The air in the room was cool, biting against Lucius's skin as he set his cane aside, leaning against his cot and began to undress. His fingers moved with practiced care, untying the frayed laces of his trousers before easing them down over his twisted leg. Each movement sent a dull ache through the misshapen limb, a pain he had lived with for as long as he could remember.
The trousers pooled around his ankles, and he leaned back against the edge of his cot for balance. The firelight flickered over his bare legs, casting shadows that made his crippled one seem even more grotesque.
Lucius stared down at it, the limb that had defined so much of his life. His calf was thin, the muscles atrophied and uneven. The knee was bent inward at an unnatural angle, the joint swollen and stiff. Scars from childhood falls and failed braces crisscrossed the pale skin. The sight of it still made his stomach churn, though the revulsion wasn't new.
What caught his eye, what always caught his eye, was the Mark.
There, burned into the flesh just above his knee, was the divine symbol that had cursed him from birth. The crescent entwined with a starburst shone faintly in the firelight, its lines perfect and unmarred by the deformity that surrounded it.
The Mark of the Chosen. The sign of greatness. The gods' assurance that its bearer was destined to shape history.
Lucius's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Greatness," he muttered, the word dripping with venom. He reached out and ran a finger over the Mark, the flesh smooth beneath his touch. Unlike the rest of his body, the skin around the Mark was flawless, as though the gods themselves had taken care to protect their signature.
"A fine joke," he said to the empty room. "Mark a cripple with the symbol of heroes and kings. I suppose it's easier to mock me this way."
The Mark had been a point of celebration when he was born. His parents whispered their hopes for him; a savior, a warrior, a name to be sung for generations.
But as Lucius grew, those hopes had curdled into disappointment. The twisted leg had become impossible to ignore, and the bright future promised by the Mark dimmed with every stumble, every failure to run, every failed attempt to train. The whispers that once spoke of greatness now carried pity, disdain, and ridicule.
Still, the Mark remained, untarnished.
"Did you think this would inspire me?" Lucius hissed, his voice rising as he addressed the gods he no longer believed in. "Did you think I would look at this and feel blessed? All it's ever brought me is scorn!"
His voice cracked, and he forced himself to stop, his breath heaving. Anger was exhausting, and it always left him feeling hollow. He traced the Mark one last time, his hand lingering over its smooth edges.
If it had been anywhere else on his body, perhaps he could have ignored it. But no—it had to be on the leg that refused to work, as if to remind him every day of what he could never be. A warrior. A champion. A hero.
Lucius pulled his trousers back on, his hands trembling as he laced them shut. The Mark disappeared beneath the fabric, but he could still feel its presence, burning like an ember buried under ash.
He limped toward the workbench, his cane tapping softly against the floor. The brace waited for him, as imperfect as the leg it was meant to correct. But tonight, he wasn't crafting for greatness. He was crafting to survive.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.