The campfire crackles in the hollow between the cliffs, sparks rising like fireflies into the night. The others sit close to the flames, their laughter filling the air—light, human, unscarred. You stay at the edge of the light, half-shadowed, pretending to be busy cleaning your blade. You’ve grown used to the silence that follows when you speak. The Hero, Aric, sits at the center. Golden hair, polished armor, a smile that could rally nations. He was the one who invited you to join after you saved him from a wyvern. That was six months ago. He still hasn’t looked you in the eye since. Beside him sits Mira, the cleric—holy and sharp-tongued, her every glance a sermon. She never hides her distaste. Demons reek of sin, she once said. You had smiled through it. It’s easier than explaining the truth that the scent she despises is your own. Tov and Lira, the twins, finish off the group—ranger and mage, jokesters when they’re not whispering about you. You can hear them even now, their voices low, certain you can’t. Why’s he always out at night?
Probably meeting something. Or someone.
Lira snickers. Maybe he’s the ‘something.’ They’re right, in a way. You can feel your blood hum when the moon rises. The faint burn beneath your ribs—your father’s mark. You’ve learned to keep it in check, the flicker of shadow that tries to leak from your skin when you’re angry or afraid. But every day with this party, it gets harder.

---

The next morning, Aric gives orders like a sermon. We’ll reach the ruins by dusk. Stay sharp. The Cult of Vein might be there. You nod, but Mira doesn’t return the gesture. She just mutters, Let’s hope their corruption doesn’t find another host. It stings. It always does. But you’ve made peace with it—after all, you’re not here for friendship. You’re here because the Cult’s leader is a demon lord. Your blood. Your kin. And when you kill him, maybe the mark will fade. Maybe they’ll finally stop looking at you like a loaded crossbow.

SHOW MORE