Alaric's wrists ached against the iron manacles, the cold metal biting into his skin. The guards had dragged him through Greyholt's winding streets under the flicker of torchlight, the crowd that gathered along the way silent, watchful.
No one spoke to him. No one asked what crime he had committed. In Greyholt, silence was more dangerous than shouting.
The mark on his palm pulsed faintly beneath the manacle's rim, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
They hauled him into the bowels of the fortress keep — a place older than the city itself. The stones here were slick with moisture, and the air smelled of rust and stagnant water. The torchlight sputtered in the damp, making shadows writhe along the walls.
The guards shoved him into a cell barely wide enough for a cot and a bucket. The iron door groaned shut, leaving him in near darkness.
For a time, the only sound was the drip of water and the dull throb in his palm.
The door opened again hours later.
A figure entered, not a guard this time, but a woman. She wore a cloak of deep crimson, the hood pulled low, but Alaric caught the gleam of gold thread at its edges — an insignia stitched into the fabric.
She moved like someone who did not fear this place.
"You've caused quite a stir," she said, her voice smooth, carrying the faintest hint of amusement.
Alaric narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
"Someone who doesn't like wasted potential." She pulled a chair from the corner and sat, crossing one leg over the other. "Tell me, boy — who gave you the mark?"
"I don't know," he said truthfully. "I woke with it. After… after Hollowmere burned."
Her gaze sharpened. "Then you've already been touched by the Vein."
Alaric frowned. "The… Vein?"
"The old network," she said, leaning closer. "Older than the Council, older than Greyholt itself. It runs beneath the city — tunnels, passages, hidden chambers. And through it flows everything the surface pretends doesn't exist. Gold. Secrets. Power."
Her eyes flicked to his palm. "And blood magic. The kind that binds."
Before he could respond, the door swung open again. A guard stepped inside and bowed stiffly to the woman.
"Lady Serenya," he said. "The Council is ready for you."
She rose, smoothing her cloak. "Bring him."
The guards unlocked the manacles but didn't loosen their grip as they dragged him up, up, until the air grew warmer and the light harsher.
The Council chamber was a ring of high-backed chairs carved from dark oak, each occupied by a figure draped in robes of varying colors. Above them hung banners embroidered with symbols Alaric didn't recognize — twelve in all, one for each seat.
At the far end of the chamber sat the High Speaker, a man with hair the color of ash and eyes like flint.
Lady Serenya took her place at the seventh seat, directly across from the High Speaker.
"This boy bears the mark," she said without preamble. "The Wraith's tether."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the Council.
The High Speaker studied Alaric for a long moment. "Do you know what you carry?"
"I've been told it's a curse," Alaric said carefully. "And that it makes me dangerous."
"Both are true," the Speaker replied. "But danger can be a weapon. Or a wound."
One of the other Councilors — a thin man in green robes — leaned forward. "We should hand him to the Order. Let them deal with it."
Another, a woman in blue, shook her head. "The Order would kill him before we could learn what the mark wants. That would be… wasteful."
Alaric's chest tightened. They spoke about him as though he weren't even in the room.
Lady Serenya's voice cut through the murmurs. "If the Vein is stirring again, this boy may be our only way to reach it before the Wraith claims him. We cannot afford to ignore this."
The Speaker's gaze returned to Alaric. "We will not decide tonight. For now, he will remain under guard — but not in the cells. See that he is given quarters. And watch him closely."
They escorted him to a small chamber overlooking the inner courtyard. The room was sparsely furnished — a bed, a table, a single narrow window — but it felt almost luxurious after the damp stone cell.
Brenn and Elira were waiting for him inside.
"They let you walk?" Elira asked, suspicion heavy in her tone.
"Not exactly," Alaric said, sitting heavily on the bed. "They're watching me. All of them. But one of the Councilors… Serenya. She says the mark connects to something called the Vein."
Brenn's expression darkened. "Then things are worse than I thought."
That night, sleep did not come easily. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind through the window made him start. The mark on his palm seemed hotter, the pulse quicker.
He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until a sound woke him — a faint tapping at the window.
When he turned, he saw a shadow crouched on the ledge.
It was the stranger from the alley.
Alaric moved to the window and unlatched it. The man slipped inside, moving with fluid precision.
"You're still alive," the stranger said quietly. "That's… unexpected."
"You know about the Vein," Alaric said without preamble. "Tell me what it is."
The man's smile was humorless. "It's not what it is — it's where. It runs beneath this city like blood through a body. And just like blood, it can carry life… or poison."
He glanced toward the door. "If Serenya's found you, then the Vein has already taken notice. You'll have to decide soon whether to walk it willingly — or be dragged into it."
Alaric frowned. "Why me?"
"Because you're marked," the man said simply. "The Wraith doesn't waste its tethers on nobodies. You've been chosen for something. Maybe to be a weapon. Maybe to be a door."
"A door to what?"
The man's pale eyes glinted in the lamplight. "To the end of all this. Or the beginning of something worse."
Before Alaric could speak again, footsteps echoed in the corridor. The man slipped to the window, but paused before leaving.
"They call me Corren," he said. "If you want answers, follow the sound of water in the tunnels beneath the old well in the lower ward. Midnight. Come alone."
Then he was gone, swallowed by the night.
The next day, the city buzzed with a tension Alaric could feel in his bones. Merchants spoke in hushed tones. Soldiers moved in tighter patrols. Somewhere beneath it all, he thought he could hear the faint rush of unseen water — the heartbeat of the Vein.
And for the first time, the mark on his palm didn't feel like just a curse.
It felt like a key.