Marked
Varka stared at the girl crouched in the cage.
His first thought was simple, clinical.
Looks like this one has piqued the interest of a Great Old One.
The thought came unbidden, heavy. A truth he would rather not have voiced, even inside his own head. His jaw tightened, and his left hand twitched at his side—small, involuntary.
The air smelled of iron and damp wood. Each breath dragged the copper stench of blood deeper into his lungs. The silence was broken only by the faint drip of liquid from the wagon, pattering against mud, steady as a clock marking time.
Varka's gaze lingered. The girl's head was bowed, hair hanging like a curtain, her frame too still. For a long moment neither moved, but he could still feel it—that presence. Not eyes in the ordinary sense. Not sight. A vast, cold regard pressing against his back, weighing on him.
His lips moved at last, his voice low, deliberate.
"Your name, girl?"
No response. Not even a flinch.
Almost as if she hadn't heard him.
Shock, Varka reasoned. A frail child watching the world shredded apart… silence is mercy.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound closer to a sigh than he'd meant. His shoulders rose and fell, not with weariness but with something more dangerous—hesitation. This was not how he had expected the day to unfold.
A child, untouched, marked by something that should never have noticed her.
That was troublesome.
His fingers flexed once before curling back into a fist.
---
Bootsteps behind him, heavy with irritation.
"What the hell is taking so long?" Snezna's voice cut into the cage's silence.
Varka didn't answer. He simply lifted a finger, pointing.
Snezna frowned, stepped closer, and followed the gesture. His nose wrinkled at the scent that still clung to the cloth-draped wagon. He was no stranger to death, but the thick tang of blood here carried something fouler—something that made the air cling to his throat.
Then his eyes found the girl.
For a heartbeat, his face betrayed nothing.
And then, quieter: "Why was she spared?"
Varka's answer was steady, but the depth of his voice betrayed weight.
"She's been marked. By a Great One."
Snezna's breath hitched. His head snapped toward him. "What?!" His voice almost cracked. "We can't deal with that. Not now. Cosmic horrors are beyond our reach, Varka. Beyond everyone's reach."
Varka's gaze stayed fixed on the girl, but his knuckles whitened where his hand rested on the wooden frame.
"I know. But we are not leaving her for the Empire."
Silence stretched. Snezna opened his mouth to argue, but then caught the look on Varka's face—cold, implacable, the kind that ended debates before they began.
His jaw clenched. He dragged a hand across his own face, palm scraping against dried blood.
"Fine. We'll take her. But if anything goes wrong—this is on you."
Varka gave a slight nod. No triumph, no satisfaction. Just inevitability.
---
He moved into the cage. The mud sucked at his boots, and the air inside was thicker, suffocating. He crouched before the girl, movements deliberate, and lifted her chin with two fingers.
Her skin was clammy. Her breathing shallow. Eyes closed, lashes trembling faintly. Alive.
Good enough.
Still, his hand lingered against her cheek longer than necessary. The faint tremor in his finger betrayed him, but he did not pull away. For an instant his thoughts warred—leave her—take her—but the decision had already been made when he first named the truth.
He let go, straightened, and turned his back to her.
"Carry her. We're leaving. Now."
Snezna hesitated before stepping forward. His hands hovered awkwardly, then slid beneath the girl's weight. She was light, far too light, and as he lifted her the air seemed to grow heavier. His face stayed hard, but his grip was tighter than necessary.
The anxiety bled into his movements. His shoulders hunched a little too much, his strides uneven as though the child weighed a hundred pounds more than she did.
Varka noticed. He said nothing.
---
They stepped out of the blood-slick wagon, into the clearing where the air seemed mercifully thinner. The forest loomed, windless, trees black against the dim sky.
And then—
The horn.
Low, drawn-out, mournful. A sound that crawled into the bones, hollowing them out.
Both men froze.
It was not a signal for them. It was not meant to be heard by human ears at all.
And yet, they knew it.
Recognition settled in their expressions—not surprise, not confusion, but the sick weight of memory. A sound they had prayed never to hear again.
The horn blew a second time, long and deep, echoing across the forest.
Snezna adjusted the girl in his arms, too quickly, betraying his nerves. His jaw tightened.
"…Varka."
Varka's eyes never left the treeline.
"I hear it."
His hand twitched again, ever so slightly.
---