The hunt began before dawn.
The cultists moved like smoke through the trees, their chants gone quiet now—only whispers, only the rustle of feet and blades. They hunted not for glory, but for blood. The forest carried their presence like a fever; birds fell silent, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Zeke knew it before anyone said a word. The mark on his chest throbbed again, faint but steady, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own. It pulsed whenever the cult drew near. The others couldn't feel it—but he could. And that meant they could feel him too.
He stood watch on a ridge above the camp, the dawn mist curling around his boots. His rifle hung across his shoulder, but he hadn't fired it in hours. Ammunition was too precious. One bullet left in the chamber. Maybe two, if luck decided to turn generous again.
Down below, the survivors were packing what little they had left. Seraphine moved among them, armor stripped down to bare plates, her sword always within arm's reach. The wounded had grown fewer—not because they healed, but because they stopped breathing.
Zeke turned his gaze to the horizon. The valley was still dark, the light too weak to cut through the fog. He saw movement in the trees far off—a shimmer of something pale. For a moment he thought it was morning dew. Then he saw the red glint of torches.
He spat into the dirt and walked down the slope. "They're close."
Seraphine didn't ask how he knew. She just nodded. "Then we move now."
They broke camp fast, no fire, no sound. The forest floor was soft and deep with ash. Each step sank with a wet sound, muffled by leaves and rot. They stayed off the main paths, following the river instead, keeping to the shadows.
Hours passed like that—slow, careful, breath by breath. The air never lost its chill.
By midday, they found a ravine and followed it north. It gave them cover from the high ground and the sky, but it also boxed them in tight. Seraphine didn't like it, but they had no choice.
Zeke walked beside her, one hand pressed against his chest. The mark kept pulsing, steady and patient. He could almost feel the direction it pulled—west, maybe northwest. Toward the mountains.
"They're tracking us," he muttered.
Seraphine frowned. "How?"
He hesitated, then said it plain. "Through me."
Her eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"The mark—it's not just decoration. Every time it flares, I feel them getting closer. Like it's calling to them. Like it wants them to find me."
She cursed under her breath. "So we're leading them."
"Looks that way."
She stopped walking, hands on her hips, jaw tight. "Then we split. You draw them off—"
"Not happening."
"Zeke—"
"Not again," he cut in, his tone hard. "I've played the decoy once. Nearly died for it. We stick together this time."
She stared at him, then gave a short nod. "Then we find a way to hide you."
They moved again, deeper into the ravine. The rocks rose higher on either side, slick with moss and shadow. The soldiers behind them whispered prayers or curses; it was hard to tell the difference anymore.
As they made camp for the night, Seraphine set sentries at every bend of the ravine. The river whispered beside them, low and dark. Zeke sat near the edge, hands clasped, head bowed. The mark on his chest glowed faintly through his shirt, like an ember that refused to die.
He thought of the dragon—those eyes like twin suns behind storm clouds, the voice that crawled inside his mind. Break my chains… and I'll send you home.
He didn't know if it had been a promise or a curse.
Seraphine sat beside him, silent at first. The firelight flickered across her face, making the scars look deeper. "You've changed," she said finally.
Zeke gave a humorless smile. "Hard not to."
"No. I mean… it's in your eyes. There's something behind them now. Something watching."
He didn't answer.
They listened to the wind howl through the stones. Somewhere distant, an owl cried.
Then—a scream.
Everyone froze.
It came from the north edge of camp, short and sharp, then cut off like a rope snapping.
Seraphine was already on her feet, sword drawn. "Sentry post!" she barked. Two men ran ahead, vanishing into the dark.
Zeke followed fast, revolver in hand, the mark on his chest now burning. They reached the post—a small ledge above the ravine, overlooking the forest. The sentry was gone. Only blood remained, splattered across the rocks.
Zeke crouched, fingers brushing the ground. Still warm.
"Tracks," he muttered. "They came from above. Ropes or hooks, maybe."
Seraphine's eyes scanned the cliffs. "They're getting bolder."
A whistle split the air. Not wind—metal. A dagger flew from the dark, embedding itself in the rock inches from her head.
"Down!" Zeke shoved her aside as arrows rained from the ridge. The cultists were upon them, dropping like shadows from the cliffs. Dozens. Maybe more.
"Form the line!" Seraphine shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos.
Steel met steel. The ravine erupted into violence.
Zeke fired once, twice—the revolver bucked in his hand. Two cultists dropped, but more replaced them. He swung his knife, parried a blade, kicked another man into the river. They fought close and fast, the clash of metal echoing off the stone walls.
The mark on his chest burned hotter, feeding something inside him—a surge of strength, wild and foreign. He felt his senses sharpen, his movements faster, his strikes heavier. He didn't question it. Not yet.
Seraphine fought like a storm, her sword flashing in arcs of silver and flame. Every swing left another cultist bleeding in the mud. But there were too many.
A horn sounded again, and the attackers pulled back—melting into the dark as quickly as they came.
Zeke stood panting, blood on his coat, smoke in his lungs. The survivors regrouped, counting their dead. Three missing. Two wounded bad.
"Three?" Seraphine echoed, scanning the faces. "Who?"
"Eran's gone," one of the soldiers said—a young woman with a cut across her cheek. "The kid with the scar. They dragged him off during the fight."
Zeke's stomach turned cold. Eran—barely seventeen, barely a soldier. The boy had carried their water, fixed their gear, smiled even when no one else could.
Seraphine swore under her breath. "They'll use him for sacrifice."
Zeke's hands clenched around his knife. "Then we're going after him."
She turned sharply. "You're in no condition—"
"I ain't asking permission."
She stared at him. "If they're tracking you through that mark, walking into their camp is suicide."
Zeke met her gaze, his voice flat. "Then I guess I'll die trying."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The wind moved through the ravine, carrying the smell of blood and river water.
Finally, Seraphine exhaled. "At dawn," she said. "We move at dawn."
Zeke nodded, wiping blood from his knife. The firelight caught the mark on his chest—it flickered once, as if it understood.
Above them, the cultists' torches flickered in the darkness, moving through the trees like hunting stars.
And somewhere beyond that, faint but unmistakable, came the distant, rhythmic chanting of a ritual beginning.