The Mark

The voice slithered through my skull like a serpent.

"KILL."

A cold sweat broke across my skin as the presence coiled around my thoughts.

"DEVOUR THEM ALL."

My vision swam, the world tilting on its axis. The mark pulsed in time with my racing heart—a drumbeat of violence.

"FEED ME!" The command tore through me with jagged teeth.

Across the cavern, the old man staggered under the assault of five branded fighters. His nose bled freely now, crimson streaks painting his weathered face.

"Lay low, you dimwits," he growled, raising a trembling hand. The air itself seemed to buckle as gravitational force crushed two attackers into the stone floor with sickening cracks.

But three remained standing.

"We've already seen your tricks, old man," sneered a lanky fighter, his mark glowing ominously.

The sword felt alien in my grip—too light, too eager. Yet as I stepped forward, the mark's whispers crescendoed into a roar.

Then light.

Blinding, searing light erupted from the lanky fighter's brand.

"It's my mark!" he crowed. "The Radiance of—"

"Light. How original." The old man spat blood, squinting through the glare. "I've crushed brighter fools than you."

Shadows moved in the brilliance. A blade whistled toward the old man's exposed back—

—And met steel.

Our swords clashed with a shower of sparks, my body moving before conscious thought. The mark sang its approval as I pivoted, driving my knee into the attacker's gut.

"You—" the branded fighter gasped, eyes wide.

The old man's fist connected with his temple before he could finish.

As the body crumpled, the remaining two fighters hesitated. The mark in my palm burned hotter.

"Well?" the old man grinned, wiping his mouth.

"Who's next?"

The others faltered, their prey shining with smoldering coals as terror gripped them.

"WHAT'S TAKING YOU SO LONG!?"

The captive within me raged. It struck at my skull, cursing, shrieking—

"KILL."

"CONSUME THEIR SOULS."

"FEAST ON THEM."

Each of the words was a rusty spike hammered into my brain. My hands shook helplessly, fingers spastic on the hilt of my stolen sword.

"Kid, are you all right?" The voice of the old man was reed-thin, worn around the edges. Blood poured down his chin, his breath shallow.

They saw it too—our vulnerability. Their fear intensified into hunger.

"EAT!"

"THEM!"

And my arm shifted.

The brand uncoiled—black veins erupted from my skin, writhing up my arm like serpents. My body darkened, hardened, and reshaped. Bones snapped, tendons shattered, and re-welded themselves. Agony seared me, white-hot and boundless. I screamed.

"Kid!" The old man stumbled towards me.

"S-Stop!" I gagged. "DON'T GET ANY CLOSER TO ME!"

But too late already. My right arm was no longer under my control. It throbbed with its own separate life, fingers hooking into claws, skin tearing to show muscle glinting with something else. The veins wriggled up to my jawline, boring deeper.

"IT'S OUR CHANCE!" one of the attackers shrieked.

The mark moved before I did.

"THANKS FOR THE MEAL."

My voice was not mine. It seeped from my mouth, hungry and raw.

Then—

The killing began.

To Be Continued