The wind sliced against her face as she ran.
Cold and sharp, it whipped her hair back, stung her eyes, and carried the sound of heavy boots pounding through the forest behind her.
Crunch. Snap. Shouting.
They were close.
Aira didn't dare look back.
Her breath came in fast, ragged bursts, her chest tightening with every step. Branches slapped her arms, thorns scraped her legs, and the dry leaves beneath her feet cracked like fire with every panicked stride.
She didn't know who they were—not really. But they had masks, weapons, and the kind of silence that spoke of training. She'd seen them once, through a sliver in the window before the house burned.
Now they were chasing her.
The ground sloped suddenly, and her ankle twisted. She stumbled but didn't fall. Couldn't fall.
Keep going.
The forest blurred around her, trees turning into streaks of black and grey. Her lungs burned. Her heart pounded against her ribs like it wanted out.
She wasn't going to make it.
But she had to.
A branch snagged her sleeve and yanked. She tore free, losing a strip of fabric and a streak of skin. Pain bloomed down her arm, but she bit it back.
Somewhere behind her, a voice barked an order.
Then another.
She veered left, off the narrow trail, into thicker brush. Her legs thrashed through brambles, her breath sobbing out of her chest.
Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, barely enough to light her way. Just enough to catch the shimmer of stone ahead.
A wall. No—a gate.
She burst through it.
A graveyard.
She stumbled over a cracked path, falling to her knees behind a tilted headstone. Her palms slapped cold stone and wet moss. Her fingers dug into earth.
Silence.
No footsteps.
No shouting.
Just the wild hammer of her own heartbeat.
She pressed a trembling hand to her ribs.
The mark burned.
Faintly.
Like something inside her was waking up.
The wind shifted.
Someone was here.
But for some reasons her instinct told her she was safe.
She rose slowly, her soaked dress clinging to her skin, her breath still uneven.
He stepped into the clearing like he belonged to the night itself. Black coat. Gloves. Tall. Unhurried.
And he didn't wear a mask.
His eyes found her instantly, as if he'd known exactly where she'd be.
Her voice shook. "Are you one of them?"
He didn't answer.
He stepped closer.
Leaves crunched beneath his boots. The air between them turned heavier, colder.
She took a step back.
"I didn't do anything," she whispered.
Still, he said nothing.
Then his eyes flicked down.
To her ribs.
To the place where the mark pulsed faintly under her skin.
His lips parted—not in surprise. In recognition.
He reached up, unfastened the clasp of his coat, and let it fall open just enough to reveal the skin beneath his collarbone.
The same mark.
Burned into him.
Aira's knees weakened.
"You have it too," she said.
His voice was low. Steady. "I wasn't sent to bring you in."
She blinked. "Then why are you here?"
"To see if you were real."
He turned.
More shouts came from the woods.
"They'll find you soon," he said.
"Wait—who are you?"
He looked back over his shoulder.
"it doesn't matter , focus on making it out of here alive."
Then he disappeared into the trees.
And Aira stood in the middle of the graveyard, shaking, heart tearing itself apart in her chest.
Above her, the moon passed behind a cloud.
And her mark—still glowing beneath her skin—began to throb.
She didn't stay.
The graveyard felt like a trap—too open. Her pulse hadn't slowed, and her instincts screamed louder than her exhaustion.
So she ran again.
Not blindly. This time, she moved low, careful, slipping through the shadows agilely.
She found a road, broken and old, swallowed by weeds. It curved downhill toward a distant town. Faint yellow lights blinked through the trees like dying fireflies.
She followed them.
Every sound set her on edge—a snapping twig, a distant howl, even her own breathing.
By the time she reached the outskirts of the town, her limbs were numb, her thoughts fractured.
Aira climbed into an abandoned shed behind what looked like an old greenhouse. The wooden door creaked, then gave.
Inside, it was dust and silence. Just enough cover to collapse behind a rusted metal cabinet.
She curled against the wall, jacket pulled tight around her, knees pressed to her chest.
And waited.
For footsteps. For dreams. For the mark to stop burning.
But the mark didn't stop.
It pulsed faintly beneath her ribs, like it had found something to echo with.
Him.
Whoever he was.
She hadn't seen his face clearly. Only fragments. Pale eyes. A mark like hers.
No one else had ever had it.
Not in all the stories.
Not even her mother.
Aira didn't sleep that night. Not really. She drifted in and out, heart still half-trapped in the forest.
And when morning came, it wasn't warmth that woke her—it was the silence.
Too quiet.
She rose slowly, legs stiff. Her body ached. Dirt clung to her skin, dried blood marking her sleeve.
She pushed open the shed door.
And paused.
Someone had left food on the step.
A thermos. A granola bar. A folded jacket.
No note. No footprints.
Just proof that someone knew where she was.