The gates of Greyholt loomed like the jaws of some ancient beast, their black iron teeth bristling with frost. Even from a distance, Alaric could see the runes etched deep into the metal—warding glyphs that shimmered faintly when the winter sun struck them.
Two guards in wolf-fur cloaks flanked the entrance, spears planted firmly in the snow. Their eyes scanned the road, hard and unblinking.
"Keep your hood up," Father Brenn murmured. "The fewer who notice you, the better."
Alaric obeyed, pulling the coarse wool low over his brow. The mark on his palm itched again, a faint pulse beneath the leather glove.
As they approached, one of the guards raised a hand. "State your business."
Brenn stepped forward. "We've come from Hollowmere, seeking audience with the Council of Twelve. It concerns the disturbances in the north."
The guards exchanged a look. "The Council sees no one without summons. Not these days."
"It is not for debate," Brenn said, his voice carrying an edge of iron. "Unless you wish the wraiths to find their way past your wards, you will open these gates."
Something in his tone made the guards pale. Without another word, they stepped aside. The gates groaned open, and Greyholt revealed itself.
The city was a mosaic of slate roofs, narrow alleys, and smoke curling from chimney stacks. The streets wound uphill toward the fortress keep, whose spire pierced the sky like a black spear.
Merchants hawked their wares from stalls draped in furs and canvas, shouting over the clamor of hooves and wagon wheels. Children darted between carts, chasing each other through clouds of their breath. The scent of roasting chestnuts mingled with the tang of iron and wet stone.
Alaric tried to take it all in, but something felt… off. Beneath the bustle, the city seemed taut, like a bowstring drawn too far. Guards stood at every corner, their hands never far from their weapons.
They hadn't gone far when a man stepped from an alley, blocking their path.
He wore a long coat of weathered leather, the collar turned up to hide most of his face. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his eyes, though Alaric caught the glint of something sharp beneath.
"Travelers from Hollowmere," the man said, his voice low and smooth. "That's a long road to take this time of year."
Brenn's staff shifted subtly in his grip. "And who are you to ask?"
The man smiled faintly. "A friend. Or perhaps not. That depends on you."
Alaric felt the mark on his palm flare—faint, but insistent. The sensation was different from before, less like heat and more like a pull, as if the mark wanted to lean toward this stranger.
"What do you want?" Elira asked, her hand brushing the fletching of an arrow at her hip.
"To offer a warning." The man's gaze flicked to Alaric. "You've been marked. That makes you dangerous. And very… valuable."
Brenn's jaw tightened. "If you know what that mark means, then you also know it's none of your concern."
The stranger chuckled. "On the contrary, priest. It's the concern of everyone in Greyholt—though most won't understand until it's too late."
A wagon rattled past, and in the momentary clamor, the man slipped a folded scrap of parchment into Alaric's hand without anyone else noticing.
"Read it when you're alone," he murmured. Then he was gone, melting into the crowd as if he'd never been there at all.
Alaric stared after him, a strange unease twisting in his gut.
They lodged that night at an inn called The Iron Lantern, a squat building of stone and timber near the lower market. The air inside was thick with pipe smoke and the smell of stewed meat.
In their small rented room, Alaric finally unfolded the parchment.
It wasn't a letter. It was a map. A crude drawing of Greyholt's streets, marked with a single X in red ink. Beneath it, only two words:
Midnight. Alone.
"This is a trap," Elira said flatly when he showed her.
"Or a lead," Alaric countered. "He knew about the mark."
"That doesn't mean you should walk into whatever he's planning."
Brenn leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded. "The choice is his. But I'll say this—if someone in Greyholt knows the truth of the mark, it may be worth the risk to listen."
Alaric turned the map over in his hands, the weight of the decision pressing on him. Outside, snow whispered against the window.
When the bells tolled the hour before midnight, Alaric slipped from the inn. The streets were nearly empty, save for the occasional patrol. He kept to the shadows, following the map's crooked lines through twisting alleys and over narrow bridges.
The X marked an old courtyard, walled on three sides by crumbling stone. A dry fountain stood at its center, the frozen remains of carved mermaids staring blindly into the dark.
He waited, the cold seeping into his bones.
"You came."
The voice was the same—low, smooth. The stranger stepped from the shadows, his coat dusted with snow.
"What is this mark?" Alaric demanded.
The man studied him for a long moment. "It's not just a brand. It's a tether. Something—or someone—has bound a part of themselves to you. That's how they'll find you, no matter where you go."
Alaric's pulse quickened. "Can it be removed?"
"Yes. But not without cost."
The man stepped closer, and Alaric saw his eyes for the first time—pale gray, ringed with faint red veins, as if he hadn't slept in days.
"There's a war coming," he said quietly. "And when it breaks, the one who holds that mark will hold you. The question is—will you serve them willingly, or be dragged by the chain?"
Alaric swallowed hard. "And you? Which side are you on?"
The man smiled faintly. "Mine."
Before Alaric could press further, a shout echoed from the alley. Torchlight flared. A half-dozen guards spilled into the courtyard, blades drawn.
The stranger's smile widened. "Time to choose, boy."
Then he was gone again, vanishing into the shadows as if they'd swallowed him whole.
The guards closed in.
And Alaric realized—none of them were looking at the stranger's path. Every single one of them was staring at him.