Marked

Chapter 13

RYN POV

“What in the gods’ names are you doing?!”

I flew down the stairs, breath short, pulse hammering. I smelled blood before I even reached the doorway. Saw it— All of it.

Riv—chained, body slumped, skin ghostly pale. And the red-hot poker still impaled through his arm.

“Teryn!” I shouted, voice shattering the silence.

She didn’t even flinch. I didn’t think. I grabbed her by the arm and yanked her out of the cell, slamming the door shut behind us. The lock clicked hard. Too loud. Too final.

“What. The hell. Was that?!”

Teryn pulled her arm free with a jerk, her face stone-cold, voice even colder.

“I asked questions. He didn’t answer.”

“So you stabbed him?”

“I branded him,” she corrected. “Twice. And he’s still breathing. So forgive me if I’m not impressed by his self-control.”

My hands clenched at my sides.

“He was defenseless, Teryn. He was chained. We had a deal.”

She didn’t blink.

“You had a theory. He gave you silence.”

I stared at her, disbelief curdling into fury.

“That’s not how this works. That’s not who we are.”

She stepped closer, eyes like ice.

“He’s a killer, Ryn. You don’t get to humanize him because he has a face and bleeds like the rest of us.”

“I’m not—”

“He killed a child. And dozens more. If we don’t get the information we need, more will die.”

She turned on her heel and stormed back up the stairs, voice trailing behind her.

“He deserves what he gets.”

And then I was alone. With the blood. And the groan of a chained male bleeding into the stone behind me.

As soon as Teryn disappeared up the stairs, I turned and unlocked the cell door again, shoving it open with more force than I intended.

The heat inside still hung thick in the air. And so did the scent of burned flesh and blood. He hadn’t moved.

Still slumped on the ground, breathing raggedly, his body held upright only by the tension in the chains. His arm was twisted at an angle that wasn’t natural—the red-hot poker still embedded almost all the way through it, glowing faintly as it hissed and spit in the open wound.

His skin was ashen. His lips drawn tight with pain. But he hadn’t screamed. I dropped to my knees beside him, already reaching for the poker.

“I’m going to pull it out,” I said, voice low, almost shaking.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even open his eyes. But his head dipped, barely noticeable. It was enough.

I braced a hand against his shoulder and gripped the searing-hot iron. The heat singed my palm through the leather of my gloves.

“Hold still.”

Then I pulled. A low, broken sound tore from his throat. Not a scream—but close.

His muscles seized beneath my grip as the poker slid free with a horrifying wet hiss, trailing blood that came faster now, thick and dark. I tossed the iron away from us. It clattered across the stone and rolled to a stop against the far wall.

His arm slumped at his side, twitching with pain.

“Stay with me,” I murmured, reaching for the satchel at my hip with trembling fingers. I ripped open a clean cloth and pressed it hard to the wound, ignoring the way he jerked under my touch.

“You’re alright. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

His breath came in shallow bursts, his head leaning back against the wall, eyes fluttering.

“I didn’t know she would do this,” I said quietly. “I never would’ve left if I thought she’d go that far.”

No answer. Just pain in his features. Blood on the floor. And a growing fear that I’d let something irreversible happen.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Not to the Shadow Hunter. Not to the enemy. But to him. Whoever he was. Because no one deserved this.

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RIV POV

“What in the gods’ names are you doing?!”

The voice faded. A door slammed again. Bootsteps returned. Faster this time. Then she was beside me. Kneeling. Cursing softly under her breath. I tried to open my eyes, but everything blurred.

“I’m going to pull it out,” she said, voice low.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But I dipped my head. Her hand landed on my shoulder, steady and warm even through the fog of pain. The other gripped the iron. Then—

Agony.

The poker wrenched free with a hiss, tearing through muscle and tendon and gods, I thought I might pass out. I bit it back, jaw locked, every part of me trembling as the fire left my body but left something worse in its place. Open air. Bleeding. Broken.

She pressed something to the wound. Hard. I nearly collapsed.

“Stay with me,” she whispered. “You’re alright. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Her voice was too soft. Too steady. It didn’t belong here, in this room filled with blood and fire and chains. And I didn’t understand why she was helping me.

“I didn’t know she’d do this,” she said. “I would’ve never left if I thought…”

Her words faded, caught somewhere between rage and guilt. Then softer:

“I’m sorry.”

I forced my eyes open. Just a sliver. Just enough to see her face. Not a soldier’s face. Not the enemy. Just… her. That wild copper hair catching firelight. Those green eyes stormy with something she didn’t want me to see.

Compassion.

And for the first time in longer than I could remember— I didn’t feel like a monster. I felt like a male. Bleeding. Breathing. Seen.

Her hands were on me again. Not cruel. Not cold. But gentle. Steady. She shifted the blood-soaked cloth aside and placed one hand directly over the wound in my arm—right where the poker had gone through.

Her fingers trembled. But her voice didn’t.

“Alright,” she whispered. “Just hold on.”

And then I felt it. A pulse of warmth—magic—threading beneath her palm. Not fire. Not shadow. Nothing that bit or clawed. This was something else. Cool. Deep. Like stepping into a stream after a long battle. Like breath returning after suffocating.

It burned at first. Healing always did. The skin tried to knit. The muscle twitched and spasmed. My nerves screamed and then quieted. Bit by bit.

She focused entirely on the wound—her brow furrowed, jaw clenched. I watched her, too weak to speak, too dazed to look away.

My arm stopped throbbing. The bleeding slowed. The pain dulled into something bearable. Not gone—but no longer overwhelming.She exhaled shakily and shifted back. Her eyes flicked to my thigh, and her breath hitched.

“That one’s worse. If it doesn’t get treated, you could lose the leg to infection,” she murmured.

I wanted to laugh. No breath for it. She was right.

She moved beside me, reaching for the torn fabric at my leg, her hands already slick with blood. Her magic flared again as she pressed her palm to the burned, broken mess of my upper thigh.

I groaned—the pain flared again, white-hot and sharp, twisting deeper than before.

She flinched, but didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know—I know it hurts. I’m trying.”

Her magic tried to mend it. Tried. But there was too much. The damage was deeper—muscle shredded, nerves frayed, bone cracked. I could feel her straining, feel her magic waver and flicker.

She was strong. But not strong enough for this. Still, she stayed. She didn’t falter.

She moved me with care—lifting one arm over her shoulder, guiding my body off the stone and onto the cot. She struggled with the weight, and I tried to help, but my limbs weren’t listening anymore.

My vision blurred. The world tilted. But I stayed with her. Because she was still there—working.

She pressed both hands to my thigh again, sweat trailing down her temples, teeth gritted in concentration. Her magic glowed faintly, soft and silver-blue in the dim torchlight.

I blinked hard to stay conscious. Watched her hands. Her face. The way she breathed through her exhaustion like she’d do this all night if she had to. And gods help me—

I didn’t understand it.

But I was grateful. For the first time in over a hundred years… Someone was trying to save me.

Her hands were still on my thigh, warm with magic that was flickering now—fraying at the edges like candlelight in a storm.

She was sweating. Breath uneven. Her jaw clenched in effort as the wound refused to fully close, as my body refused to yield to her will.

She was trying. Gods, she was trying so hard.

I wanted to tell her to stop. To rest.

But the chains held my wrists tight, biting into my skin as I shifted on the cot. I wasn’t fully lying down—I couldn’t, not with my arms still tethered.

She must’ve realized it too. Her gaze flicked to the manacles, and after a brief hesitation, she reached for the one on my left wrist.

The key turned with a sharp click. Freedom buzzed faintly in my bones—but only in that one arm. The other remained bound. Smart. Cautious. I would’ve done the same.

She returned to my side and placed her hands back on the wound, summoning the last of her strength. I moved slowly—gods, it hurt—but I lifted my free hand and laid it gently over hers.

Her fingers stilled beneath mine. She looked up, startled. Eyes wide. Green and bare.

“It’s too much,” I rasped.

My voice was wrecked, rough with pain, but I meant every word.

“Save your strength.”

She blinked, and something in her expression cracked open. Not pity. Something deeper. Raw. Guilt-stricken. Her eyes locked onto mine—unguarded now, vulnerable in a way I hadn’t seen before.

And she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

My breath caught—not from pain this time, but from the way those two words felt. Like a balm deeper than magic. Like she meant them. All of them.

“I’ll come back,” she said. “I just need water—to clean the wound. Healing salve. Bandages.”

Her voice trembled now, softer than before.

“I promise, I’ll finish it. I’ll make it right.”

I nodded once, barely able to keep my eyes open, but I didn’t let go of her hand right away. Her palm was small beneath mine. Warm. Steady. Real.

She pulled away gently, and for the first time since the pain began, I let myself breathe. Not because I was safe. Not because the pain was gone. But because someone had looked at me—not as a weapon, not as a killer—

But as someone worth saving. The door creaked softly behind me as I stepped into the main room, the cooler air upstairs offering little relief from the tightness still coiled in my chest.

I didn’t stop. I crossed to the hearth, set the kettle over the flames, and grabbed the bundle of herbs and bandages from the cupboard just beyond the fireplace.

My hands moved on instinct—reaching for salve, clean cloth, a bowl to carry water.

But my thoughts… They were still downstairs. His blood was still on me. And gods, his eyes.

The way he’d looked at me—not with fear, not even pain—but something… quieter. A kind of resigned surprise. Like he didn’t expect kindness. Like he didn’t know what to do with it.

I grabbed the skewered pheasant from the table. The result of the successful hunt I’d had earlier. I set it on the iron spit over the fire and began turning it.

Something warm and familiar to ground myself in. Something normal. But the silence didn’t last. Bootsteps creaked against the old wood floor behind me. Then her voice—low, tight, accusing.

“You’re too soft.”

I didn’t turn. Didn’t look up.

“I’m cooking dinner.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Teryn stepped closer, arms folded, voice flat.

“You chained a murderer to the wall and now you’re treating him like he’s one of us.”

I turned the spit. Watched the pheasant crackle as fat dripped into the fire.

“He’s hurt.”

“He’s alive.”

Her voice sharpened. “Which is more than I can say for the seventeen-year-old girl he put in the ground. Or the dozen others we’ve lost to him.”

I looked up at that. Her eyes were burning—not with anger. With grief. The kind that had no more room for forgiveness.

“You think he deserves kindness?” she snapped. “After what he’s done? After what we’ve seen? This is war, Ryn. And war doesn’t wait for your conscience to catch up.”

My jaw clenched. “I know this is war.”

“Do you?”

She stepped forward, fierce now.

“Because war means making hard calls. It means looking a killer in the eye and doing what needs to be done before he does it again.”

“I am used to pain,” I said. My voice didn’t rise—but it didn’t waver either.

“I’ve seen what this world can do. What he’s done. I’m not blind to it.”

I turned the spit one last time before looking her square in the eyes.

“But if we stoop to his level—if we become the kind of people who torture and brutalize before we even ask questions—then what are we fighting for?”

Teryn’s face didn’t change. Not at first. Then, slowly, her shoulders dropped. Just slightly. She looked away.

“I’ve had enough conversation for one night,” she muttered.

And without another word, she turned and climbed the stairs—boots hitting each worn step like a countdown. I let her go. Then turned back to the fire, pulled the pheasant from the spit, and set it aside to cool. The water had stopped steaming.