Chapter Two: The Mark That Shouldn't Be
Iren didn't move for several heartbeats, staring at the body as if waiting for it to obey the world's rules. But the warmth lingered. The blood refused to vanish. The sigil on the man's hand glimmered faintly in the early sunlight.
He crouched beside the corpse, careful not to touch it. Something about the symbol tugged at the edges of his memory. He had drawn it countless times as a child—on scraps of paper, the walls of abandoned buildings, even in the dust on the streets—but he had never known why. Until now.
A sound made him freeze. Footsteps, hesitant and uneven, echoed from the alley behind him. Iren turned, but saw only a shadow retreating between the crumbling buildings. His stomach tightened. The dying city had few residents, fewer still who cared enough to investigate a corpse, and yet someone had been here. Watching.
He looked back at the body. The man's eyes were closed, but a subtle pulse ran along his veins—impossible, forbidden. Iren swallowed. He knew he should report it, but he also knew no one would believe him. People had long stopped believing the rules were absolute. And if he told anyone… the wrong people might notice him noticing.
As he leaned closer, the sigil on the man's hand suddenly flared, glowing with a pale blue light, casting sharp, fractured shadows across the alley walls. Iren's breath caught, his pulse quickening. Every line of the mark was clear, each curve etched with precision and familiarity, yet it terrified him.
Then came the sharp, searing pain in his chest. He staggered backward, clutching his shirt, gasping for air. His knees trembled as he looked down—and froze.
The same sigil had appeared on his chest, faintly glowing the same pale blue. Iren's stomach churned. He was not just observing the impossible death anymore. He was part of it.
A cold dread settled over him. Whatever had caused the man's death, whatever had broken the rules, had now chosen him.
The wind stirred the alley, carrying the faint scent of smoke and iron. Iren shivered, pressing a hand over the burning mark. His breathing was shallow, heart hammering in his chest. He glanced toward the main street, knowing he couldn't stay. Someone—maybe more than one—was watching. Someone who would not welcome his discovery.
Iren walked back to his small quarters in the edge district, keeping to shadows, every footstep heavy, every breath deliberate. The mark burned in his mind as much as on his chest, a constant reminder of a single terrifying truth: the rules of Eldoria had begun to bend—and now, they had found him.