The road stretched endlessly before him, a trail of dust and ruin unraveling beneath his weary steps. The wind howled low through the barren trees lining the path, carrying with it the scent of rain and distant smoke. He did not look back. He never did.
Vorian had walked countless roads, seen countless cities rise and fall, and fought in more battles than he cared to remember. War left its scars not only on flesh but on the soul, and his bore the weight of every sword swung, every cry silenced. The world never changed. The faces did, the names did, but at their core, people were the same—hungry, desperate, reaching for something just beyond their grasp. He had seen it in the hollow-eyed beggars lingering at the edges of dying towns, in the greedy stares of lords feasting while their people starved. He had heard it in the quiet pleas whispered in the dark, in the clinking of stolen coins passed between shaking hands.
This was the world. And he did not belong in it.
Perhaps he never had.
Yet for now, this place—this small, unassuming village tucked between dense forests and jagged hills—was home. Redhaven was not rich, nor powerful, nor a place that mattered to kings and conquerors. And that was precisely why he had stayed.
For the first time in years, he was not alone.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, filling the modest cottage with the scent of burning pine and roasted meat. The warmth seeped into his skin, chasing away the lingering chill of the evening. He sat at a rough-hewn wooden table, his fingers curled around a mug of something warm, the steam curling lazily into the air. Around him, voices filled the space—soft, familiar, steady. The murmured conversations of a family at ease.
A family that was not his.
Yet they had taken him in.
Elira sat beside him, perched on the bench, her small frame relaxed and unburdened. Her golden-brown hair tumbled in loose curls around her face, her legs swinging idly as she observed him with that same sharp, knowing gaze she always wore.
"You're staring again," she said, amusement curling at the edges of her lips.
Vorian blinked, dragging himself from his thoughts. "No, I'm not."
"You are." She tilted her head, her grin widening. "What are you thinking about?"
The truth was too heavy. His mind drifted—unbidden, unwilling—back to the night that had changed everything.
The night he had learned what he truly was.
He had been fifteen. Young, but no longer a child. Old enough to understand the weight of his own existence. Old enough to know fear.
The chapel had been dark, its silence broken only by the whisper of the wind through shattered stained glass. The altar lay in ruins, its sacred cloth torn, the golden sigil of the Crimson Sun smeared with ash and something darker. The body of the High Priest had crumpled at its base, his once-pristine robes stained deep with death.
And Vorian had stood above him, breath ragged, hands trembling, the dagger in his grip still warm.
"You were made for more than this," the High Priest had whispered, his voice calm even as his life faded away. There had been no fear in his eyes. Only certainty. A knowing smile that had twisted something deep in Vorian's chest.
"You will walk the path, whether you will it or not."
Vorian had run.
Through the ruined halls of the church that had raised him. Past the towering statues of saints who had never answered his prayers. Out into the frozen night, his bare feet numbed by ice and his pulse frantic in his ears.
The voice had followed.
It was not the voice of a god. It was not the voice of any man.
"You are mine."
"You will take the Throne."
"And you will drown the world in blood."
The Mark on his chest had burned that night, searing through flesh and bone. The more he fought, the stronger it became. And the thing that lived within it—no, the thing that had always been a part of him—had felt it. Had fed on it. It whispered its truths into his bones, slipping into his dreams, filling his head with visions of war, of fire, of a future he could not escape.
This was why he ran.
Why he never stayed in one place for too long.
Because the more he fought, the harder it became to resist.
And if he ever stopped running? If he ever let go?
It would be over.
Everything would be over.
"Nothing important," he murmured, dragging himself back to the present.
Elira hummed, unconvinced. "Liar."
Across the table, Ilyen snorted. "Leave him be, Elira. Vorian broods. It's what he does."
Vorian shot him a flat look. "I do not brood."
"You are literally brooding right now," Ilyen pointed out, smirking.
Myrin, the family's matriarch, gave a soft chuckle as she placed another warm loaf of bread onto the table. "Enough teasing, boys. Eat while it's warm."
Vorian reached for a piece, tearing into it without protest. The warmth of the meal settled in his chest, grounding him in a way he had not expected. He had spent so many years surviving on stale rations and stolen provisions that the simple act of sharing a meal felt… foreign.
Elira was still watching him. "You should smile more."
"I do smile," he muttered, taking a sip from his mug.
She grinned. "Liar again."
Ilyen smirked. "She's got you there."
Vorian exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. This was routine. Banter. Soft jabs. The kind of warmth he had never known before. The kind of thing that made a place feel like home.
But he could not let himself believe in it.
Because the Mark was patient. It wanted him to stop running. It wanted him to believe he could have this—just long enough for him to lower his guard.
Just long enough for him to lose himself.
Elira laughed, bright and unburdened, and he envied her for it.
Maybe, just for tonight, he could pretend.