Page 86 of Marked By the Enemy
The lord from the tropics of Thornroot sat near the wolves each night, never speaking, but always listening. He squatted, opened his pouch, and began crushing leaves between his dark fingers.
“She has a bacterial infection in her lungs, and it will kill her if she doesn’t have some medicine. Luckily, I studied tropical herbology as a hobby. These miravera leaves always work.”
“Will she live?”
Without answering, Lord Jeyin pressed the pulp to Nessa’s temples, her chest, and whispered something under his breath. Nessa’s breath hitch, steady again. By noon, Nessa was upright again, leaning on Ulric. I stayed close the rest of the day.
The weather stayed cruel. One night, the wind tore two tents down. Another day, the river near our camp flooded, and we doubled back, adding half a day to the journey.
But still we walked.
Darian kept the pace steady. At night, he took the worst watch shifts. When the rain started again, he built a lean-to with his bare hands and gave it to the pregnant woman.
I watched the way Prince Darian strolled through the camp at dusk. He only spoke when people asked him questions.
Our eyes met. Something caught and didn’t let go. I didn’t look away. I was afraid of what lived inside him now, the thing the Bone Seat had passed through his blood.
I wanted him. Not for the bond, but for the loneliness I saw matching mine. Our tether between us didn’t matter. Loneliness still recognized both our names.
It took us eight days to reach the edge of the known path. Fifty-five people. Dozens of marks. Four wolves. Two falcons. One memory rising behind us. And ahead, the Keep was waiting for us.
A few days had passed since we returned to the old keep—our quiet, crumbling home that now held nearly a hundred. Smoke hung in the air each morning, clinging to wool and fingers and drifted upward from the fire pits we never let go out.
The middle of fall pressed in around us. Leaves turned brittle before they dropped, the trees stripping themselves bare. The sun rose low. The nights bit deeper.
More arrived each day. Tired, marked, half-frozen. Many travelled a great distance and arrived with empty stomachs. Some had children. Others carried bundles that weren’t food, weren’t tools—just the last small pieces of what they’d refused to leave behind.
Most bore three full circles. The ones who did were fed and counted. Shown the tents. Given a task. Some knew how to boil water or tan hides. Others knewnothing but fear. That was enough. Fear meant they had seen the Bone Seats and chosen not to kneel.
Those with only one circle were turned away. We couldn’t risk it. The bond didn’t flare with them. They couldn’t walk the corridor. Some begged. Some cursed. Some tried to lie, but the vow always caught it. Fen turned them back with a flat voice and without apology.
But the remnants were different. If they had broken free, if they could name what held them, if their eyes still recognized themselves—we let them through the gate.
One woman limped in barefoot and silent. The half-formed shapes on her inner arm had been burned. The scars were fresh. But pain had jarred her loose from forgetting, and her empty shell of a consciousness was filling again.
Branwen caught her when she collapsed and held her until she remembered the name she’d buried. It came out as a whisper. It followed as a vow. The gleaming purple patterns dimmed, and two shifted, forming a pair of complete circles.
I’m unsure how we helped a remnant to become a marked. It simply happened when she remembered her name. Maybe it was the land where we were living. Maybe it was because she was in our presence. We gave her a bed near the forge and a blanket that had belonged to Darian.
One early morning, when the winter sky was still black and the fat waning moon sank low, the marked ones gathered in the largest fighting circle. More still came quietly.
The corridor had not reopened since the night before we’d left, but its imprint lingered in skin and stone. I sat by the dying fire. Darian stood near the gate. Nothing moved, but the stillness felt like a breath caught in the throat.
Branwen came with Willow. They sat beside me without asking.
“She dreamed again,” Branwen said.
I turned to Willow. “The corridor?”
She shook her head. “A name that wanted to be remembered.”
Darian looked over. “Whose?”
“I don’t know. But it started with an L.”
Cold slid down my spine. “The vow keeps more than we know. Even what we haven’t found yet.”
Others gathered—slowly at first. Then more. Lina, her curls braided back now, a line of flour still on her cheek. Ruen with his carved staff. Nessa Tidehook, getting over her pneumonia and leaning on Ulric’s arm. Lymseia, quiet-eyed, folding blankets for the children. Astrid came next, her staff tucked behind her shoulder. Fen Arclay nodded a greeting but didn’t speak. He helped Sael light a new torch.
