Lucian bolted awake on hard dirt, a startled gasp escaping his lips. The stench of smoke and char clung to the air. Blinking rapidly, he surveyed the ruins around him—cracked stone walls, charred wooden beams jutting at crooked angles, and ashes drifting in weak sunlight. His heart thudded as he realized he was in the midst of a destroyed village.
For several heartbeats, he could not bring himself to move. There was a hollowness in his chest, as though his mind refused to fully register what had happened. A single thought pulsed, over and over: Why am I here? He had no answer.
He tried to rise, only for a jolt of pain to shoot through his ribs. With a hiss, he planted his palms on the cold ground. His arms trembled, weaker than he remembered, too thin for the effort. Confusion swam in his mind: Where was he? Why was he so small?
He closed his eyes, trying to recall something concrete, but his thoughts were jumbled. Flashes of a life that seemed far removed from this desolation tore at his consciousness: brightly lit rooms filled with computer screens, a modern city with steel towers. Yet those images made no sense here, amid scorched cottages and farmland. When he opened his eyes again, the ruins grounded him in grim reality—this was his life now, no matter how impossible it felt.
His eyes fell on a sinister mark below his ribs. It glowed faint red, shaped in eerie curves like some arcane tattoo. Heat pulsed beneath the skin, making him shudder. He pressed a trembling hand over it, discovering a dull warmth. Definitely not normal. A wave of apprehension seized him: if anyone saw it, they might mistake him for a cultist. He took the remains of his shirt and carefully tied them around his abdomen to hide the brand.
As he tried to make sense of the rune, a single recollection flared—robed figures chanting, glowing runes, a circle of flickering torches. Then darkness. Shaking it off, he forced himself to his feet, head spinning. He looked down at himself. Ragged scraps of a shirt hung off a child's body.
A gust of wind rattled collapsed timbers nearby. The remains of a house threatened to tumble over. He stepped away, scanning the devastation. Corpses lay scattered, some draped in burnt robes, others in villagers' simple clothes. The raw horror jolted him. How had this happened? Who had done this?
"Hello?" he called, voice cracking. Only silence answered. Smoke curled from charred structures, the last embers sputtering out. He swallowed hard. There was no one alive—at least not here.
A flash of memory pierced his thoughts: an altar, him pinned down, robed strangers chanting in unison. The brand searing into him. Then an explosion of heat, chaos, screaming. Now, he stood alone in the ashes of that catastrophe, the brand's slow throb the only reminder that the ritual had once burned hot.
Stepping across scorched rubble, he forced himself onward, ignoring the knot of panic in his chest. He needed to leave. If the robed cultists returned, he would be helpless. His smaller body ached with every step, but giving in to fear would only trap him in this graveyard.
Passing a fallen wagon, he glimpsed the corpse of a robed man pinned beneath a collapsed beam. Lucian's stomach churned at the sight. The dead man's forearm displayed a faint swirling mark, similar to the brand concealed on Lucian's torso but not glowing. He recoiled, hand pressed over his mouth.
He considered searching the corpse for supplies but gagged at the rancid smell. There was no time or courage for rummaging. He retreated, the brand giving a sudden hot pulse, urging him to move.
The outskirts of the village offered little more than scorched fields and broken fences. Lucian stumbled over debris, scanning for anything resembling a road. At the edge of the ruin, a sagging fence hinted at farmland beyond. Beyond that, the land stretched out in a bleak expanse.
He squinted toward the horizon. Through the haze of residual smoke, he caught a faint glow—maybe lanterns from a distant settlement. Could be cult territory, or it might be his only chance at safety. The brand on his abdomen throbbed again, almost scalding. The urgency pushed him to act.
Gritting his teeth, he left the charred ruins behind. Each step jarred bruised limbs. Hunger and thirst racked him, yet the idea of water or food spurred him forward. Survive. If the robed ones came back, he refused to be a victim again.
He followed what remained of a dirt path, zigzagging around piles of scorched rubble. Smoke lingered, stinging his eyes. He coughed, forcing each breath. Time blurred as he trudged on. The brand's heat pulsed in waves, reminding him that no matter where he fled, he carried the cult's mark.
After a while, the air cleared. He spotted a trickle of water running through a shallow ditch. Desperate, he knelt and cupped murky liquid to his lips. It tasted foul, but he drank enough to keep moving.
Somewhere behind him, he thought he heard stones shift, but scanning the wreckage revealed nothing. Possibly a vulture or a stray dog scavenging among the dead. He shuddered, pushing the thought away, pressing onward.
Dusk crept across the sky. Lucian's legs shook with exhaustion, the day's terrors wearing on him. The brand remained a steady warmth, fueling his anxiety rather than soothing it. Around a bend in the road, he stumbled upon a patch of scorched farmland, fence posts half-burnt, a few withered crops rustling in the breeze. Nothing living in sight.
He cast a glance over his shoulder, certain something had trailed him earlier. Nothing but tall grass waved in the wind. Heart pounding, he quickened his pace. Suddenly, a growl rumbled from behind a nearby cart's remains. He froze, scanning the gloom. The silhouette of a wolf lurking. For a tense moment, he held his breath. The growl faded, pawsteps retreating.
Exhaling shakily, he pushed on, forcing his aching body over a small ridge. The setting sun lit the horizon in fiery reds and purples, and in that dim light, he could make out a faint glow ahead—likely torches from a settlement. Relief mingled with fear. If it was the cult, he'd be caught; if it was an ordinary town, he might be saved.
Each step felt heavier. By the time he reached the crest, sweat dripped into his eyes. A battered signpost leaned precariously, letters too faded to read. Past it, the dirt road continued toward flickers of light in the far distance. He half-stumbled against the signpost, chest heaving. The brand's pulses matched the frantic beat of his heart.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he forced himself forward. The brand's warmth never fully cooled—always that faint glow beneath his bandages. Don't stop, he told himself. Just keep moving.
The sky darkened, stars pricking through the veil of smoke and clouds. He walked until his legs threatened to collapse. Finally, he spotted a stand of scraggly trees, their branches beckoning in the gloom. Hoping for a night's shelter, he veered off the road, finding a hollow under exposed roots.
Collapsing onto the dirt, he panted, hunger gnawing at his insides. The brand flared painfully, as though annoyed he wasn't forging ahead. He pressed a hand over it.
Fatigue overcame him. He dozed fitfully, haunted by images of robed figures chanting. In one nightmare, flames licked at his ankles as they pinned him, the brand glowing bright. He woke in a cold sweat, the brand pulsing with an echo of that fiery pain.
Somewhere in the distance, a predator howled, but it didn't draw closer. Curling into a tight ball, Lucian drifted back to uneasy sleep, determined to push on at dawn. That faint glow in the distance was his only hope.
When the sky paled, he roused himself with shaky determination. The brand's throbbing guided him onto the road again, each step bringing him nearer to what he prayed was a real settlement. The more it glowed, the more certain he felt that people lived there. People who might help, or at least not try to sacrifice him.
At last, as sunrise bathed the land in soft gold, he crested a final slope. Below lay patches of farmland, fences in better shape, and beyond them, modest walls that hinted at a town. Smoke rose from chimneys, and tiny figures moved about. Lucian's chest clenched with emotion. He had found life.
His knees buckled, relief and exhaustion washing over him. The brand pulsed one last hot flare, then settled to a faint hum. He stared at the walled place, uncertain whether it would accept him or cast him out. Yet he had no other options.
Steeling himself, he pushed the final distance, stumbling over uneven ground. As he drew closer, he saw a farmhouse, a barn, and a dirt path leading toward the town's gate.