The first light of dawn crept over the Voss farmstead, spreading a cold gray veil that failed to warm the crystalline frost clinging to the fields.
Elias Voss stood in the kitchen with the tin containing Mara's ashes cradled in his hands. The container felt substantial against his palms, not just metal and the remains of his mother, but the physical manifestation of his loss, the final evidence of a life concluded too abruptly.
He glanced at Daniel, his father, slumped in a chair by the hearth with an empty whiskey bottle resting at his feet.
The man's uneven snores cut through the morning calm, testament to a night spent subduing grief with alcohol.
Elias harbored no judgment. He'd craved the same oblivion, but sleep had evaded him, interrupted by vivid recollections that jolted him awake throughout the night.
He knew precisely where Mara belonged. Not confined to a shelf accumulating dust, but beneath the ancient oak tree marking the property's boundary.
Elias retrieved a shovel from the barn, its wooden handle pressing into his calloused palms and made his way through the morning chill.
The earth beneath the oak resisted his efforts, hardened by the late autumn frost. Each impact of the shovel sent reverberations through his arms, the frozen ground seemingly reluctant to create space for her.
But Elias persisted with characteristic determination, a trait Mara had often noted. "You're a mule, kid," she would say, tousling his hair even after he'd grown as tall as her. The recollection pierced him anew, driving him to dig with increased intensity, perspiration mingling with tears he made no attempt to wipe away.
His mind filled with memories of her as he worked.
She had been the family's foundation, the one who taught him the proper grip for a knife, how to create wards and all the necessary things a hunter should know. Now she existed only as ash, and he remained, isolated in his grief.
The excavation finally reached adequate depth. Elias knelt, placing the tin carefully into the earth, his fingers lingering on the cold metal surface.
"Rest easy, Mother," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion and barely audible.
"You deserve it." He covered the tin methodically with soil, compacting it with deliberate care, then rose to his feet while brushing dirt from his knees.
The oak stood imposing above him, its bare branches a silent observer to his farewell.
As Elias stepped back, unexpected and intense heat flared on his inner forearm, reminiscent of a brand pressing into his skin.
He gasped while clutching his arm and pulled his sleeve upward.
There, embedded in his flesh, appeared a mark; a small silver sigil approximately the size of a coin with star-like projections.
It emitted a subtle glow, luminescent and otherworldly, pulsating in rhythm with his accelerating heartbeat.
"What the hell..." Elias muttered, examining the mark with his fingertip. The burning sensation had already subsided, disappearing as quickly as it had manifested though the luminescence remained, subtle yet unmistakable.
He attempted to rub it away half-expecting it to dissolve like fresh ink but it remained fixed, now an intrinsic part of him.
The sigil gleamed in the weak morning light, and momentarily, Elias perceived a shift in his surroundings as though the atmosphere itself had developed awareness.
He surveyed the area noting the farmstead's stillness.
Nothing moved and no breeze disturbed the branches, yet the mark possessed a vitality, a quiet vibration beneath his skin.
Its origin eluded him, perhaps a lingering consequence from their last hunt or some residual effect from the crash, but it carried significance beyond his comprehension.
He pulled his sleeve down concealing it from view with discomfort spreading through him. This occurrence wasn't arbitrary.
Elias turned toward the house with the shovel in his grasp. He would decipher its meaning eventually. For now, he needed to continue functioning, to breathe, to embody the Voss that Mara had shaped him to become.
Returning to the farmstead, Elias entered the kitchen.
Daniel had awakened, hunched over a chipped coffee mug and his eyes reddened and unfocused. The atmosphere carried the lingering scents of alcohol and unspoken sorrow.
"You were out early," Daniel commented, his voice coarse and his gaze fixed on the mug.
Elias positioned the shovel against the wall, hesitating before responding. "Buried her ashes. Under the oak."
Daniel acknowledged with a curt nod and sipped his coffee. "Good. She'd like that."
Silence expanded between them, dense with unspoken emotions.
Elias considered revealing the mark to Daniel, showing his sleeve and demanding explanations; his father possessed greater hunting experience, had witnessed more supernatural phenomena, potentially held knowledge about its significance.
But the words remained unspoken and restrained by an intuitive sense that this represented his personal challenge, his enigma to resolve.
Instead, he sat across from Daniel, the wooden chair producing a complaint under his weight.
His thoughts raced; visions of the crash, the power rush from the coyote hunt, the unusual dreams that had pursued him.
Now this mark, glowing like a celestial body beneath his clothing.
The situation overwhelmed him, generating countless questions without apparent answers, yet he refused to surrender to confusion.
"We need to check the traps," Elias announced, maintaining a steady voice despite his internal turmoil. "Make sure nothing's been tampering with them."
Daniel raised his eyes, meeting his son's gaze directly for the first time that morning.
Something unspoken passed between them, perhaps pride or recognition of the fortitude sustaining Elias. "Yeah," he agreed while pushing aside his mug. "Let's do that."
They stood together stepping into the cold air and the farmstead extending around them. Walking toward the forest, Elias glanced at his sleeve, aware of the mark pressing faintly against his skin.
He didn't comprehend its purpose, not yet, but sensed its influence, a connection linking him to something greater, something set in motion by Mara's death.
For the present moment, responsibilities demanded attention: traps required inspection, the farm needed protection and life continued its progression.
The remaining questions would find answers eventually, regardless of his preparedness.
--------------------
Miles from the Voss farmstead, in a room cluttered with stacked books and crumpled papers, a man bent over his desk with his pen moving steadily across aging parchment.
The narrative flowed through him, words accumulating rapidly; Elias Voss, the young man bereft of his mother, the hunter formed through suffering, a silent blade.
He observed the script appearing before him with his consciousness partially immersed in the unfolding tale.
Then he detected it, a distinct sensation on his own arm, it was subtle but unmistakable.
He paused mid-sentence with his pen suspended and rolled back his sleeve.
There, on his inner forearm, appeared a mark similar to Elias's, though more mature and its symbols more elaborate, extending outward in complex patterns.
Its illumination had diminished, fading gradually, the silver radiance reduced to a fraction of its former intensity.
Chuck released a prolonged breath, the sound laden with resignation. "It's time already," he said quietly, his voice carrying lives of accumulated knowledge. He reclined in his chair, studying the mark as memories were surfacing in his consciousness.
Closing his eyes, he extended his awareness through an inexplicable connection linked to the mark. He visualized Elias standing beside the oak with soil covering his hands and the fresh sigil gleaming on his arm.
'It seems the cosmic progression had advanced once more.' He thought.
"There's still so much to write," Chuck murmured while retrieving his pen.