Marked

Chapter 2

I find the target by the edge of a crumbling cliff just past dawn, crouched low in a patch of gorse, breath misting as they scan the valley below. They think they’ve lost me.

They haven’t.

I’ve been tracking them for three days. Longer than most. This one’s clever—moves at odd hours, avoids the roads, sleeps in trees. But the mark still calls to me, low and steady. Like a heartbeat I can’t forget. A thread that pulls no matter how far they run.

I don't know their name. I don’t want to.

Names make it harder later, when the blood dries on my hands and I have to live with the silence that follows.

The first time I killed, I threw up after. That was a hundred years ago. Now, I just breathe.

The king marked this one three days past. No explanation. No reason. Not that I’d ask. I learned long ago it’s easier when you don’t know why. Sometimes it’s rebels. Smugglers. Traitors. And sometimes it’s someone who just… saw too much. Or said the wrong thing. Or helped the wrong person.

Not everyone I kill deserves to die. But that stopped mattering the day he cursed me.

The Shadowmark burns on my chest—a black flame just over my heart. Always the same pain when it binds me to a new target: cold first, then fire, then the pull. The compulsion. The hunger to finish the task.

The only way to silence it is to do what he wants. I exhale quietly and draw the blade at my hip. So much easier when they don’t see it coming.

I creep forward, each step measured, mind already dulling the guilt I’ll feel later. I have to keep it that way. Distant. Quiet.

If I let myself feel it now… I’ll hesitate. And I can’t afford that. Not ever.

I move in slow, soundless steps. She doesn’t hear me—until I’m right behind her. She turns, just enough for the dawn light to catch her face. I freeze.

It’s Deyra.

Not a rebel. Not a smuggler. Not a threat. A servant. From the castle.

The scent hits me a second later—fear. Fae senses sharpen around it. It thickens in the air like smoke. Sharp. Acidic. Real.

It clings to her skin, but she’s not trembling. Just staring at me with those wide, soft eyes. The same ones that used to glance my way when I passed through the lower corridors. The same ones that never looked away in disgust like the others.

She’s one of the only ones who ever looked at me like I was more than a weapon.

And now she’s marked. My fingers go numb around the hilt.

“Rivenn,” she breathes. Her voice is quiet. Sad.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I manage.

“I know,” she says. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t beg. “When I saw the flame on my wrist, I knew I couldn’t stay. I knew it would be you.”

I say nothing. I can’t.

“You don’t have a choice,” she says gently. “I know what he did to you.”

She steps forward, slow, cautious—not because she’s afraid I’ll hurt her, but because she doesn’t want to make it harder than it already is.

“Why?” I rasp.

She shrugs, a tear finally slipping down her cheek. “Maybe I heard something I shouldn’t have. Maybe he just wanted to remind you that you’ll never be free.”

I swallow hard. My hand is shaking. I never shake.

She kneels. Lifts the blade I didn’t realize I’d dropped. Holds it out to me, handle first.

“I don’t blame you. I never have. I’m sorry you have to carry this.”

Her voice is steady now. Almost peaceful.

“I forgive you.”

Then she bows her head. Waiting. I clench my jaw so hard it aches. My hand closes around the hilt like it’s part of me.She doesn’t flinch.

I take a breath.

And do what I’ve always done.

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The sun sits just shy of its peak when I finish burying her.

No marker. No grave goods. Just a mound of loose earth nestled against the cliffside, hidden between stone and sky.

The wind cuts across the ledge, cold and sharp, but I don’t move. I stand there, silent, staring at the grave like if I wait long enough, she’ll claw her way back out and forgive me again.

She won’t.

The burn stopped the moment her heart did. The Shadowmark went quiet—its fire snuffed out, satisfied. But a sharper pain took its place.

You’re a monster.

I hear the words every time I walk through the castle corridors. Every time a servant bows with eyes fixed on the floor. Every time someone flinches when I pass. Most of them don’t know what I am. But they know enough.

And I don’t blame them.

I kneel slowly, fingers curling into the loose dirt. It’s still warm from the sun. Still soft from the way I dug through it with my bare hands.

I press my palm against the grave.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You were kind to me. You didn’t have to be.”

The guilt wraps around my heart and tightens like a vice.

I hate him.

I hate the king more than words allow. Hate the way he smiles when he sends me out. Hate the way he watches me, like I’m some beautifully crafted blade that exists only to be bloodied. I hate the monster he’s made me into. I hate that most people look at me with fear or disgust—and that part of me believes I deserve it.

But more than anything…

I hate myself.

I tried to resist, once. More than once.

In the early years, I’d chain myself to the dungeon walls. Lock myself behind enchanted doors. Tell the guard captain to throw away the key. Didn’t matter.

I’d wake up hours—or days—later, standing over my target, blood on my hands, the mark on my chest glowing like a brand of shame.

I tried hurting myself. Deep gashes. Crushed bones. Severed tendons. Fae heal fast. Faster still when the king sends his personal healers to patch me up.

I tried starving. I tried praying. I tried everything. As long as I hunt, the mark doesn’t burn. It just pulls. Quiet. Inevitable. Like gravity. Like death.

My tracking is flawless—decades of training under the royal guard captain who once called me son, even if only behind closed doors. That, plus a century of being the King’s personal executioner, makes me nearly impossible to escape.

Even when I want them to. Especially then.

I rise slowly, brushing the dirt from my hands. My blade is already clean. My mark is already silent.

But I know better than to feel relief. There’s always another.

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Two days later, the rage still burns.

It simmers just beneath the surface as I pass beneath the iron-wrought gates of the castle—the same gates I’ve walked through a thousand times before. Every time I come back, it feels heavier. Like the stone remembers every life I’ve taken and is waiting for mine to balance the weight.

I walk through the courtyard in silence, ignoring the eyes that shift toward me then quickly away. Servants bow. Guards salute. None of them meet my gaze.

They never do.

My boots echo against the marble floors, each step pulling me closer to the wing of the castle I’ve been assigned. It’s far from the royal quarters—deliberately distant. As if they believe walls are enough to separate me from the rot that lives at the heart of this place.

They aren’t.

If I could trade these stone halls for a tent in the wild, I would. If I could sleep under trees and breathe air that wasn’t poisoned with politics and blood, I would. But this is my cage, gilded and grim, and I’ve never had the luxury of choice.

I reach the tall oak door of my chambers and push it open. Sanctuary. If such a thing exists.

The quarters are large, overly luxurious. The king calls it a reward. I call it a reminder—of what I’ve done, and what I’ll never be free from. The tapestries, the soft bed, the enchanted shelves that restock themselves. None of it means anything.

Not when I know what waits outside the walls. Not when I know what I’ve done to earn it.

I drop my weapons onto the desk near the fireplace, then unbuckle the leather chest guard and let it fall beside the rest. My shoulders ache. My hands are still stained with blood I couldn’t wash off in the stream.

I walk into the bathroom, and the enchantment greets me in silence.

The clawfoot tub is already full, steam curling over the surface of soapy water. The room smells of cedar and something faintly sweet. Lavender, maybe. It’s almost cruel—how comforting it tries to be.

I strip off the rest of my clothes and sink into the heat. The tension begins to unwind from my muscles. Slowly. Resisting.

I close my eyes. And for a while… I drift.

It’s snowing.

I’m five again, small and barefoot in the courtyard behind the training grounds, fists clenched at my sides. The snow sticks to my lashes, stings the soles of my feet. I’ve just thrown a wooden dagger at a target and missed by a mile.

I remember the sting of frustration more than the cold.

“Again,” a voice calls.

Not cruel. Not cold.

Commanding.

I turn. The captain of the royal guard stands a few paces behind me—towering, armored, arms crossed. His dark hair is threaded with early gray, and his face is all hard lines and sharper eyes.

He was the first man who looked at me like I was worth something.

I throw again.

This time, the blade sticks.

Barely.

His mouth twitches in what might’ve been pride. “Better,” he says. “Now we work on aim.”

The scene shifts.

I’m older now—sixteen.

Standing in the great hall before the king. My body is bruised from a match the day before, a gash still healing along my collarbone. I keep my head down.

The king circles me like a vulture sizing up a dying beast.

“Strong,” he murmurs. “Sharp. Silent.” His voice drips with approval I never wanted. “You’ve made quite the soldier out of him.”

Haldric, the captain I’ve been training with since I was a child, doesn’t answer.

Because he knows what’s coming.

“I have a task,” the king says, stepping close. “Not a request. Not a favor.”

His hand lifts.

It burns.

The mark.

I scream as it carves itself into my skin, searing through bone, blood, and soul.

“You belong to me now, boy,” the king whispers. “Let’s see what my Shadow Hunter can really do.”

I wake with a sharp breath, water sloshing over the edge of the tub. The fire in the bathroom has died low. My muscles are tight. My heart pounds. It takes a moment to remember where I am.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. Soft. Hesitant. Then a voice—feminine, careful.

“Shadow Hunter? Your supper has arrived. Do you need assistance?”

I blink the haze away, sit up, and scrub a hand through my wet hair. “No,” I say, voice rough. “Just leave it inside.”

A pause. “Would you like me to set it beside the fire, or on the table?”

I sigh. “The table’s fine.”

I step out of the tub, grab a towel from the rack, and dry off. The air is cooler now. I wrap the towel around my waist and step into the room. She’s standing near the bedside table, tray in hand. Petite. Blonde. Eyes wide, but not fearful.

Her gaze lifts—and lingers. I follow it to my chest.

Damn it.

The Shadowmark is visible, etched in perfect black flame over my heart. I forgot to cover it. Her eyes widen slightly. She opens her mouth, then seems to think better of it. “I—I’ll just leave this here,” she says quietly.

“Thank you,” I say. My voice comes out colder than I intend.

She sets the tray down and turns quickly, heading for the door.

“Wait.”

She stops. I grab a tunic from the chair and pull it over my head. The moment the mark disappears, her shoulders relax.

“You didn’t see anything,” I say.

Her head dips. “Of course not.”

Then she’s gone. The mark doesn’t burn. But I know it will again. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. The silence that follows is a familiar one.

Not comforting. Not unsettling. Just… expected.

I finish dressing, pulling on a simple black tunic and dark trousers—nothing embellished, nothing sharp. I don’t wear armor in the castle unless I have to. The only danger here is the man on the throne, and no breastplate can protect me from what he’s already done.

As I move, the fire in the hearth flares to life, stoked by the enchantments stitched into the room’s bones. It crackles with warmth, casting shadows across the stone walls. I carry the tray to the sitting area and settle into the worn leather chair closest to the flames.

The food smells good, but I barely taste it. My thoughts drift back to the dream. The courtyard. The snow. Hal’s voice.

I trained with him for eleven years—sunrise drills, blade forms until my fingers bled, sparring matches that left bruises I wore like medals. He didn’t coddle. Didn’t praise. But he didn’t let me fall either. That was his way.

At five, all I wanted was to make sense of the world after losing her. My mother had been everything. The only person who ever saw me for who I was beneath the bloodline I didn’t ask for. When the king snapped her neck in front of me, something in me shattered. Hal didn’t try to fix it—just taught me how to hold the pieces together.

I thought if I trained hard enough, fought well enough, I could join the army when I turned twenty-one. Slip away. Get stationed somewhere distant, somewhere forgettable. Maybe find a quiet town on the border, build a life out of something other than grief.

I didn’t dream of greatness. I just wanted normal. Even in a kingdom I hated. Even with blood on the king’s hands and ashes in my past. I would’ve taken it. A quiet, nameless life.

But the gods didn’t care what I wanted.

I finish eating slowly, picking through the food more out of habit than hunger. The roast is perfectly seasoned. The bread still warm. The wine rich and smooth.

It’s meant to be comforting. A reward, I suppose. But I taste none of it. I carry the tray back to the table and stare at the flames a moment longer before finally retreating to the bedroom.

The room adjusts itself as I step inside—curtains drawn, lights dimmed, bed turned down. Another luxury I never asked for. Another reminder that no matter how far from the king’s chambers I sleep, I’m still under his thumb.

I strip down to my undershirt and drop onto the mattress. The sheets are soft. The pillows perfect. Still, I can’t sleep.

Not with her face still etched behind my eyelids.

Deyra.

She shouldn’t have been on that list. She didn’t deserve to die. But that never mattered. I stare at the ceiling, jaw tight, waiting for the weight in my chest to ease. It doesn’t.

Eventually, sleep finds me. But peace never does.

I’m standing in a clearing I don’t recognize.

Moonlight spills across mossy ground, the trees surrounding me quiet and watchful. A gentle stream cuts across the far edge, glittering silver in the dark. The air smells of earth and night, like something sacred has taken root here.

I don’t move. I just… stand there.

Looking up at the stars.

It should feel peaceful. But all I feel is a strange sense of waiting. Of being seen.

Knocking breaks through the dream.

I sit up with a start, breath sharp in my lungs. Morning light pours through the narrow windows, slicing across the stone floor.

“Shadow Hunter?” a voice calls through the door. “You’ve been summoned. The king is waiting.”

Already? I swing my legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. It’s too soon.

I usually get at least a few days between assignments. Time to breathe. To reset. To pretend I’m not the thing he’s made me into.

But not this time. Of course not. He wields me like a blade—sharp, cold, and ready whenever he reaches for the hilt.

I pull on a clean tunic, fasten my belt, and eat the plate of breakfast waiting on my desk. Toast. Eggs. Sliced fruit. None of it registers. I wash it down with bitter black tea and make my way to the throne room.

The throne room is quiet when I enter. Too quiet.

The guards lining the walls stand like statues, eyes straight ahead. The scent of polished stone and old magic lingers thick in the air. Cold. Sterile. As lifeless as the man who rules from the dais above it all.

He’s already seated when I approach—the King of Nythral, cloaked in shadow-colored robes and arrogance. His eyes find mine the moment I enter, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

As if he’s been waiting to see how long it would take for me to break. I stop at the base of the stairs and bow my head—just enough to keep the peace.

“My king,” I say.

“Shadow Hunter,” he greets, voice smooth and laced with false warmth. “How swift you are. I trust your last task is… complete.”

I don’t answer. He already knows it is. He waves a hand like it’s nothing. Like she was nothing.

“There’s been… a disturbance,” he says, lounging back in his throne. “A whisper of magic surfacing near one of the villages on the edge of the eastern forest.”

The same region I just came from.

“Not a kill order this time,” he adds, voice almost teasing. “I’m feeling generous.”

That’s a lie. He never feels anything. Not truly.

“I want eyes. Ears. Truth,” he continues. “Find the source. Observe. Report. And if what you find is worth my attention… then you’ll be given a new name.”

A new name. A new target.

I nod once. “Do you suspect resistance?”

“I suspect desperation,” he says, swirling a goblet of dark wine. “And desperation makes fools of even the cautious. I want to know who is stirring old magic… and why.”

His eyes narrow, gleaming with something sharp and secret.

“Don’t kill them. Not yet. I want to know what makes them burn.”

As I turn to leave, his voice calls after me.

“Oh, and Rivenn…”

I stop.

“I hear you’ve been having trouble sleeping. Do try to stay focused.”

I grit my teeth and keep walking.

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By the time I reach the village, the air reeks of smoke and blood. It’s early morning—mist clinging to the ground, the sun barely a pale shimmer above the treetops—but the town is already burning.

Houses reduced to cinders. Doors hanging from broken hinges. Bodies scattered across the dirt road like discarded dolls. A child’s toy lies in the mud beside a bloodied boot.

I tighten my grip on the reins and urge my horse forward, teeth clenched as ash and screams swirl in the wind. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This isn’t what I came for.

I swing down from the saddle just outside the square, where fire still licks the charred skeleton of what must’ve been a bakery. A group of soldiers moves toward the well, dragging corpses into a growing pile.

“Who’s in charge here?” I bark.

A guard turns at the sound of my voice, blinking fast when he sees me. Recognition flashes across his face, followed quickly by fear.

“Y-You’re—”

“Don’t say it,” I growl. “Where’s your captain?”

He points toward the small temple at the edge of the square. Half the roof is missing. I grab him by the collar before he can scurry away.

“What the hell is happening here?”

The guard stammers, “We—we were ordered to contain a magical uprising. Said to root it out at the source. The king’s orders.”

I shove him back and storm across the square.

I know what “contain” means when it comes from the king’s mouth. It means eradicate. It means slaughter.

I find the captain inside the temple ruins, barking orders to a pair of soldiers attempting to salvage supplies from the rubble.

He turns when I enter, jaw tight. “You’re late.”

“You’re insane,” I snap.

He stiffens. “Orders were clear. Flush out the source. No survivors.”

“And do you even know what the source was?”

He hesitates.

“I didn’t think so.”

I step past him, scanning what’s left of the sanctuary. The benches are charred. The altar is black with soot. The air still carries the faint hum of recently used magic—dull, distant, but there.

Too faint for a Shadowmark.

But something is here. Something else.

“Status report,” I bark.

The captain frowns but doesn’t argue. “Four villagers escaped during the initial sweep. We tracked one down and executed him last night. The others scattered. A few might’ve fled into the forest.”

“Any leads?”

“One. We found healing residue in the woods near the east path. Someone used magic to save a wounded boy.”

My pulse skips. It shouldn’t mean anything. But it does. That feeling again—like a thread pulling at the edge of my soul. Not the Shadowmark. Not the compulsion.

Something else. Quiet. Calling.

“I want all search efforts redirected toward the forest,” I say.

The captain hesitates. “We’re not to engage?”

“No. Not unless I say so.”

He nods slowly. I step outside again, staring down the ash-choked road.