《Graymark》


 Marked

    The east wing of Delmire Manor is always cold.


    Not from the weather, but by design. The hallways are long, and the walls are white marble. The columns are taller than any person¡ªeach one carved with the faces of Delmire ancestors. Stoic, cold eyes follow me as I walk. They¡¯ve always watched me like this. But today, their eyes are heavier. They¡¯re waiting for something. I can feel it.


    I clutch the silk sash at my waist. The Delmire crest is embroidered in silver thread: a blindfolded flame. The mark of the family who Calls through silence and stillness, not fire or war. I¡¯m thirteen. And today, I will Call.


    My stomach twists.


    What if nothing answers? Or worse, what if it does, and it''s a joke?


    I swallow hard.


    No. You¡¯ve earned this. You bled for this. They can¡¯t ignore you if the gods don¡¯t.


    My heart pounds in my chest. It feels like it¡¯s all they¡¯ll see.


    Let them see. Let them choke on it.


    I want this. Not for glory. Not for praise. I just want proof. Proof that I matter. Proof that I¡¯m not nothing.


    All my cousins have Called already. Elrin with his shadow mimic, Lysette with her voice that can freeze. They¡¯ve changed. They¡¯ve emerged glowing, untouchable. I¡¯m still here. Still this.


    What if nothing happens? What if I walk out of here the same empty thing they think I am?


    I glance sideways at two of my cousins. Ric is standing in the doorway, sharp-jawed, eyes already dismissing me. His robe¡¯s trimmed in silver. He doesn¡¯t speak to me.


    My palms are slick with sweat.


    Don¡¯t look at them. Don¡¯t give them the pleasure.


    I straighten my back. I¡¯ll force them to see me.


    The Calling room is circular and cold. The kind of cold that isn¡¯t just temperature¡ªit¡¯s something ancient. Something deep in the bones of the world. The circle of chalk on the floor feels like a barrier, like if I step in, I¡¯ll be trapped. A bowl of water glimmers beside a slab of black stone¡ªobsidian, raw and veined. A conduit. A tool. The bridge.


    My mother stands near the far wall. She¡¯s unmoving, arms crossed, face unreadable.


    I feel her eyes on me, but I can¡¯t meet them.


    ¡°You may begin,¡± she says, without warmth.


    The words hit me like a slap, sharp and empty. She hasn¡¯t said anything else since this morning. She never does. But now... now, it¡¯s like she¡¯s been holding something back. I don¡¯t know what it is, but I can feel it.


    I step into the circle.


    My breath catches as I kneel. My fingers brush the stone. My pulse is loud in my ears. Everything feels thick. Too thick. Too heavy. I close my eyes and whisper, my voice shaking but steady enough:


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    ¡°If anything hears me¡­ I am ready.¡±


    Nothing.


    The silence presses in on me, heavier than before. It¡¯s wrong. And then¡ªnothing.


    It¡¯s not like the stories. There¡¯s no fire. No light. No flash of power. There¡¯s just¡­ darkness. It wraps itself around me. I can¡¯t move. I can¡¯t breathe.


    I feel something, something cold, ancient. A presence.


    Something reaches for me from the shadows. Not just around me, but through me. I can feel it wrap around my chest. Its fingers dig in, icy cold, and it pulls, hard. My heart seizes in my chest as if it¡¯s being ripped from my ribs. My breath is a ragged gasp, and I can¡¯t get enough air. The pain is like nothing I¡¯ve ever felt¡ªlike fire, like a thousand needles. It¡¯s inside me.


    I scream, but it¡¯s like the world is dead. My mouth won¡¯t move. The air chokes me.


    Why this? Why this?!


    Then I feel it¡ªsomething marking me. A symbol sears itself into my soul. It¡¯s not on me. Not physically. It¡¯s deeper. It burns in me, through me. And all I can hear is the voice in my head:


    You are marked.


    The words ring in my skull, and I want to rip them out. But I can¡¯t. The mark burns through me, deeper and deeper, until I think I¡¯m going to die from it.


    And then¡­


    It¡¯s gone.


    I¡¯m back. The stone. The cold air. The room. The suffocating silence.


    I gasp for air like I¡¯m drowning, my body slick with sweat. I glance down at my chest, but there¡¯s nothing there¡ªno mark. Nothing visible. Nothing I can see.


    But it¡¯s still there. I can feel it. That cold, that presence, deep inside me.


    And then my mother speaks, pulling me back into this miserable reality:


    ¡°Is that all?¡±


    I can barely speak. My voice is shredded, raw, like I¡¯ve been screaming for hours.


    ¡°I¡­ I think something happened.¡±


    She doesn¡¯t move. She doesn¡¯t even blink.


    ¡°What can you do?¡±


    I hesitate. I don¡¯t want to say it. I don¡¯t want to admit that what¡¯s inside me is all I have now. It¡¯s not fire or power. It¡¯s just this. I swallow and force the words out:


    ¡°I¡­ I can mark people.¡±


    A silence stretches out too long.


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± Her voice is like ice.


    I nod, my chest still burning, still feeling the mark inside me.


    ¡°I think so.¡±


    She stares at me like I¡¯m a disappointment. Like I¡¯m beneath her.


    She doesn¡¯t move. Doesn¡¯t speak. She just looks at me like I¡¯m nothing. Then she orders, ¡°Remove it.¡±


    I look down at my chest, at nothing. But I feel it there, deep. I don¡¯t know how, but I reach inside myself and pull it out. The mark fades in an instant, leaving nothing behind but the burning ache.


    The attendant looks at me, eyes wide.


    ¡°¡­It¡¯s gone.¡±


    ¡°Remove him,¡± my mother orders, coldly.


    No applause. No smile.


    Ric is waiting outside the door. His eyes narrow when he sees me, but he doesn¡¯t look surprised.


    ¡°Well,¡± he says, voice dry, ¡°at least you didn¡¯t cry.¡±


    ***


    They don¡¯t let me return to my room.


    They drag me to a holding cell beneath the manor. Cold stone walls. Rusted hooks. A rat, staring at me from under the cot. A hunk of stale bread and a tin of water are dropped on the floor, and the servant leaves without a word. It¡¯s all I get.


    Why a mark? Why this? Why couldn¡¯t I have gotten something else?


    I sit in the dark, my body shaking from the memory of it. Time blurs. I don¡¯t sleep.


    When the door opens, it¡¯s not my mother. It¡¯s guards, and Geydon.


    ¡°This is correction,¡± he says. ¡°Be grateful we don¡¯t bury our mistakes.¡±


    I should¡¯ve screamed. I should¡¯ve fought back. Burn this place down.


    They drag me to the courtyard. My name is burned into a crate. Not Delmire. Just Isen.


    They¡¯ve erased me.


    My mother doesn¡¯t look at me. My cousins look right through me. Only Aelira speaks.


    ¡°He is still blood.¡±


    ¡°He is still rot,¡± my mother replies.


    They toss a cloak and waterskin at my feet like I¡¯m nothing.


    ¡°You will leave before dusk. Those at Deadreach take the unCalled.¡±


    The gates open. The wind cuts through me like a blade.


    I look back once. Aelira meets my gaze. She doesn¡¯t speak. She doesn¡¯t stop it.


    Then the gate slams shut.


    And I walk into the dark.

 Deadreach

    The gates slam shut behind me with a final, resounding thud. The sound echoes in my head as I stand there, staring at the closed, rusted iron. The world beyond is gone. The Delmire Manor, the family, the life I knew¡ªit''s all behind me now. All I have left is this chest, the weight of it heavy against my ribs.


    I don¡¯t know what to do. I can¡¯t even feel my feet on the ground. It¡¯s like I¡¯m floating, like I¡¯m not really here. I never thought I¡¯d end up like this. Thrown out like trash. Alone.


    I can hear voices in the distance, but I don¡¯t move. The air is thick with dust. The street in front of me is cracked and littered with broken bits of glass, empty bottles, and discarded scrap. People pass by, their eyes either too tired to care or too wary to get too close. I am nothing here. My magic is useless¡ªjust a weak gift, a curse I can¡¯t even control.


    The Uncalled. The ones they toss away. That¡¯s what I am now.


    Stupid power!


    The thought eats at me. My chest tightens, and I can¡¯t breathe.


    ¡°Hey, kid!¡±


    I jump, my heart leaping into my throat. A figure stands a few feet away, leaning against a rotting building. His clothes are torn, his face worn from years of living here. The sword on his belt is a dull, rusty mess.


    He eyes me up and down, taking in the chest I clutch tightly. ¡°You lost?¡±


    I open my mouth but nothing comes out. My voice is stuck in my throat, a sharp ache I can¡¯t swallow away. How am I supposed to talk to him? How am I supposed to ask for help?


    ¡°I¡­ I was exiled,¡± I manage to say, my voice shaking. ¡°From the Delmire family. They¡­ they sent me here.¡±


    The man just laughs, a hollow, humorless sound. ¡°Yeah, they all do. You¡¯re not the first, kid. Won¡¯t be the last. Welcome to Deadreach.¡±


    I don¡¯t know what to say.


    Deadreach.


    That¡¯s the name of this place. I can barely even process it. My heart is pounding so loudly I can¡¯t think straight. It¡¯s like everything is spinning. I¡¯m going to die here. I know it. I was already useless in the manor.


    Now I¡¯m just¡­ nothing.


    ¡°You¡¯re in for a rude awakening,¡± the man says, pushing off the wall. ¡°Deadreach doesn¡¯t care about your name, your magic, or your family. You want to survive here, you follow the rules. First rule: keep your head down.¡±


    I can barely focus on his words. My brain keeps flashing between the Zenith, where the Answered live in comfort, and this place. The Hollows. The lawless, brutal land outside the gates.


    Survive, I echo quietly.


    I¡¯m not going to survive here.


    How can I? I can¡¯t even walk through the streets without feeling like the world is closing in on me. I¡¯m a child, barely thirteen, thrown into this hellhole with nothing. Not even enough magic to protect myself.


    ¡°Don¡¯t trust anyone,¡± the man adds, stepping closer. ¡°Not even me. People here take what they want. If you want something, you fight for it.¡±


    I nod, not knowing what else to do. He turns to leave, but before he walks off, he looks back at me. ¡°And you won¡¯t get close to the Zenith. The guards there don¡¯t let the likes of you through. Not anymore.¡±


    Zenith. I can see it now¡ªthose high gates, the shining towers where the Answered live. Protected. Safe. I¡¯ll never get close.


    The thought settles in my chest like a heavy stone, weighing me down even more.


    I watch the man disappear into the crowd, his footsteps swallowed by the noise of the slums.


    The streets are filled with people just like me¡ªlost, discarded, and barely clinging to whatever scraps they have left. But they know how to survive. They¡¯ve been here longer.


    I feel the coldness of the air again, biting at my skin. I feel it like a thousand needles, all of it reminding me that I am alone.


    I keep moving, though every step feels heavier than the last. The weight of the chest digs into my shoulders, but it¡¯s the only thing I have left. I can¡¯t let it go. Not yet.


    I don¡¯t know where I¡¯m going, but I need to keep walking. I need to find somewhere to hide, somewhere safe, but I don¡¯t even know where that is. The thought of The Hollows is enough to make my stomach churn. That place, I know, is worse than Deadreach. I don¡¯t want to think about what happens to those who end up there.


    Suddenly, a rough hand grabs my shoulder from behind, spinning me around. Before I can even react, another hand grips my throat, shoving me against the nearest wall. I barely have time to suck in a breath before a sharp voice spits in my face.


    ¡°What do we have here? A little lost noble boy, thinking he''s worth something?¡±


    I struggle, gasping for air as I try to push the man away, but he¡¯s too strong. He slams my back into the stone, and a flash of pain shoots through my spine.


    ¡°Let me go!¡± I gasp, but he just laughs, pressing harder.


    ¡°Not gonna happen, pretty boy. You got something valuable on you?¡±


    I feel a surge of panic. My chest tightens, and for a moment, everything feels like it¡¯s closing in. I¡¯m helpless. I don¡¯t have anything. I¡¯m not even worth robbing.


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    The man laughs again, leaning in so close I can feel his rancid breath on my face. ¡°You¡¯re going to be a good little plaything, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    I thrash harder, my heart racing. But in the struggle, something inside me snaps¡ªsomething I can¡¯t control. A reflex, a desperation. I reach out and shove my hand against his arm, and before I can even process what¡¯s happening, I feel the mark form.


    I place my palm on his arm¡ªjust a touch, just a quick brush. A swirl of gray appears where my fingers meet his skin, a symbol that looks like a swirling vortex.


    He freezes. His grip loosens, and his eyes widen in confusion, staring at the mark. For a moment, neither of us moves.


    ¡°What the hell?¡± he mutters, taking a step back, but before I can fully react, the other men, the ones who must have been waiting nearby, close in.


    They kick me to the ground. My chest hits the dirt, and the world spins. Blood rushes to my head, and I can barely see as they start laughing, pulling at my clothes.


    ¡°Think you¡¯re worth something because you put a mark on me?¡± one of them sneers, pulling my arms back behind me as they continue their assault. ¡°What does it do? Huh?¡±


    The question stabs into me like a knife.


    What does it do? I don¡¯t know. It doesn¡¯t do anything. It¡¯s just a stupid mark, something I accidentally left on him. I wish it would do something, anything. But it doesn¡¯t. I don¡¯t even know why I did it.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t do anything!¡± I shout, my voice breaking as they slam me into the ground. ¡°I don¡¯t know what it is! It¡¯s just a mark! That¡¯s why I¡¯m here.¡±


    I¡¯m not strong enough to fight them off. I know it, feel it. I¡¯m too small, too weak. I won¡¯t make it. I can¡¯t.


    But as one of them grabs me by the hair and yanks my head up, he glares at me. ¡°Get up. Now. Eat it.¡± His voice is cold, venomous. He¡¯s holding something in his hand, and I can see it¡¯s disgusting¡ªshit. He forces it closer to my mouth.


    I gag. ¡°I won¡¯t¡­ I won¡¯t¡­¡±


    ¡°Do it!¡± he shouts, slamming his fist into my side. ¡°You need to learn¡ªyou ain''t from Zenith no more.¡± Pain explodes through my ribs, but I don¡¯t care. I can¡¯t let him make me eat that.


    Someone! Help!


    But no one is coming.


    With everything I have left, I hurl myself into them. One man stumbles, caught off guard, but it¡¯s not enough. Hands like vices seize me and slam me into the ground. My head hits stone, stars explode behind my eyes, and before I can move, the beating begins.


    Boots crash into my ribs, a savage rhythm of pain. One strikes my back¡ªsharp, jarring. Another fist caves into my stomach, curling me in on myself. My lungs seize; all I can taste is blood.


    My limbs twitch under the punishment. My ribs scream. My mind reels. Their laughter is a distant, jagged thing¡ªbut it''s the blows that own me.


    Someone drives a knee into my side and I hear a pop. Pain blossoms like fire down my leg. A hand grabs my hair and yanks my head up¡ªjust to slam it back down. Dirt grinds into the open cuts on my face.


    They strip what little I own: the chest, the cloak, anything they can take. I don''t even try to stop them anymore. I can''t. I¡¯m not even a person to them. Just a body to empty.


    By the time they¡¯re gone, I¡¯m a mess of bruises and broken sounds, half-conscious and gasping for breath, lying in the gutter like refuse left to rot.


    ***


    I don¡¯t know how long I''ve been lying here. Minutes. Hours. The world fades in and out like a dying flame. My fingers twitch. My vision blurs. I feel the blood drying on my skin, crusting into my shirt. I try to move¡ªtry to crawl¡ªbut my limbs don''t listen. I blink, and the night swallows me whole.


    Then a voice. Faint. Nearby.


    "Chest was heavy, too. Probably something valuable. Brat''s probably already dead. Could¡¯ve made something outta him. Maybe sold him to the brothels if he wasn¡¯t so mouthy."


    A laugh follows, sharp and cruel.


    "Yeah, but did you see that mark? Weird, huh? Looks like a damn tattoo. Thing won¡¯t come off. Been scrubbin¡¯ it for hours."


    Another voice grunts. "Told you not to touch him, Gav. That¡¯s what you get."


    I don''t know where they are. But I can hear them. My ears are ringing, but the words are clear¡ªas if they¡¯re right next to me. Something tugs at me, somewhere deep in my chest. A pull. A thread. I clutch at it with my mind, anything to stay tethered to this pain, this moment.


    I crawl, dragging myself across the cracked stone, leaving a smear of blood in my wake. An alley. Darkness. Somewhere to disappear.


    Sleep takes me again.


    When I wake, the light is gray, and the pain is duller. I ache, but I can move. That pull is still there¡ªfaint, but undeniable. Like a string tied to something far off, tugging gently.


    I follow it.


    Step by step, I limp through the narrow paths and rubble. The pull leads me to a warehouse, slouched between crumbling tenements. The windows are shattered. The door hangs loose on rusted hinges. I press myself against the side of the building and peek in.


    There they are.


    The men who beat me. Laughing. Drinking. Tossing around my chest like it¡¯s a toy.


    And then¡ª


    "Still got that freaky mark," the one called Gav mutters. "Hate the way it itches."


    I freeze.


    I can hear them. Through the wall. No magic runes, no spells. Just¡­ the mark.


    I know where he is. I know what he¡¯s saying.


    My heart pounds.


    It does do something.


    It had to be the mark. Nothing else made sense. But how? Why now? Why me?


    I should be shaking. But I¡¯m not. The fear¡¯s gone. Only this cold clarity remains.


    Something dark curls inside me. Not just pain. Not just rage. Something deeper¡ªvenomous and cold. A realization: I can feel him. I know exactly where he is. Like a thread tied from my chest to his spine, pulling, guiding, whispering.


    They think I¡¯m dead?


    Let them.


    Let them think the brat didn¡¯t make it.


    Because I¡¯m not just going to survive.


    I¡¯m going to kill them.


    And not just them.


    I see my mother¡¯s face¡ªthe tight lips, the eyes that never looked at me with love. Only shame. Disgust. Like every time I entered the room, I dragged dirt in behind me. And my uncle¡ªthe way he looked at me when my Calling came. Like a broken tool. His sneer as he signed the exile order burned itself into my mind, as if I were a blemish they could scrub from the Delmire name.


    They cast me out to die.


    And maybe part of me did.


    But what crawled into this alley isn¡¯t what they buried. It¡¯s something new. Something sharpened.


    Every kick. Every insult. Every whispered mockery in the halls of Delmire Manor. Every fake smile and cold meal. Every betrayal.


    They will all pay.


    I lower myself behind the wall, breathing through my teeth, eyes fixed on the warehouse like a predator waiting for the dark.


    They left a mark on me.


    But I left one on them.


    The one who tried to make me eat shit!


    I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. The memory flashes¡ªhis filthy hand shoving that rot into my face, the laughter, the stench, the fist slamming into my ribs. They wanted to humiliate me. Break me. Make me something less than human.


    But now I know where he is. I know what he''s saying. I feel him like a sickness under my skin. The thread tugs, and all I want is to follow it¡ªto close the distance, to make him feel just a piece of what he gave me.


    He thinks I¡¯m just some brat from a noble house. A mistake. A joke.


    Let¡¯s see how long he laughs when I¡¯m standing over him.


    ***


    Above, on a crumbling balcony half-swallowed by smoke and shadow, a figure leaned on rusted rails.


    One hand idly twirled a hook-shaped charm between his fingers. A soft smile curled on his lips, though it never reached his eyes.


    "Still breathing," the man muttered, voice a rasp against the wind. "Tough little bastard."


    A breeze fluttered the edge of his coat, revealing scars like coils across his arms¡ªmemories inked in flesh. Below, the boy bled quietly into the street.


    "Marked, huh?"


    He pocketed the charm.


    "Interesting."


    A pause.


    Then, almost to himself: "We''ll see if you can survive this place, kid."

 More Than A Mouth

    The hunger sets in by the third day.


    I don''t know how long I slept, how long I bled or shivered in that alley, but when I finally crawl back into the broken daylight of Deadreach, there''s a dull, gnawing ache inside me that won¡¯t stop. It¡¯s more than pain¡ªit¡¯s a slow death.


    I scavenge for food. Trash bins. Rat-chewed corners. A crust of bread soaked in piss. I gag, but I eat it. I have to. My stomach burns and churns, my throat dry and cracked from days without water.


    The people of Deadreach don¡¯t care. They move past me like I¡¯m nothing. No one looks me in the eye. No one stops. They¡¯ve all seen too many like me¡ªkids dropped into the filth to rot.


    At night, I find a corner to sleep in, tucked beneath broken stone and rusted tin. The wind bites, and I dream of warm kitchens, soft sheets, and the heavy silence of the Delmire halls. But when I wake, all I feel is stone under my back and something crawling near my leg.


    I see others like me¡ªdiscarded, half-dead, starved¡ªbut they¡¯re older. Harder. Some sell scraps. Some sell themselves. I watch a boy no older than me disappear into a shed with a man twice his size. I hear sounds. I turn away.


    The thought crosses my mind.


    Maybe I could¡ª


    No.


    Not yet.


    I¡¯d rather die hungry than let them take that from me.


    But each day it gets harder. The pain becomes familiar, like a friend I can¡¯t shake. My fingers tremble constantly. My lips crack and bleed. Every now and then, someone kicks at me, calls me filth, tells me to move. I curl tighter, trying to think¡ªtrying to survive.


    The mark. It has to be useful. It has to be worth something. I know where he is. I can hear him. There has to be a way to use that.


    Anything.


    I won''t last like this.


    And yet, I keep waking up. That part surprises me.


    Maybe it¡¯s spite. Maybe it¡¯s whatever that dark thing is inside me now. Maybe it¡¯s the memory of the warehouse and the men who thought they broke me.


    I¡¯m still breathing.


    Let them see how long that lasts.


    But even spite has limits.


    I try to steal from a vendor¡¯s cart¡ªjust a bruised apple, nothing more. He catches me before I can run. Slams my head against the stall and roars for the others. They drag me into the alley. Kick me. Spit on me. Tell me they''ll cut off my hands next time. One of them shoves a blade under my chin and tells me there¡¯s easier ways to earn a bite. Easier ways to be useful.


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    I crawl away, ribs screaming. Vomit in the corner of a shattered stairwell. I can barely stand.


    By the seventh day, I¡¯m shaking so bad I can¡¯t even hold the crust of bread I manage to dig out of a trash heap. It slips from my fingers twice before I can bring it to my mouth. Every swallow feels like gravel in my throat, and I can¡¯t tell if I¡¯m chewing or just grinding my teeth from the cold.


    Then fever hits. My skin burns, my head spins, and everything becomes sound and shadow. I think I see my mother¡¯s face, twisted in disgust. I think I hear my uncle saying, ''You were never worth the name.'' I think I hear the man I marked¡ªGav¡ªlaughing again, talking about the chest, the mark.


    I want to move. I want to fight. I want to rip something apart with my bare hands just so the ache in my gut stops being about hunger or shame. But all I do is shiver.


    I can¡¯t tell what¡¯s worse¡ªthe ache in my gut or the way my thoughts keep looping. How long can I keep this up? How long before I¡¯m just another corpse behind a barrel, another nameless face rotting in the alleys?


    There¡¯s a shadow nearby. I feel it more than I see it. Heavy. Still. Watching.


    And then a voice¡ªlow, like gravel dragged across stone.


    ¡°Still breathing.¡±


    I blink, barely able to lift my head. A silhouette approaches¡ªcoat swaying, boots scraping softly over the broken stone. The edge of a charm swings from his belt, catching a sliver of light. His face is rough, older, carved by time and hard choices. His eyes are sharp. Unforgiving.


    It takes me a second to recognize him. The man from the gates. The one who told me to keep my head down. The first voice I heard when I crossed into this gutter of a world.


    He hasn¡¯t tried to kill me. That alone puts him higher than most.


    ¡°You''re a tough little bastard,¡± he says. ¡°Didn¡¯t expect you to last this long.¡±


    He squats beside me, and I feel the weight of him, the authority, the stillness. Not pity. Not even curiosity. Just assessment.


    ¡°Most kids would¡¯ve sold themselves by now,¡± he says. ¡°Hell, I did once. Thought it was the only way.¡±


    I try to speak, but my throat is raw. Nothing comes out.


    He studies me for a long moment. ¡°But you didn¡¯t. Still haven¡¯t. Even now.¡±


    A crust of bread drops onto the stone near my head. I flinch at the sound.


    ¡°You want to eat?¡± he says. ¡°Then show me you¡¯re more than a mouth.¡±


    He stands. Doesn¡¯t wait for a reply.


    ¡°Rest while you can,¡± he mutters. ¡°You¡¯ll need it.¡±


    And then he¡¯s gone.


    But the bread stays.


    And for the first time in days, I eat without begging, bartering, or clawing it from the garbage.


    That night, I don¡¯t sleep so much as drift¡ªbarely conscious, the crust of bread heavy in my gut. It isn¡¯t comfort. It¡¯s fuel. Just enough to think straight again.


    The next morning, I¡¯m weaker than ever, but something is different. Not in my body. In the air. Like I¡¯m being watched again. Judged.


    So I try.


    I try again, with information. It¡¯s all I have left. I approach a merchant near the corner stalls, tell him I know where a gang of thieves is hiding out. Tell him I can hear what they say, even from across the city. He gives me a long stare, then bursts out laughing. Calls me cracked. Threatens to call the dogs on me.


    I try another¡ªan older woman fencing stolen goods out of a shack behind a crumbling tenement. I whisper names, places, things the marked man said. She doesn¡¯t even look up from her ledger.


    ¡°Try selling lies somewhere else,¡± she says. ¡°And next time, don¡¯t stink of rot.¡±


    I stumble away, humiliated. Useless. But I still hear Gav. Still hear him talking about the chest. Still don¡¯t hear fear in his voice.


    I mark someone else¡ªa pickpocket this time. Just to test it. Later, I hear him whispering in a back alley, talking about the route he runs, the fences he sells to.


    It¡¯s real. It¡¯s dangerous.


    And I¡¯m the only one who knows what it can become.


    He shows up again the next evening.


    Doesn¡¯t say a word at first. Just leans against the wall, arms folded, eyes like knives. Watching me like I''m a question he''s still deciding whether to answer.


    He tilts his head, like he¡¯s already regretting what he¡¯s about to say.


    Then, finally: ¡°I¡¯ve got a job for you.¡±

 Hooks

    I don''t ask what the job is.


    Not because I''m brave. Not because I trust him. Because I¡¯m starving, and starving things don''t get to be careful.


    He hands me a slip of paper, creased and stained with something brown. I don¡¯t ask what. There¡¯s a name scribbled in jagged ink and a place I¡¯ve never heard of.


    ¡°Find him,¡± the man says. ¡°He owes me. You bring me the message. Nothing else. You don¡¯t talk to him. You don¡¯t take anything. You just watch, wait, and bring me back what he says.¡±


    I nod. My legs shake when I stand. I don¡¯t have boots anymore¡ªsomeone took them while I slept days ago. My feet leave blood behind as I walk.


    It takes most of the day just to figure out where Bonewalk is. Most people ignore me. One man spits. Eventually, a girl with half her teeth and a long scar across her scalp takes pity¡ªor thinks it¡¯s funny¡ªand points me toward a sagging alleyway framed by rusted beams and silence.


    ¡°That¡¯s Bonewalk,¡± she says. ¡°If you¡¯re not dead already, you will be.¡±


    The place is worse than I imagined. The air stinks like piss and burned meat. Every doorway feels like a mouth, waiting to swallow the wrong footstep.


    I ask around, careful, quiet, always ready to run. I drop the name once. A man with no eyebrows and a butcher¡¯s apron glances toward a tower missing half its face. ¡°Top floor,¡± he says. ¡°If he¡¯s not dead yet, he¡¯s there.¡±


    The guy¡¯s a local power¡ªone of the ones who rules this dump. Nobody says that, but the fear in their eyes is loud enough.


    I crouch. I study.


    Eventually, he steps out. Thin. Hollow-eyed. Dangerous. I trail him through the alleys, pretending to scavenge, hiding every time he stops.


    When he leans over to light a cig from a barrel fire, I get close. Close enough to bump him.


    His hand slams into my chest and throws me back.


    ¡°You touch me again, rat, I skin you.¡±


    He kicks me in the ribs¡ªhard. I choke down a cry. But the mark¡¯s there. It worked.


    I crawl away, bruised, dizzy¡ªbut I can hear him.


    I wait. Listen. Track every word, every insult, every deal. I don¡¯t know what half of it means, but I remember it all.


    That night, the man from the gate finds me before I find him.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°Well?¡± he says.


    I give him everything I heard. Word for word. Nothing left out.


    His smile is sharper this time.


    ¡°Not bad,¡± he says. ¡°You think fast for something half-dead.¡±


    He crouches down, eye level.


    ¡°Call me Hooks,¡± he says. ¡°That¡¯s the name that matters. For now.¡±


    But that night, all I know is the man in front of me feeds me, uses me, and maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªneeds me.


    He drops a crust of bread in my lap.


    ¡°Eat. Then rest. Tomorrow you¡¯ll breathe for me again.¡±


    ***


    I sleep against the wall where he left me. If you can call it sleep. Every sound jolts me half-awake. Every cough feels like it could crack a rib.


    By morning, I¡¯m stiff, freezing, and starving all over again.


    But there¡¯s something new.


    Another note.


    "Watch the butcher near Razor Bend. Get close. I want what he says after the sun sets."


    No instructions on how. No food. Just a command.


    I drag myself through the alleys. Razor Bend¡¯s worse than Bonewalk. The buildings lean like they want to fall on you. Most of the doors are barricaded from the inside. The smell of iron and something rotting coats the air.


    The butcher¡¯s easy to find. He¡¯s loud. Red apron. A laugh that sounds like someone choking on gravel. People treat him like he¡¯s royalty out here. His shop¡¯s just an open counter bolted to the frame of a collapsed warehouse. No one steals from him. I can see why¡ªhe¡¯s built like a wall and keeps a cleaver in one hand even when he¡¯s counting coin.


    Getting close isn¡¯t going to be easy.


    I stop. My eyes flicker around the street, watching every movement, listening to every sound. My ribs hurt with every shallow breath, but I push through, waiting for my moment.


    Then I find my moment¡ªhe¡¯s arguing with a vendor, distracted. I walk past like I¡¯m just another hungry stray, too broken to matter.


    When I brush against his elbow, he barely glances down.


    But he snarls, ¡°Watch it, filth.¡±


    I don¡¯t stop. I don¡¯t run. I just keep limping.


    The mark sinks in.


    By the time I make it around the corner, I can already hear him. Loud, clear, like he¡¯s speaking beside me.


    ¡°Tell her the crates stay until I see coin. I¡¯m not losing fingers over some cursed junk she smuggled in.¡±


    ¡°If she wants Bishop¡¯s blessing, she can come ask for it herself.¡±


    Bishop.


    That name again. I¡¯ve heard it a few times now¡ªwhispers in alleys, muttered curses, fear-soaked threats. The King of Deadreach, they say. Not a man. A shadow with eyes everywhere.


    And the strangest thing?


    They say he¡¯s Blessed. Everyone in Zenith dreams of becoming one¡ªcalled by something higher, gifted with power that bends the world. Almost no one ever does. The Blessed are kings, heroes, nightmares.


    But what¡¯s a Blessed doing in Deadreach?


    I crouch behind a rusted pipe, shivering and bleeding into my sleeve, and listen. I remember everything.


    Because Hooks will ask for all of it. And maybe, if I¡¯m lucky, feed me.


    I wait until night deepens, then head back the way I came¡ªslow, quiet, hobbling.


    Hooks is already there, standing in the same spot like he never moved. Maybe he didn¡¯t.


    I repeat the butcher¡¯s words, each one like gravel in my throat. I give him everything.


    He nods once. No praise. Just acknowledgment.


    ¡°Bishop will be happy to hear this,¡± he mutters¡ªmore to himself, maybe, but loud enough for me to catch.


    Then he looks at me. Just for a second.


    ¡°Good.¡±


    He tosses me a scrap of meat and bread wrapped in cloth. Not much, but more than yesterday.


    And without another word, he vanishes into the dark.


    I sit in the alley and eat with fingers that barely work.


    It¡¯s not safety. It¡¯s not warmth.


    But it¡¯s enough to keep breathing.


    And that means tomorrow, I crawl again.


    And maybe next time, I bite.