(Vladford POV)
(Vladford POV)
Dawn came without pain.
That was how I knew something had changed.
For two years, waking had meant fire—either the absence of it, or the agony of it being torn away from me. Even after the first treatment, I had half-expected the mark to greet me every morning like a clenched fist around my throat.
But when my eyes opened, there was only cold air and the faint smell of damp earth.
I lay still on my cot, staring at the canvas ceiling of the tent as pale light filtered through the seams. Outside, the camp stirred quietly—boots against dirt, the low murmur of voices, the distant clink of armor being adjusted.
My neck burned.
But softly.
Like embers instead of a brand.
I swallowed and lifted a hand, brushing my fingers just shy of the mark. Habit stopped me before I could touch it.
Don't provoke it.
The mage's voice echoed in my head, calm and infuriatingly reasonable.
Resistance feeds it.
I sat up slowly.
