The grass was soft beneath Thorne''s boots, damp with morning dew that hadn''t existed moments before. Or maybe it had always been there. Time had a way of twisting beneath the eclipsed sky.


    He didn’t know how long they walked. Maybe hours. Maybe less. But the silence between him and the wolf—Sk?ll—was absolute.


    She followed. Not closely, but with the steady patience of a shadow. Not leading, not lurking, simply… waiting.


    It wasn’t until the mark on his brow began to burn that Thorne realized his steps weren’t entirely his own.


    The pulse started soft, like a heartbeat brushing beneath the skin. Barely noticeable. Then sharper. Hungrier. Pulling him forward, urging him through the tall grass and toward the horizon that didn’t seem to shift.


    He didn’t question it. Not at first.


    But Sk?ll did.


    When the land began to slope, her steps faltered. She paused, head tilting slightly as her sharp gaze swept the path ahead.


    Thorne slowed. He felt her hesitation like a change in the wind. He glanced back.


    “What is it?” he asked.


    Sk?ll said nothing. Her gaze stayed on the horizon, on the path Thorne didn’t realize he’d chosen. The tension in her body wasn’t fear—it was recognition.


    And something else.


    Regret?


    But she didn’t speak. Only followed.


    <hr>


    The landscape shifted.


    Grass gave way to stone, to earth broken and cracked with age. Roots split through the ground, clawing like ancient fingers desperate to hold on. The air grew heavier, thicker. Not with heat—but with memory.


    The mark pulsed hotter now, a steady thrum that licked beneath his skin. Thorne pressed his palm to his brow, grimacing.


    It was guiding him. Urging him.


    Drawing him.


    And he obeyed.


    He didn’t understand why. He didn’t care. The burn was a promise—of something more. Something waiting.


    Sk?ll’s steps slowed behind him.


    Her eyes narrowed, her head low. Watching. Listening.


    Still, she said nothing.


    <hr>


    The ruin appeared as if the earth had grown tired of hiding it.


    The forest thinned. The ground dipped. And there—nestled between crumbled stone and fallen roots—stood what remained of a temple.


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    Not a grand structure. Not anymore. Nature had claimed it, vines twisting around broken columns, grass creeping up stone walls. Shadows clung to its edges, deeper than they should be.


    But Thorne felt it. In his bones. In his blood.


    The mark recognized this place.


    And it rejoiced.


    His breath came sharp, his steps slower as he neared. The air here was heavier, pressing down with memories that weren’t his. Ones that didn’t belong to any man.


    Sk?ll’s breath was low behind him. Controlled. But her gaze—he caught it, just once—lingering on the ruin with something like… dread.


    Or grief.


    “This place…” Thorne’s voice scraped against the quiet. “You know it.”


    She didn’t answer.


    The silence spoke enough.


    <hr>


    He stepped closer.


    The mark burned hotter. Not painful, but urgent. Like hunger beneath his skin. Like longing.


    And in his mind, something stirred. Memories that weren’t his. Whispers that didn’t belong.


    A name he didn’t know.


    A place he’d never been.


    And yet… it felt like home.


    Thorne pressed a hand against the broken stone, fingers trailing along ancient carvings worn down by wind and rain. Shapes he couldn’t recognize. Symbols that pulsed beneath his skin as if alive.


    “What is this?” he asked. He wasn’t sure if the question was for himself.


    Or for her.


    Sk?ll’s voice was low. Careful. “It was once… mine.”


    The words hung in the air like ash.


    Thorne turned. She stood at the edge of the ruin, her gaze hard and distant. Not stepping closer. Not stepping back.


    “What happened to it?”


    She didn’t answer. Or maybe she didn’t know. Her gaze lingered on the broken stones, the overgrown roots.


    On the emptiness that remained.


    “This was where they worshipped you,” Thorne said slowly. “For chasing the sun.”


    A flicker in her eyes. Not confirmation. Not denial.


    But something.


    “They no longer do,” she said, voice distant. Cold.


    And Thorne understood. Not just the words. But the weight in them.


    Sk?ll, the hunter of the sun. Revered once. Forgotten now.


    <hr>


    The mark flared beneath his skin.


    And something answered.


    A pulse. Not pain. Not heat.


    Hunger.


    It wasn’t for blood. It wasn’t for flesh.


    It was for power.


    For belonging.


    For what had been lost.


    The mark reached for the ruin—not with hands, but with thought. With memory. Like it sought to pull something from the stone, to reclaim a piece of itself that had been forgotten with time.


    Thorne staggered. His vision swam.


    A flash.


    Not his.


    Stone unbroken. Fires burning in braziers. Shadowed figures kneeling beneath the eclipse. Whispering. Praying.


    Not to gods. But to the hunt. To balance. To Sk?ll.


    And at the center of it all, a wolf of silver and black. Watching. Judging. Endless.


    The vision cracked.


    Gone.


    Thorne gasped, blinking hard. His hand trembled against the stone.


    “What was that?” His voice was raw, torn.


    Sk?ll stepped closer, but only by a fraction. Her gaze never left the ruin.


    “The past,” she said. “Or what remains of it.”


    Thorne’s brow burned. The mark pulsed with longing.


    “This place,” he whispered. “It wants to be whole again.”


    And Sk?ll stilled. Her eyes darkened. Her shoulders tight.


    “I… cannot give it that,” she said. And Thorne heard it then. Not defiance. Not strength.


    Resignation.


    <hr>


    Silence fell.


    Only the wind moved. Whispering against the stone.


    And the mark burned beneath it all.


    <hr>


    Thorne stood for a long time, watching the ruin. Feeling the weight of something ancient pressing beneath his skin.


    And finally, Sk?ll broke the quiet.


    “Why do you follow it?” Her voice wasn’t curious. It wasn’t judgment. It was simple. Blunt.


    Because the mark leads me, he thought. Because I have no choice.


    But when he spoke, it was softer.


    “I don’t know how to stop.”


    <hr>


    The wind cut low. A shadow passed over the ruin.


    Sk?ll turned, her silver gaze distant. Cold. And for a long moment, she said nothing.


    But as Thorne stepped back from the stone, her head tilted slightly.


    And her voice, low and quiet, found him again.


    “Then we follow it together.”


    <hr>


    They stood at the edge of what was once worship.


    Thorne with his mark.


    Sk?ll with her memories.


    Neither belonging.


    But both drawn, bound to something deeper.


    And as they turned from the ruin, the mark pulsed once more. Not in hunger.


    But in promise.