Savin's hands wouldn't stop shaking. He clenched them into fists, but it didn't help. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps. He could still feel the heat burning through his palm, even though the mark had stopped glowing. It was there, clear as day—a symbol he had only ever heard of in stories told by the adults. They had never even come across someone who had one, yet here he was, branded with this accursed mark. The thought of what was going to happen to him next was enough for him to call for death.
He pressed his back against the rough stone wall, trying to steady himself. His legs felt weak like they might give out at any moment. His eyes rose to the night sky, and he saw it there, staring down at him like a looming death. Its harrowing figure was just too overwhelming.
He was on his way to the nearest Shelter, which was still so far away from his residence, if he managed to reach it, they would be able to help him. Help, he needed it so badly.
Savin pushed himself off the wall, forcing his legs to move. Every step felt unsteady, but he had no choice. If he stayed here too long, someone would see the Branding. And if they saw it… he didn't want to think about what would happen.
He had suspected it in the last few weeks. Flashes, suddenly blacking out, waking up in places he didn't remember going to. At first, he thought it was exhaustion, maybe stress. But then came the whispers—soft at first, like a breeze slipping through cracks in a door. They grew louder with each passing day, words he didn't understand, yet somehow felt like they belonged to him.
Then, the dreams and migraines started.
He would find himself standing in endless darkness, a figure watching him from just beyond his sight. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. The air was thick, pressing against his skin, and in those moments, he swore he wasn't alone in his own body.
Now, the mark confirmed it.
His legs trembled as he pushed forward, his pulse hammering in his ears. The night air was cold against his skin, but sweat clung to his body, making his clothes stick to him. The streets were nearly empty, just the occasional flickering lantern casting long, distorted shadows. He pulled his hood lower over his face, cradling his marked hand against his chest as he quickened his pace.
When he finally reached the bus terminal, his legs barely carried him forward. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision swimming with exhaustion and pain. The mark on his palm throbbed and a dull heat pulsed through his entire arm, but he forced himself to keep moving.
'Almost there now. Stay calm, we can do this. Wait, we? What am I thinking?'
People looked at him the way they always looked at the poor—some with indifference, some with mild annoyance, and a few with thinly veiled disgust. To most, he was just another unfortunate soul, another body taking up space in a world that had no place for him.
The terminal was filled with travelers, people with destinations, people who had something waiting for them on the other side of their journey. But him? He was just a stray, a ghost passing through, unnoticed except when he got too close. Some averted their eyes, pretending not to see him. Others spared him only a glance, their expressions tight, as if proximity to his misfortune might somehow taint them.
With trembling hands, he dug into his pocket, pulling out the last of his savings. The coins felt unbearably heavy in his palm as if they carried the weight of everything he was leaving behind. He slid them across the counter, barely hearing the vendor's voice as they handed him a crumpled ticket.
He turned and headed toward the waiting bus, relief washing over him. He had made it. Just a few more steps.
But as he took his first step forward, his vision blurred, and the world around him tilted violently. His knees buckled. His fingers grasped at empty air. Then, before he could even cry out, his body gave out completely, collapsing onto the cold, hard pavement.
The last thing he saw was the flickering glow of the bus's headlights and people's reactions before darkness swallowed him whole.
No one rushed to help. A few people slowed, watching with hesitant curiosity, but no one stepped forward. Some muttered under their breath, shaking their heads as if they had expected it. A man sighed and turned away. A woman clutched her purse a little tighter, stepping back as if afraid he might reach for it.
To them, he wasn't someone worth worrying about. Just another nameless figure, barely more than a shadow.
Until someone noticed it.
"His hand! He has the mark!!"
A hush fell over the terminal. The murmur of voices, the shuffle of footsteps—everything seemed to stop as those words rang out.
Eyes turned toward him, no longer filled with indifference but with something else. Fear. Unease. Suspicion.
The woman who had clutched her purse took another step back, her face pale. A man near the ticket counter stiffened, his fingers twitching at his side as if debating whether to run or stay and watch. Others whispered among themselves, their voices low but urgent.
"The mark? Are you sure?"
"I saw it—on his hand!"
"He's one of them."
The fear spread like wildfire. Some stepped away, while others leaned in, trying to catch a glimpse of his palm. No one dared to touch him. No one wanted to be too close.
Then, someone made the first move. A man in a worn-out coat, his face twisted with a mix of fear and anger, pointed a shaking finger at Savin's crumpled form.
"We have to report this."
That was all it took. The shift in the air was instant. The fear curdled into something worse—panic, hostility.
Savin, still barely clinging to consciousness, felt the weight of their stares pressing down on him. He had spent his whole life being ignored, unseen. But now? Now, they all saw him. And they wanted him gone.
'Why me?'
That was the last thought that crossed his mind before his consciousness was ripped away, leaving only darkness behind.
***
[Greetings, the one who touches the Veil]
A weightless sensation pressed against his body, as though he was floating in a void. His breath was steady, yet he couldn't feel the rise and fall of his chest. Was he even breathing at all?
Savin took a step forward—at least, he thought he did. The darkness remained unchanged, stretching in all directions, silent and unmoving.
"Where am I?" His voice echoed, yet there were no walls to bounce off, no ground to carry the sound.
Then, something shifted. A flicker of blue light, distant yet sharp, like a star piercing through the abyss. It pulsed once, twice, then vanished.
[I am Zevira, Keeper of the Veil and the one who guides the Foundlings and the Seekers]
The voice came from behind and as unexpected as it was, Savin froze. 'Foundling? What's a Foundling?' Savin wondered.
[Tell me. What brings you to the Land of the Unspoken?]
He turned around in response to the voice he had just heard and right there, he saw a woman sitting behind a table covered in a white sheet.
She looked human, but also not human. No human had light purple skin, right? Besides that, she wore a light purple dress designed with dark purple intricate patterns that covered the full length of her body. She also had a dark purple scarf and a flower hat to match. There was an air of quiet authority about her—like she belonged in this void.
The woman sat perfectly still, her hands resting gently on the edge of the table. The white sheet that covered it seemed untouched by the darkness around them, its stark brightness almost painful to look at.
Behind her, there was a curtain of fog-like, ethereal white light that stretched endlessly in all directions—as far as his eyes could see. Maybe even farther than that.
Her eyes met Savin's, and for a moment, he felt like they were the only two things in existence. The weight of her gaze felt as if it pierced directly through him.
Her gaze lingered, and not knowing what answer to give her pending question, he looked down at his palm. The mark was still there. He showed it to her.
[Ah, Seeker, are we?]
'I knew it. I'm finished.'
Savin's stomach twisted with a feeling of dread, the realization sinking in deeper than he expected. Whatever had brought him here was beyond his control. There was no escape from what awaited him.
[You're the first I've seen in a while—Inheritor that is]
The words struck Savin like a hammer. 'Inheritor?! This is worse than I thought!'
Panic clawed at his chest. An Inheritor—him? That wasn't possible. That wasn't supposed to be possible. Yet, here he was, standing before this woman in the void, with no way to deny what he had just heard.
[So, you've come to claim your Inheritance. I wonder what's in store for you]
Her words unsettled him.
"W-where am I? And what is going on?" Savin asked, his voice shaky.
[Don't act like you don't know] She said. [I am Zevira, Keeper of the Veil and the one who guides the Foundlings and the Seekers]
'Foundling? What's a Foundling?' Savin wondered.
[When you are ready to receive your Inheritance, you pass through the Veil] She said and after that, she said nothing more.
Savin stood frozen, staring at the foggy wall before him. For a long time, he lingered, unsure of what to do. He was as good as dead either way. If he stayed here for too long, who knew what would happen to him? And if he passed through that wall like Zevira said, he knew what would happen to him.
With a deep breath, he stretched out his hand, feeling the cool, dense fog wrap around his fingers. It was colder than he expected. Slowly, he pushed his body through the veil and his vision began to blur as he stepped further into the unknown. Just as the last of him slipped through, he heard her voice again, soft and lilting, like a distant song.
[May the Whisper be you]