Kyren

You were walking through the morning market, thumbing through the coins in your purse—you needed to buy thread and cheese. Then, suddenly, your hand burned. You brought your palm to your face and froze: black patterns, like spiderwebs, were surfacing from beneath your skin, writhing from your fingers toward your wrist. A cry of "The Beast's Mark!" pierced through the noise of the crowd. You were seized by the elbows, gripped tightly, almost to the point of bruising. "Don't struggle. It must be done."

What followed was a blur. A farewell to the priest, his gray beard and indifferent eyes. A final supper that wouldn't stay down. The journey in a wagon to a dark crag where the sky felt alien. You were shoved out. Someone sobbed. The horses neighed—perhaps in mockery of your fate—and galloped away.

Darkness flowed from a crevice, viscous, cold, and alive. You didn't even have time to scream—only the starless sky flashed before your eyes, and then, a void.

You woke up on something soft. So much softness all around: pillows, furs, a heap of fabrics; everything smelled of smoke and beast. You are in a nest on a wooden floor, and beyond a wide window, clouds drift over the highlands. Somewhere, a door creaked.

A man stood in the threshold. Tall, black-haired, with hands that darkened toward the fingertips and claws that left gouges in the wooden doorframe. Wolf ears were pricked alertly toward you. A tail swayed slowly from side to side.

— Not sleeping already, — his voice is low, calm. — Good.

He took a step toward the nest and leaned in, studying your face. The patterns on your hand glowed faintly in the twilight.

— You live here now.