Marked

Chapter 5

RIVENN POV

The soldier stands rigid when I approach, posture too stiff, eyes too wide.

“Report,” I say, voice flat.

“We’ve confirmed three missing,” he replies. “Three adult Fae, one—possibly the healer who tended the injured boy before we found him.”

I nod once. “I want to see their homes.”

He blinks. “Sir?”

“Their homes. All of them. Starting now.”

He swallows. “Y-Yes, Shadow Hunter.”

The village is still smoking when I begin the sweep. The air stinks of ash and old blood, but most of the soldiers have already moved on—too used to the aftermath to care about the pieces left behind. They see death. I see questions.

Each house is the same: ransacked, burned, or worse. But I look anyway. Not for survivors. For signs. People always leave something behind when they run.

When I reach the last house on the lane, I pause. It hasn’t been torched yet. The shutters are closed, the door cracked. No blood outside. No smell of death. I step inside slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim.

The air is cool. Still.

It’s tidy—too tidy. Whoever lived here left in a hurry, but there was no struggle. A cloak lies folded near the hearth.

Then I see the weapons.

A bow.

A blade.

Both well-made. Maintained. Not the kind you find in the hands of a humble farmer. I pick up the sword, test its weight. Balanced. Elegant. Definitely not standard village fare.

I crouch by the door and spot the faint imprint of bootprints in the dirt. Fresh. Leading out back.

I step outside.

The tracks are there, fading into the trees—sharp at first, then soft as moss reclaims them. But I know how to follow ghosts. I’ve been doing it for a century.

The trail winds through the woods, narrow and cautious. Whoever ran this path knew the forest well. The prints are light, the pace fast—but not panicked. Calculated. They knew where they were going.

After hours of tracking, I see it. A clearing. Not just any clearing, the one from my dream. Identical.

Same moss. Same stream. Same silver-painted leaves rustling beneath a breeze that shouldn’t reach this deep into the forest.

I stop at the edge. My pulse jumps.

No.

It’s just a coincidence.

Except I don’t believe in those anymore. I step into the clearing and turn slowly, scanning every detail. It’s empty. Silent. But something lingers in the air. A trace of warmth. A flicker of magic.

She was here.

I don’t know where that thought pops up from, but I can feel it. I can sense her, whoever she is.

And I don’t know why…

By the time I return to the village, the sun is bleeding into the horizon.

Smoke still curls from the ruins, and the stench of what’s been lost lingers in every stone. The soldiers are camped in what used to be the square—ten of them, handpicked for their silence, not their loyalty. Loyalty means little when the king lies with every breath.

I give no explanation when I gather them. Only orders.

“We ride at dawn,” I say. “I want the trail clean.”

They nod. No one questions me. No one dares.

We sleep in shifts, though I barely rest. My mind keeps circling the image of that clearing, the weight of that sword in my hand, the way the air remembered her.

Whoever she is… she’s not just another fugitive.

At first light, we rode back to the clearing.

The tracks are faint now—fading under dew and leaf litter—but I find them. A twist of grass here. A scuffed stone there. They lead east, along a barely-worn path. Until they stop. At the temple ruins.

I dismount and approach on foot, motioning for silence. The structure is old. We all know it—half the rebels in the realm whisper about it. The “Crow Stone.” A meeting place. A message. A promise.

The soldiers spread out, scanning for anything left behind. I walk the perimeter. She was here. Recently. But she’s gone now. No trace beyond this place.

I don’t say what I’m thinking. That she knew how to cover her trail. That the wind was working in her favor. That something in this place feels older than rebellion and heavier than magic.

But I feel it. And I don’t turn my back on feelings. We start searching nearby villages the next day. One by one, we sweep through them. Quiet questions. Discreet interviews. Listening more than talking.

Most are clean. Most.

Several days in, the sun is setting again when one of my soldiers returns from a door-to-door pass in the newest village.

He approaches me outside the tavern where we’ve made camp.

“Sir,” he says, saluting quickly. “One of the homes… there’s something strange. A healer. Middle-aged Fae female. Said no one else lives there. But she was tense. Didn’t smell like a lie—but didn’t feel like the truth either.”

“Did you search it?”

“No, sir. She offered tea. Said she was just closing for the evening.”

I narrow my eyes. “Which house?”

He points down the lane. “Stone. Ivy on the west wall. Bone windchime over the door.”

RYN POV

We wait until nightfall to move.

Selene insisted we eat again. Teryn insisted we repack the satchels with the rations. I kept watching the window.

It’s been about an hour since the last soldier left. Teryn says that’s long enough.

Not too soon to look suspicious. Not too late to lose our lead.

We make our way to the back door, and when Selene has the latch in her hand—

Three sharp knocks. I freeze. Teryn swears under her breath. Selene curses louder.

“Back down,” she whispers. “Now.”

We don’t hesitate. We scurry down the narrow steps to the trapdoor. Teryn pulls it shut just as Selene yanks the rug back over it. My knees hit the stone floor below. The air feels colder this time. Heavier.

I hold my breath as footsteps creak across the floor above us.

Selene opens the front door. Then a voice speaks. A deep, quiet voice. Sharp as a blade, but smoother than it should be. Male.. And something about the sound of it makes my whole body go still.

“I’m looking for someone,” he says.