Mavin woke up because his back felt tight.
Not pain. Not exactly. More like something pulling inward, holding itself together. He lay still, eyes open, staring at the inside of a tent roof stitched together from different fabrics. Light leaked through seams and small holes, drifting slowly as the tent shifted in the wind.
Camp sounds reached him in pieces.
Footsteps. Low voices. Metal clinking. Someone coughing.
He was alive.
That didn't feel real yet.
He tried to move his arm and stopped when the motion sent a dull ache through his spine. Whatever had torn out of his back had healed wrong. Someone had wrapped him in clean cloth, tight enough that breathing felt shallow.
His hand drifted toward his chest and stopped halfway.
The mark was there.
He didn't touch it. He didn't need to. He could feel it sitting under the cloth, warm and heavy, like it belonged there.
Voices outside the tent grew louder.
"That thing shouldn't have gone down like that."
"You saw the body. Half of it looked melted."
"No blade does that."
Mavin closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.
The tent flap shifted and someone stepped inside. It was Jorren. He carried a small bowl and a canteen. He stopped when he saw Mavin awake.
"You're up," Jorren said. Not surprised. Just stating it.
Mavin nodded once.
Jorren crouched and handed him the canteen. "Drink slow."
The water was warm and tasted faintly of metal. Mavin drank anyway. His throat hurt. When he finished, Jorren set the bowl near his hands.
"Eat."
Mavin did. The stew was thin, mostly grain and boiled roots. His stomach twisted as it went down. Something inside him stirred faintly, like it noticed.
Jorren watched him closely. "You remember what happened?"
Mavin nodded again. "The animal."
"And after?"
He hesitated. "I don't remember killing it."
That was mostly true.
Jorren grunted. "No one ever does, first time."
Mavin looked at him. "First time what?"
Jorren didn't answer right away. He stood and pulled the tent flap open slightly, checking outside. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
"People are talking."
Mavin's grip tightened on the bowl.
"They think you got lucky," Jorren continued. "They think you hit something vital. They think the rot on the body came from a ruin beast."
"And you?" Mavin asked.
Jorren studied him for a moment. "I think you healed too fast."
Mavin said nothing.
Outside, two bandits argued near the fire.
"…telling you, if a Ruin-marked had been anywhere near here, we'd be dead already."
"They don't come out this far."
"They do when towns get too big."
Mavin listened, heart pounding.
Jorren followed his gaze. "You've heard the stories."
Mavin nodded slowly.
Everyone had.
Safe Zone broadcasts. Old scavenged screens. Stories passed down like warnings and promises at the same time. Ruin-marked standing on walls, tearing monsters apart. Ruin-marked stopping riots. Ruin-marked deciding who lived when supplies ran thin.
Heroes.
Weapons.
Things you didn't fight unless you wanted to die.
"What happens if bandits run into one?" Mavin asked.
Jorren snorted. "They don't run into them. They run away. Or they get wiped out."
Mavin swallowed.
"The Safe Zones love them," Jorren went on. "Give them food. Armor. Titles. Call them protectors."
"And us?" Mavin asked.
Jorren's mouth twisted. "We stay far away."
He stood. "Get some rest."
When he left, Mavin pulled the cloth tighter around his chest. He adjusted it so the mark stayed covered even if he moved. Pain made that easy.
The camp didn't stop for him.
By the next morning, they were moving again.
Mavin walked with the others, pack light, steps careful. His back pulled when he moved too fast. The scars felt thick, tight, like old bark. He kept his head down and did what he was told.
People watched him.
Not openly. Not with fear.
With calculation.
When he lifted something heavy without strain, someone noticed. When his wound didn't reopen after a long march, someone noticed. When he stumbled and caught himself without crying out, someone noticed.
Whispers followed him through camp.
"…should still be bleeding."
"…kids don't heal like that."
"…if he was marked, we'd know."
Mavin pretended not to hear.
That night, Mavin stared at the tent wall, heart hammering.
He pulled the cloth aside just enough to look.
The mark sat dark against his skin. The single ring around it looked deliberate. Clean.
He covered it again quickly.
Heroes didn't hide.
Weapons didn't either.
He didn't feel like either.
Days passed.
The camp moved often. Mavin learned to sleep light. He learned how to change shirts without exposing his chest. He learned that the rot responded when he panicked, tightening under his skin like it was ready to come out again.
Once, when a blade slipped and cut his palm, the wound sealed before blood could drip. He shoved his hand into his pocket and kept walking.
No one saw.
His circle didn't change.
At least, he thought it hadn't.
On the fifth night, the bandit leader called him over.
"You're keeping up," she said.
Mavin nodded.
"You're useful," she added. "That matters."
She didn't ask questions.
That bothered him.
When he lay down to sleep that night, the rot stirred faintly, warm and patient.
Mavin stared into the dark and understood something clearly.
If the Safe Zones ever saw the mark, they'd take him.
If the bandits ever knew, they'd use him.
So he hid it.