The shadow stopped ten paces away.
Golden's hand whitened around the hilt of his rusted dagger. He was a cocktail of raw fear and desperate hope.
In this dead world, a human was either a savior or a scavenger. Usually, they were both.
The figure stepped into a sliver of violet light.
Golden blinked.
She was a girl, perhaps seventeen, with hair as black as the obsidian ruins and eyes of a blue so piercing they seemed to vibrate with an inner light. She didn't look like a survivor. She looked like a predator that had grown bored of its prey.
Her clothes were a strange blend of tough leather and metallic plates that hummed with a faint, neon pulse.
"You're making a lot of noise," she said. Her voice was cool, lacking the panic Golden felt in his own bones. "Do you enjoy the taste of your own blood? Because the creatures in these ruins certainly do."
Golden didn't lower the knife. "Who are you?"
"Ere," she replied, her gaze dropping to his blade. She looked amused. "And that toothpick won't help you if a Steam-Sprite catches your scent. What are you doing here, Outlander?"
Outlander.
Golden hesitated. Trust the mark. Don't trust the world. "I don't know," Golden lied. His voice trembled, and for once, he didn't have to fake it. "I woke up. I don't remember anything but my name."
Ere's eyes narrowed. The air around her seemed to grow heavy, pushing against Golden's chest. Her suspicion was a physical weight. She walked toward him, her boots clicking on the stone with rhythmic precision.
"Amnesia. How convenient," she murmured. "Let me see your left arm."
"Why?"
"In Aethelgard, the arm tells the truth that the tongue hides. If you are a Primal(mage or u can use any 12 type of magic), I need to know which one. I don't fancy being turned into a Pillar of Salt because I turned my back on a rogue Mage."
Golden slowly pulled back his sleeve.
Ere leaned in. Then, she froze.
In this world, every Mark was a masterpiece of geometry. The Primal 12 were icons of order—blue, glowing symbols of fire, time, or force. They were clean. They were known.
Golden's mark was a riot.
The silver spike of the Unicorn was being strangled by jagged, obsidian-black veins. It looked less like a symbol and more like a wound that refused to heal. It looked like two gods had died on his skin and left their ghosts to fight over the remains.
"What... is that?" Ere whispered.
For the first time, her composure cracked. She stepped back, her hand drifting to a hilt at her waist.
"That is no Primal 12," she breathed, her blue eyes flickering like a dying lamp. "It looks like a corruption. A fusion of opposites. You... you should be dead, Golden. Your soul should have shattered the moment that took root."
"I'm full of surprises," Golden said, pulling his sleeve back down.
Ere stared at him for a long beat. Finally, she exhaled, the suffocating pressure in the air vanishing.
"If you're a spy, you're the worst one in history," she sighed. "Fine. Welcome to Aethelgard, Ghost. Try to keep up. I'd rather not explain the rules to a corpse."
As they moved through the jagged remains of the city, Ere spoke, and the world began to take a terrifying shape.
She spoke of the Great Divide. Of those born with the fixed, unchangeable "Gift" of the Primal Magic. And of those who had to claw their way up through Essence—The substance everything in this universe is made of.
"We use Essence-Tech to survive the Wilds," she said, gesturing to a glowing vial on her belt. "Alchemy,Bio-code. It can make you an Awakened—a titan of flesh and bone. If you survive that, you become Reformed, fusing your soul with tech. And the lucky few? They become Refined."
She looked at him over her shoulder.
"A Refined warrior doesn't need magic. They can walk on air and crush a room with pure pressure. They are the ones the Mages truly fear however a magic with talent can use both however people with Refined stage they use only Essence as they were not talented in magic.
Golden looked up.
High above the mud and the ruins, massive Spire-Cities of enchanted obsidian floated in the violet sky. They were covered in neon lights, looking like predatory stars waiting for the world below to finish rotting.
"And my mark?" Golden asked nervously
Ere stopped. Her silhouette was sharp against the violet horizon.
"In Aethelgard, a mark is a rank," she said quietly. "But yours? It's a target. If the High-Caste find you, they won't ask you your name. They'll peel the skin off your arm just to see how the silver stays so bright."
She turned back to the path.
"Don't show it to anyone else. Not if you want to keep breathing."