The cold wind bit into my skin the moment we crossed the tree line.
It was freedom—but it didn't feel like it.
It felt like I was drowning, with every gasp slicing into my throat like blades.
I stumbled, fell to one knee, and clutched my side, the pain flaring from deep within. Halvik's grip tightened under my arm as he hoisted me back up.
"We're not safe yet," he hissed, glancing over his shoulder.
Branches groaned above us like ancient voices. The forest watched but offered no mercy.
We kept moving. No words. Just breath. Blood. Bone.
I couldn't tell how long we ran—through frozen gullies and bramble-thick trails—before Halvik dragged me into the hollow of an old cliffside, shielding me from the wind. He braced the entrance with snow-laden branches, then crouched in front of me.
Only then did he speak.
"They'll search," he said. "But they won't find us tonight."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. The pain in my back was like fire stitched into my skin. I felt raw. Carved open.
But I didn't know why.
---
When I finally slept, it was in pieces.
Dreams bled into memories. Memories bled into nothingness. I saw flashes—blinding lights, stone circles, hands around my throat. I woke up screaming more than once, and every time, Halvik was there.
He didn't speak. Just sat beside me, silent and still, like stone.
The third night, I woke with the sudden urge to rip my own skin open. I tore off the shredded back of my tunic, panting in the darkness. Something itched. Burned.
"Hold still," Halvik murmured.
I froze.
He knelt behind me, hands careful but firm. I felt the fabric peel away, and then his breath caught.
"What?" I rasped. "What's there?"
Silence.
Then he whispered, "They marked you."
I turned, heart hammering. "What does that mean?"
He hesitated. Then, slowly, he said, "It's a formation. Carved into your back. Burned into your skin like a brand. The kind used in ritual bindings."
I felt the breath leave my body.
"I don't remember it."
"I know," he said gently. "You were unconscious most of the time. Or worse..."
I waited.
"You'd wake up screaming," he added, voice cracking. "Then forget everything again."
---
Later, when I could finally breathe without shaking, I asked, "What did they want from me?"
His answer was quiet.
"Your blood. Your mind. Your power. But mostly… they wanted your birthright. They think you're the key to awakening something. Something old."
I looked at him, my fingers trembling around the frayed edge of my sleeve. "They didn't just want me."
"No," he confirmed. "They're hunting Delyrians. They bring them in by the cartload. One by one, they bleed them dry. The Order believes Delyrian blood feeds your awakening."
I recoiled.
"Why didn't I see that?"
"Because you weren't allowed to," he said grimly. "They kept you drugged, or unconscious, or locked away between rituals. You were their vessel. Nothing more."
---
That night, I curled up in the farthest corner of our shelter, and I cried.
I didn't cry because I was weak. I cried because I didn't know what had been taken from me. I cried because I couldn't remember the pain—but my body carried it anyway.
And I cried because Delyrians were being bled for something I didn't ask for. Something I didn't understand.
They were dying to awaken something inside me.
And I was too broken to even stop it.
---
We traveled deeper into the mountains by dawn. I didn't talk much. Halvik led most of the way, quiet and patient, stopping only when my legs shook too badly to continue.
He didn't treat me like a symbol. He didn't call me chosen. He never asked about the marks again.
He just walked beside me, always just close enough to catch me if I fell.
---
Four days out, we found a ruined temple buried beneath the spine. The wind had gutted it long ago, leaving shattered pillars and a cracked dais open to the gray sky.
I sat at its center, breathing in the silence. I didn't know what I was doing there. I only knew that something inside me pulsed when I crossed the threshold.
"I think they tried to awaken something in me," I whispered.
Halvik crouched beside me. "Did they succeed?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
---
That night, I woke again—sweating, trembling, clutching my side as though something was trying to crawl out of me.
The mark on my back burned. I staggered to the cold pool just outside the ruins, stripped down to the waist, and forced myself to look.
I used the mirror-like water's surface as best I could. And there it was.
Twisting spirals. Runes I couldn't decipher. Lines etched into my flesh like a map I was never meant to read.
I touched one—and for a moment, everything else vanished.
I saw a chamber of black stone, lit with silver fire. I saw cloaked figures chanting in a language that made my skin crawl. I saw a girl screaming—but her voice was mine.
Then it was gone.
I fell backward, gasping.
---
When I returned to the ruins, Havilk was already awake. He didn't question the blood on my hands or the red flush crawling down my spine.
"I want to burn them," I whispered.
"The Hollow Order?"
I shook my head.
"The people who made me forget."
---
We left before dawn. This time, I led.
I didn't know where we were going—but I knew what we were walking toward.
Answers. Vengeance. Truth.
Maybe all of it.
Maybe none.
But I would never let another Delyrian bleed in my name again.
If something was waking inside me, then I would learn to command it.
Not for them.
Not for prophecy.
For every name I'd forgotten.
For every scream I never heard.
For every drop of blood spilled in silence.
---
I wasn't a vessel.
I wasn't a weapon.
I was Delbeyrah.
And I was coming home.