Marked

I know better than to use magic. Especially here. Especially in Nythral. But the boy is dying, and I’ve already made the mistake of caring. Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the cracked earth in thick, dark rivers. His breathing’s shallow—shaky. The kind that slips between ribs and disappears if you blink too long. I press my hands to the wound harder, but it won’t stop. Too deep. Too fast. My heart’s pounding loud enough to drown the forest. Don’t do it. Don’t— A scream splits the air behind me. Sharp. Female. Someone else from the village. Soldiers. There’s no time. No choice. I shut my eyes. Reach inward. The heat sparks low in my chest, the same place it always hides—deep and ancient and hungry. It spills into my hands like water and fire meeting in secret. Light flares. The boy gasps. And then… the bleeding stops. Not completely. Not enough to save him for good. But enough to make him live long enough to run. Just enough to get me killed. I rip my hands away, the glow already fading from my palms. The boy groans, still half-conscious. He’ll live if he doesn’t bleed out again before the others find him. I can’t stay to make sure. The second scream comes from closer. Too close. The kind that means someone saw something they shouldn’t have. I scoop up the satchel I dropped when I ran into the woods and take off. The trees are thick here, old and twisted—branches reaching like claws. I know them better than I know most people. They’ve kept my secrets before. They’ll have to do it again. I leap over a fallen log, duck under a low branch, feet slamming into the earth in hard, desperate strides. Somewhere behind me, I hear shouts—steel on bark, boots in leaves. They’re following. Of course they’re following. I should’ve let the boy die. That thought twists sharp in my gut, but I shove it down. I made my choice. I just have to live with it. I run until my legs nearly give out. Until the sky bleeds into dusk and the trees thin just enough to let the wind bite through. Hours pass, though I lose count of how many. My breath comes in ragged bursts. My boots are soaked and caked in mud. Every step feels heavier than the last. Then—finally—I see it. The clearing opens before me like a held breath. Wide, soft, untouched by anything but moonlight and moss. The stream cuts across the far edge, quiet and glinting with fading gold. It’s always quieter here, like the trees are listening. Like the world pauses just long enough for me to remember how to breathe. I cross the space quickly, scanning the perimeter. No movement. No sound beyond the wind. No soldiers. Safe—for now. I gather firewood from the edge of the clearing, stacking it carefully in the stone-lined pit I built months ago. It’s not much, but it’ll hold through the night. I strike a spark with a flint shard and steel, coaxing the flame until it flickers into life, warm and steady. Hunting doesn’t take long. I spot a rabbit by the stream, its ears twitching, unaware of me. I keep low. Move slow. One stone in my hand. A clean throw. The rabbit drops before it even twitches. It’s not luck—it’s practice. I’ve done this more times than I can count. When you grow up hiding, you either learn how to eat… or how to starve. I skin it, spit it over the fire, and settle in with my back to a moss-covered boulder. The smell of smoke and meat curls around me, soothing and sickening all at once. But the memory creeps in anyway. They didn’t come for me. Not at first. They came for Marei. Two days ago, she was caught passing enchanted salves and poultices to a border runner from the resistance. We all knew what she was doing, but no one dared speak it aloud. Marei was bold. Brave. Foolish, maybe—but kind. She saved my neighbor’s daughter from infection last winter with those same herbs. She wasn’t dangerous. She was just trying to help. But someone told the guards. And once they took her, they didn’t stop. By the next morning, the village square was lined with soldiers. Checkpoints. Questions no one could afford to answer honestly. By midday, the executions started. And by nightfall, homes were on fire. They weren’t looking for one girl anymore. They were sending a message: magic will not be tolerated. I swallow hard and glance down at my hands, still stained with blood and ash. I can still feel the magic humming under my skin, warm and quiet now, but waiting. Like it knows it’s not done. Like it never really is. The rabbit cooks fast, its skin crisping over the flames as the sun dips low and the clearing fades to shadow. I snap out of the memory slowly, the crackle of fire and the scent of smoke tugging me back to the present. I turn the meat, watch the juices hiss into the coals, and sigh. When it’s done, I tear into it without ceremony. It’s dry. A little burnt. But warm. And real. Afterward, I walk to the stream, kneel, and drink deep. The water is cold and sharp, biting against the back of my throat. I splash some over my face, trying to wash away the blood, the dirt… the guilt. This place—this clearing—it isn’t new. I built it up slowly, over the past year. A tucked-away camp, hidden deep in the woods, just in case the world ever collapsed again. Looks like just in case came sooner than expected. I had to leave everything. My home. My neighbors. The familiar smell of fresh bread at dawn and the creak of the old wooden door I always meant to fix. The small life I had started to build for myself…again. Gone. I barely made it out with my life. The soldiers started going door to door this morning—dragging people from their homes, accusing them of sorcery, of sedition, of sympathy for the resistance. No trials. No warnings. Just blades in the street and fire in the sky. I ran out of the back door of my cottage, breathless. I didn’t have time to think, only move. I snatched the satchel by the door—a habit I never thought I’d need to rely on—and disappeared into the trees. No sword. No bow. Nothing but the clothes on my back and a few scraps of food stuffed into the pack with trembling hands. I miss my weapons more than I should. The bow had been mine since I was five. My father made it. The sword had belonged to my mother. Now I have nothing. No tools to defend myself. No way to protect anyone else. That’s when I found the boy. He was crumpled near a gnarled birch, half-concealed by the roots. Blood poured from a deep gash in his side—a sword wound, clean but brutal. He was barely breathing. I should’ve kept walking. I should’ve saved myself. But his eyes met mine, just for a moment. Wide. Terrified. Young. I couldn’t ignore it. So I didn’t. And if the soldiers found him, they’ll know someone used magic in the forest tonight. They’ll search again. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow—but soon. Because no matter how deep I hide… Magic always leaves a mark. I curl up beside the fire, the warmth brushing against the edge of exhaustion settling deep in my bones. My satchel becomes a makeshift pillow. The moss cradles my spine. The stars blink through the trees like distant watchers. I close my eyes. The sounds of the forest fade. And the past drags me under. I was only six the night he came. Too young to understand what was happening, but old enough to know something was wrong. The hall was too quiet. The servants too tense. My mother’s smile too forced. He sat at the table like he belonged there. Dressed in black and silver, skin pale as frost, eyes like dying coals. He smiled when he spoke. Laughed like a man telling bedtime stories. And everyone else laughed too—even my father. But I didn’t. I watched from behind the curtain just outside the dining hall, hidden in the alcove I wasn’t supposed to sneak into. My knees pressed to my chest, arms wrapped around my legs, heart hammering. I wasn’t supposed to be awake. I wasn’t supposed to see. But I did. I watched as the man in black—the King of Nythral—lifted his glass to my parents. And then, with a single whispered word and a flick of his hand, I watched them die. Their bodies jerked—first my father, then my mother—as something unseen pierced through them. Their eyes wide. Their mouths open in silent screams. They fell. Twisting. Shaking. And then they were just still. Lifeless. And the man in black never stopped smiling. I slapped both hands over my mouth to keep from crying out. The goblets shattered on the stone floor. The king stood, slow and calm, and turned to the guards behind him. “She’s still alive,” he said, voice like ice. “Find the girl. Kill her in her bed.” I didn’t wait. I ran. Through the back halls. Down the servant passages. Out the hidden exit beneath the stairs. Into the cold. Into the dark. Barefoot. Shaking. Lost. The last thing I heard before the leaving my home forever was his voice again, echoing through the stone— “Burn it all.” I jolt awake with a gasp, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. Sweat clings to my skin despite the cold. My fingers are clenched into fists around the moss beneath me, nails biting into earth. The fire crackles softly beside me, but the clearing feels… different. Just a dream, I tell myself. A terrible one. A memory that never stops bleeding into my sleep. I sit up, rubbing my arms, trying to shake off the chill that has nothing to do with the temperature. My breath clouds in the air. The stars are still overhead. The stream still trickles quietly. But something's wrong. It’s a whisper in my bones, a pull at the edge of instinct—the sense of being watched. I scan the treeline, eyes narrowed. Nothing moves. No branches shift. No footsteps crunch. But I still feel it. I don’t like taking chances. I lean forward, grab a stick from the fire, and snuff it in the dirt. One by one, I extinguish the flames until the clearing is bathed in darkness. Just in case. The cold creeps back in, but I curl into myself and lie down again, eyes on the trees, heart still thudding. It was just a dream. Just a dream. But deep down, I know better.