The village was quiet in the early morning, the golden light of dawn filtering through mist that hung low over the fields. Leon sat cross-legged on the edge of the training ground, eyes closed, his arms bare and stretched before him. The Mark pulsed faintly along his skin, black lines that seemed to thrum in response to his heartbeat.
Elyra stood silently behind him, hands folded, her cloak brushing the grass. "Focus, Leon," she said softly. "The Marks are not simply tools. They are extensions of your own mind. If you are not steady, they will consume you."
Leon's jaw clenched. "I don't care if they consume me," he muttered. "I have to be ready. I have to… fight back."
Elyra's silver eyes softened. "And that is exactly why you must learn restraint. Power without control is death."
He opened his eyes, staring at the Mark of Death along his forearm. He flexed his hand and felt it pulse in response, a cold, heavy thrum beneath his skin. Death's essence whispered faintly at the edges of his perception—an almost inaudible murmur, warning, teasing, testing.
"Start small," Elyra instructed. "Reach into the Mark. Feel it, but do not pull it out. Do not let it dominate you. Begin by drawing energy into your senses."
Leon nodded, focusing. He inhaled slowly, counting in his head. One… two… three… The Mark vibrated faintly, responding to his will, as though acknowledging his intent. He extended his other hand and allowed the energy to spread into his fingertips.
The first spark was nothing. A faint warmth, almost like static brushing across his skin. But then it grew—a heartbeat. Two. Three. The Mark throbbed, a pulse that reached into his mind, drawing fragments of fear, memory, and instinct into a focused edge of perception.
Leon gasped. Pain flared in his arm as Death tested him, the sense of mortality pressing down with every beat. His vision shimmered, shadows dancing at the corner of his sight. Too fast… too fast… slow… control…
He shook his head, forcing his breath steady. I am stronger than fear. I am stronger than them.
A week passed in a blur of sweat, blood, and trembling muscles. Leon practiced daily, sometimes through the night, until his body ached and his mind frayed at the edges. Elyra guided him, correcting his posture, whispering instruction when his focus faltered, and warning him when the Marks began to push back.
"Death is not merely destructive," she told him one evening as Leon collapsed against the grass, gasping. "It is awareness, Leon. It measures life and consequence. Pull too hard, and it will leave nothing of you but hollow certainty."
Leon closed his eyes, seeing flashes of the battlefield—the church, Vaelith, Skabelse, all of them towering above him in cosmic scale. He felt the Marks hum, their energy resonating with his fear, his anger, his desire to protect. Slowly, deliberately, he let that energy flow into his legs, into his chest, into the tips of his fingers.
A whisper of power responded. Not enough to strike a god—but enough to feel weight in the world, to sense edges of life and death around him. He could detect the rhythm of a nearby insect, the slow pulse of sap in the training trees, the faint trace of magic lingering in the soil. The Marks were teaching him perception—teaching him to read the world.
Then came the first violent flare.
Leon reached too far, his mind desperate to grasp more than the Marks would give. Energy erupted along his arm, black and jagged, cracking the earth beneath him. He screamed, falling backward as the raw power recoiled, throwing him across the dirt like a ragdoll.
Elyra was immediately at his side, her hands glowing faintly. She pressed them over his wound, the energy of her presence stabilizing him. "Control, Leon! Always control!" she shouted.
Panting, blood running from a split lip, Leon stared at the marks on his arm, glowing faintly in the waning light. "I… I thought I could do more," he whispered, voice shaking. "I thought I could… channel it fully."
"Not yet," Elyra said, her voice calm but sharp. "You felt their limits. That is a lesson. Power without discipline is as deadly to you as to your enemies. Every overreach brings you closer to annihilation."
Leon's body trembled, but beneath the fear, a thread of exhilaration wove itself into his terror. He had felt the Marks respond fully for the first time. Not enough to face Vaelith—but enough to understand that he could grow, that he could change.
The sun dipped below the horizon as Leon sat in the dirt, the Marks pulsing faintly in the cooling air. Elyra watched him silently, her presence both comforting and unsettling. "Tomorrow, we go further," she said. "You will learn to summon energy beyond perception, to let the Marks guide action without fear. But tonight…"
Leon nodded, exhausted but restless. He gazed at his forearm, tracing the lines of the Marks with his fingers. "Tonight…" he muttered, almost to himself. "I'll remember… I'll prepare."
The village beyond the training ground lay quiet, lanterns flickering against the encroaching darkness. The wind carried distant laughter from those unaware of the cosmic war looming above them, and Leon felt the fragile pulse of hope stir beneath the weight of despair.
Even with the Marks humming beneath his skin, even with Elyra's guidance, he knew:
The gods would come. And he was not ready.
But he also knew, with cold determination, that he could not stop. Not yet.
He curled into a small ball on the grass, arms drawn close, tracing the lines of the Marks with trembling fingers. Death pulsed faintly beneath his skin, a heartbeat he could feel in his bones. And for the first time since Vaelith had placed him on his knees, Leon allowed himself to whisper a vow:
"I will learn… even if it kills me."
The evening stretched on, quiet and unresolved, the prelude to a storm that had already begun in the heavens.
Leon drifted in and out of a fitful half-sleep, the cool night pressing against his skin as he lay on the dew-soaked grass. The Marks throbbed faintly beneath his fingers, each pulse a reminder of the power he had barely begun to grasp. Even in sleep, visions came—flickers of Vaelith standing over him, Skabelse's shadowed figure looming, cities crumbling under unseen divine wrath.
He muttered in his sleep, a whisper carried on the evening breeze. "I… I'm sorry, Krieg…" The words were barely audible, lost beneath the rustle of leaves. The god who had given him strength, who had entrusted him with the Marks… would they see what he had done? Could they forgive his weakness?
Elyra had not spoken of Krieg directly, but Leon remembered—the power, the gifts, the burden. Each Mark on his arm was a fragment of what had been granted, and yet each fragment carried its own hunger. He had stolen Lou's Death Mark, yes, but he had only begun to awaken it. The others remained distant, almost silent, as if mocking his impatience.
A cold wind stirred, pulling Leon from dreams into a shiver of awareness. The world felt unreal—edges sharpened unnaturally, colors muted as though a shadow had crept over the village. He blinked, trying to orient himself, but the Marks throbbed in tandem with his heartbeat, black lines tracing cold paths along his forearm.
The premonition, he realized. It was happening again, like the first warning he had felt before the confrontation with Vaelith. But this time, it was closer, more immediate. The ground beneath him felt alive, resonating with the faint hum of divine energy he could just barely sense.
He pushed himself upright, forcing his body into a trembling crouch. The village lights flickered in the distance, a fragile barrier against the chaos he could feel pressing at the edges of his senses. Each pulse of the Death Mark sent a shiver through his spine, a reminder that every life, every heartbeat, could be measured, claimed, and undone.
Elyra's voice broke the silence, though she had not been near him. It was a memory, a lesson: "The Marks are not tools. They are mirrors. You will see yourself reflected in them. Fear, anger, hesitation—they will all speak back."
Leon clenched his fists, forcing the cold truth into his consciousness. He had glimpsed the gods' power firsthand. Vaelith had folded reality around him like paper; Skabelse's premonitions loomed like a storm yet to arrive. And yet, here he was, trembling in the dew, a boy with borrowed power and a mind teetering on the edge of collapse.
He pressed his palms to the ground, grounding himself, and drew in a slow, shaking breath. The Marks responded faintly, as though acknowledging his effort. For a moment, he imagined Krieg standing beside him, offering silent encouragement, reminding him that strength was not just measured in victory—it was measured in endurance.
I have to endure, he thought. I have to survive. I have to learn.
The night deepened, and Leon's breathing became steadier. He traced the faint black lines along his arm with trembling fingers, feeling the pulse of Death beneath his skin. Each flicker of sensation was a whisper of warning: push too hard, and it will take you. Yet each pulse also carried potential, a glimpse of the power he could one day wield.
Elyra had told him to start with awareness, to let the Marks guide perception rather than action. But Leon found that even awareness carried weight, a constant reminder of the lives, the battles, and the gods who might undo him with a flick of a hand.
He leaned back against the cool grass, the horizon dark and quiet before him. Lantern light from the village glimmered like distant stars, fragile against the vast, indifferent night. Leon allowed himself to close his eyes, but even then, his mind did not rest. He saw Vaelith's amused expression, felt Skabelse's looming presence, imagined the countless lives he had yet to protect, and whispered once more to the absent god who had given him the strength he so desperately clung to:
"I'm sorry… Krieg. I'll make it right."
The words were almost lost to the night, a quiet promise. The Marks pulsed, faintly at first, then stronger, as if acknowledging both his apology and his determination. And for the first time, Leon felt the subtle stirrings of hope threaded through his exhaustion—a fragile, trembling sense that he might survive this, and perhaps even learn to fight back.
The evening stretched on, quiet and unresolved. The stars glittered faintly above the training ground, indifferent witnesses to a boy who was no longer just a boy, a fledgling warrior on the edge of the impossible. The darkness pressed close, but so did the Marks, and so did the unspoken vow:
I will learn… I will endure… I will fight.
And somewhere beyond the stars, perhaps Krieg had heard him.
The following morning, Leon rose with the first light, muscles sore and arms trembling from the night's practice. The Marks pulsed faintly under his skin, a reminder that the lessons of yesterday were not complete. Elyra had instructed him to rest before continuing, but rest had never been a strength of his.
"Leon," Elyra called softly as she approached, "we will speak with them now. It is time they understand what you carry—and why you must train."
Leon's heart tightened. The village—Rebecca, Carla, Efil, Lynnette, Mina—they would finally see what he had been doing in the shadows, alone on the training grounds. He wanted to hide it all, but Elyra's presence was unyielding, a reminder that some truths could no longer be avoided.
They gathered at the edge of the training field, the morning mist curling around their feet. Leon stepped forward, hands hidden behind him, eyes downcast. Elyra's silver gaze swept over the group, calm and resolute.
"You have all known Leon as a protector, a fighter, a friend," Elyra began, her voice carrying softly over the quiet fields. "What you do not know is the nature of the power he bears—the Marks that run along his forearms."
Rebecca's hand went instinctively to her chest, her eyes wide. "Wait… what? The Marks?" she whispered, voice trembling. "Leon… you've been… hiding this from us?"
Carla's brow furrowed, disbelief spreading across her face. "All those hours you've spent out here alone… bleeding, training… you didn't tell anyone?"
Efil stepped closer, a mix of fear and frustration in her voice. "Why didn't you tell us? Do you have any idea how worried we've been?"
Lynnette's eyes darted between Leon and Elyra, confusion written across her face. "So… all this time, you've been… what? Practicing with something dangerous? Something we couldn't even see?"
Even Mina looked small and uncertain, her voice soft but edged with worry. "Leon… are you… okay? Is it… safe?"
Leon swallowed hard, chest tightening. He wanted to explain, to tell them everything—but even now, he didn't have the words. The Marks throbbed faintly along his forearms, a reminder that this power wasn't just dangerous—it was a burden he had carried in silence.
"Yes," Elyra said, stepping in smoothly, her tone measured. "Leon has been training in secret because the Marks are not ordinary power. They are fragments of forces far older and far stronger than any human can comprehend. Each Mark represents a cosmic principle, a conduit to a truth that is both potent and perilous. And they are bound to his arms—the channels through which his will interacts with these forces. That is why he must focus, and that is why he cannot show weakness."
Rebecca shook her head, taking a hesitant step forward. "I… I don't even know what to say. You could have—" Her voice broke, caught between fear and disbelief. "You could have been killed… and we wouldn't even have known!"
Elyra nodded, allowing the words to settle. "The Mark of Death, which Leon wields on his right arm, grants him perception of life and mortality itself. It is a power that tests not just his strength, but his sanity. Overreach, and it can consume him. It is why he trained in secret—it is why he had to be alone."
Carla's fists clenched at her sides. "But all of this… hiding it… you shouldn't have carried this alone, Leon. We're supposed to be a team, a family!"
Leon's lips trembled. He wanted to argue, to tell them he had done it to protect them, that he hadn't wanted to risk their lives—or their minds—but his voice caught. Instead, he just nodded faintly, unable to meet their eyes.
Efil's tone softened slightly, but still carried concern. "I get it… I think. You were trying to protect us. But… you need to trust us, too. We can't help if we don't know what you're facing."
Mina tugged at his sleeve again, fear laced with innocence. "Leon… promise me you won't do this alone again… okay?"
Leon nodded, the weight of their shock and confusion settling over him like a physical force. He flexed his fingers, the Death Mark pulsing faintly under his skin, a heartbeat echoing his own.
Elyra stepped back, letting the gravity of her explanation hang in the morning air. "These Marks are dangerous, yes. But with care, guidance, and discipline, they can be controlled. Leon has only just begun to awaken their potential. That is why he must continue, and that is why you must understand—his training, his struggle, his silence—it was all to prepare for what is coming."
The group remained silent for a long moment, their faces etched with worry, disbelief, and awe. Leon felt their gazes like weight pressing against him, a mixture of judgment and concern that he had not anticipated.
"I… I'll learn," Leon finally whispered, voice tight, almost pleading. "I'll master this… I'll protect all of you. But I had to do it this way… I had to."
Rebecca swallowed hard, still processing, and finally said, "Just… promise us you won't shut us out again. No more secrets. Not if this is what you're facing."
Leon nodded again, the tremor in his hands and heart mirrored in the pulse of the Marks on his forearms. Elyra's silver eyes glimmered faintly in the early morning light. "Then begin again," she instructed. "Feel the Marks. Listen. Respect their power. Only then will they answer, and only then will you survive what is coming."