into mist, and the world snapped back.
He sat bolt upright in the tower ruins, chest heaving. The fire was still there, low but alive. Elira was asleep, but Father Brenn sat against the wall, eyes open.
"You saw it, didn't you?" the priest said quietly.
Alaric swallowed hard. "How—"
"You're not the first to bear the Wraith's Mark. But the others… they didn't live long enough to speak of it."
"What does it want?"
Brenn's gaze dropped to the fire. "That depends on whether you're meant to be its servant—or its grave."
They broke camp before dawn. The wind was sharper now, and the forest more oppressive.
The mark itched under Alaric's glove, but he didn't dare uncover it. The memory of that voice still clung to him. The flame survives the frost. The shadow waits for the sun.
He didn't know if it was a warning… or a promise.
It was near midday when they saw the first sign of Greyholt: a distant glimmer of its high, slate-gray walls through the snow-laden trees. Relief rippled through the group—but it was short-lived.
From the branches above, a raven croaked harshly. It had no eyes.
Alaric froze. The bird tilted its head toward him, and for a heartbeat, the mark on his palm burned hot enough to make him gasp.
Then the raven dropped something into the snow—a strip of black cloth with a jagged red line stitched into it.
The same as his mark.
The bird took flight without a sound, vanishing into the white sky.
Father Brenn picked up the cloth with the tips of his fingers, as though it might bite. "He knows where you are now."
Alaric's stomach turned to ice. "Who?"
"The one who sent the wraith." Brenn's voice was grim. "And if I'm right… he's already waiting inside Greyholt."