"You thought you could run from me, Samuel…?"
The words slid into his skull like ice. No echo. No breath. Just presence.
What—?
Sam jolted upright — but he didn't wake.
His hand flew to the medallion at his chest.
Cold.
Dead.
The silence it once offered — gone.
You disobeyed.
Now you pay.
And then — pain.
It didn't burn. It tore.
Something inside his arm snapped and screamed — like a glowing nail hammered straight into bone.
"AAAH—!"
He collapsed, gasping, clutching his forearm like it would tear itself apart.
Pulses of agony raced through him, matching the frantic beat of his heart.
His vision blurred. His skin blistered. The world spun.
And then — something burned into his flesh.
Words.
Carved in living fire.
ONE DAY.
SAPPHIRE EYES.
The humming in his head grew louder — a storm inside his skull.
Too loud. Too fast. Too much—
"Sam…
Samuel…"
A voice.
Not the same. Not that voice.
This one was… warm. Familiar.
A hand reaching through the darkness.
He gasped—
—and woke up.
***
Cold air hit his lungs.
His chest heaved. His shirt clung to sweat-soaked skin.
His hand shot to his forearm.
Still burning.
The blanket slipped away.
And there it was.
The mark.
Still glowing. Still alive.
A deep red brand, pulsing like molten metal just beneath the surface.
Like a wound that wouldn't bleed.
"You alright?"
Albert's voice drifted in, calm but alert.
He peered through the flap.
"You look pale. Want some water?"
Sam tried to swallow. His throat was dry.
"…A dream," he said hoarsely. "A nightmare."
"Mhm. They always are. Fresh air might help. Get out here."
Albert disappeared, leaving behind only the crackle of fire and rustle of pine.
Sam sat still for a moment, his body stiff, heart still running.
He looked at the mark again — then clenched his sleeve over it.
I can't afford to lose her.
Not again.
Not like this.
He whispered under his breath:
"If I don't hurry… I'll lose something. Something about her.
A voice. A face.
I won't let that happen."
He stepped out of the tent.
One arm folded across his ribs, hiding the glow.
The fire was low but steady, casting shifting orange shadows that danced across Albert's face.
The old man knelt beside a corpse — one of the attackers.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked, his voice gravelly.
"Looting the dead," Albert said, like he was talking about chopping firewood.
He didn't look up.
"Sometimes death's more generous than life."
He rummaged through a satchel, pulled out a coin pouch and a worn scabbard, and tossed both toward Sam.
"Catch."
Sam fumbled with the belt.
"I—I don't know how to use a sword."
"You will."
Albert straightened.
"The living learn fast.
The dead don't complain."
Sam sat heavily beside the fire. The belt sagged around his waist.
His arm still pulsed. A dull, toxic heat. Like fire trapped beneath his skin, spreading slow and deep.
"I have magic," he muttered. "That should be enough, right?"
Albert turned his head.
"Magic?"
He sat down beside him, slowly, like a man settling into something heavier than a chair.
"You nearly died from it yesterday."
Then he looked him in the eye.
"Magic isn't power, Sam. It's a blade with no handle."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Heavy. Dangerous. True.
"Every time you cast, it takes something.
Flesh. Strength. Years."
Albert leaned forward, eyes dark with warning.
"Without control, you'll lose more than you gain.
And someone like you? With no training? You're already bleeding, you just don't know it yet."
Sam swallowed hard.
"…Can I train?"
"Yes," Albert said. "Or it'll burn you out. Piece by piece."
"How?"
"Start with the body," he said. "Build it. Harden it.
Then breath. Control it. Own it.
And only then — your will."
His tone changed — colder now. Stripped of warmth.
"Without those, you're not a mage, Sam.
You're fuel."
Silence.
The fire popped. Ash spiraled upward into the night.
Albert's voice dropped lower.
"One more thing. Never tell anyone what you can do.
That you cast without scrolls. Without books."
"Why not?" Sam asked.
Albert didn't blink.
"Because that's not a sin.
It's worse."
"It's fear."
"…I understand."
"I hope you do."
Albert patted him on the back, once.
"Now get up. We have… a guest."
***
The priest was tied to a tree.
His robes were torn. Blood soaked into the collar.
His eyes were wide. Furious. Afraid.
"You'll burn! The bishop will come! You'll be hunted! You hear me, you scum?!"
Albert approached with the ease of someone who had done this before.
"You cried when I broke your finger yesterday," he said. "Now you're brave?"
He stepped forward.
And crushed the man's foot.
Crack.
The scream was shrill. Human. Raw.
"Name. Mission. Who sent you."
"Go to hell!"
Albert unsheathed his knife — slow. Clean.
"Alright! Alright!"
The priest's voice broke. "Just—please—don't—"
Sam stood nearby. His expression unreadable.
Eyes steady. Hands clenched.
A statue made of tension.
"Talk," Albert said again.
"…We hired bandits," the priest panted. "North of here.
They were moving slaves. One escaped."
Sam's heart skipped.
His voice cut in — sharp, desperate:
"Girl. Sapphire eyes. She with them?"
"Yes! Yes—just a mile! Please—don't kill me—I'll show you, I swear!"
"How many men?"
"Eight—maybe more! I didn't count—I don't know—please—"
Sam exhaled. His fingers curled around Kyle's amulet, still warm from his chest.
"…Are we letting him go?" he asked softly.
"He's unarmed," he added. "He gave us what we needed."
Albert didn't answer right away.
He walked to the priest. Looked him in the eye.
"If we let him go…
he'll come back.
With soldiers. With collars. With fire."
Sam didn't speak.
He didn't argue.
He didn't look away.
Albert stared at him for a long, quiet moment.
"Sometimes," he said,
"there is no right choice."
A flash of steel.
A wet sound.
The priest's throat opened like torn paper.
No scream this time — just a gasp, a gurgle, and silence.
The body crumpled.
The fire hissed.
Sam didn't blink.
He watched it all.
Albert cleaned his blade with a strip of cloth. Tossed it into the fire.
"This isn't cruelty," he said quietly.
"This is the cost."
Sam said nothing.
But something changed behind his eyes.
Something cracked.
Something set.
For the first time,
he understood.
Not the magic.
Not the mark.
Not even the voice.
The world.
And the rules it played by.
And the price it demanded.