Luckborn

Marcus bit into a yellow apple he'd just purchased from a vendor, savoring the sweet juice as it escaped his lips and ran down his chin.

The vendor hadn't spoken a word—just stared as he counted out his coin. Her eyes had flicked, briefly, to the pale, warped scars that crept up from beneath his collar and curled beneath his jaw like vines.

It wasn't revulsion. Not exactly.

It was caution. A pulling back. Like he might crack open at any moment and spill something unholy across her cart.

He wiped his chin with the back of his sleeve and moved on.

Aurelia was beautiful in the morning, just before the bustle began. Marcus walked slowly, relishing the quiet rhythm of the city coming alive: boots on cobblestones, the hiss of kettles behind shaded windows, temple bells marking the hour. He didn't know exactly how long it had been since he'd walked these streets. Weeks, certainly. Weeks of recovering from the psychological trauma of being trapped in the Shadow Realm for so long.

When his senses finally returned, Brother Harneth had plied him with question after question. And Marcus had confessed. It was his duty. Confession and absolution.

Except Harneth had not offered absolution.

Instead, the older priest had listened with a careful, almost clinical distance. Not cold, but cautious. He had taken notes. He had summoned others. Marcus found himself repeating the story of his fall and return a dozen times, always under scrutiny.

Harneth called it concern. Safety. Recovery protocol.

Marcus called it what it was: evaluation.

They moved him from the infirmary to his quarters, but he was not free. There were daily check-ins. No outside visitors. No communion. No duties. They watched for signs of corruption, signs that the Shadow Realm had left a deeper mark. He'd been cleansed—ritually, prayerfully, thoroughly—but they knew what Kaos could do to a man. How it whispered. How it lingered.

They weren't wrong.

The paranoia hadn't faded easily. For days, Marcus had kept a shard of mirror hidden beneath his mattress so he could check the corners of his room without turning his head. He'd slept in fits, waking at the slightest creak. The worst of it had passed. But even now, in the clean light of morning, he watched shadows longer than he used to.

Eventually, Drevan Caul himself had come.

The High Conduit had offered no praise. No sympathy. Only silence as he studied Marcus from across a plain wooden desk.

"You are… stable," Caul had said at last, choosing his words like a man navigating a minefield. "But changed."

Marcus had nodded. "Yes."

"And you were not destroyed," Caul said. "Which speaks to your strength. But even the strongest blade becomes brittle when left in the fire too long. It must be tempered before it can be wielded."

"Then temper me."

Caul's lips thinned. "That is not a task to be rushed."

"Many times since returning," he said, voice low and careful, "you have spoken of the need for justice. Of finding the boy who defied you."

"Not me," Marcus interrupted. "Caelum. I was but the messenger."

Caul's expression didn't change, but his fingers tapped once against the table. "So you say. And yet you speak His name with clenched fists."

Marcus looked away. He couldn't deny it. Not truthfully.

Caul sighed—long, low, heavy. "I do not and cannot know the purpose Caelum has set for you. His will is layered. Obscured. But I know a lust for vengeance in a man's eyes when I see it."

He let the words settle before continuing.

"Justice is not vengeance, Brother Marcus. Vengeance is personal. Justice is Divine."

Marcus met his gaze. "And if the two happen to align?"

"They rarely do," Caul said softly. "That is the trap. Vengeance feels righteous when your wounds are fresh. It whispers that your pain is proof of purpose."

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"And it isn't?" Marcus asked.

Caul studied him, not like a priest judging a soul, but like a craftsman examining a cracked blade. Testing whether it still held its edge.

"Pain proves that you are human," he said at last. "What you do with it… that is what determines whether you are still worthy of calling down the Divine."

That struck deeper than any rebuke.

"Patience," Caul had said finally. "Let the fire pass through you. Let it burn away what must be burned. Then—and only then—may you be forged anew."

Marcus hadn't argued. He hadn't needed to. The truth was already settling into place.

And so, he had begun to return to life—slowly, quietly, walking the old paths.

He crossed a small bridge near the canal where old men often gathered to feed birds. A boy there stopped mid-skip at the sight of him. The child's expression froze—not with curiosity or awe, but something closer to fear. He reached for the hand of an older sibling, and they hurried away.

Marcus frowned, more puzzled than wounded.

He passed a mural being painted—young artists on ladders adding halos to stylized saints. One of them caught sight of him and quickly looked away. Not one offered him a greeting.

It hadn't always been like this. He remembered how people once greeted a Divine Conduit: bowed heads, reverent murmurs, requests for blessings. Now they gave him space.

Too much space.

A polished window caught his reflection—deep shadows under his eyes, the pale distortion of scar tissue creeping along one side of his face. He looked like something clawed from the wreckage of a dream.

He turned from it.

At a small square beneath the Temple of Caelum, he stopped. A statue stood at its center—marble, tall, serene. The Patron, hand extended, sword lowered.

Marcus stared up at it, the last bite of apple sweet on his tongue.

"You sent me into the dark," he whispered—not in anger, but acknowledgment. "And you brought me back. Even though I failed. Why?"

The answer came without force. It rose from within him, quiet and clean.

He had walked the edge of death. He had endured the madness of the Shadow Realm. He had survived.

And in doing so, he had seen the rot beneath the world's surface.

The System was flawed. It lifted the wrong people. It empowered the unworthy and let the wicked slip through.

Justice wasn't vengeance. Justice was order. And order demanded that rot be cut away.

If the Shadow Realm had forged him into a weapon, it was not a sword, but a scalpel—sharp, clean, precise.

He would not rage. He would not shout.

He would wait.

And when the time came, he would do what had to be done.

***

"Is there a map of the marsh around here?" Otter asked.

"Yes," said Fridley, as he began rifling through some papers.

"Why do we need a map?" asked Jasper. "We have an objective. Our wrisplays should lead us right to them."

"Yours might," said Otter. "But mine doesn't work, remember. It always points north like a regular compass. That's not why I want a map, anyway. It's always a good idea to study the terrain before walking into it. Especially if we're expecting an ambush."

"Jasper, haven't you ever had a 'Find such and such' objective?" asked Erin. "Your compass only leads you to the general vicinity. And a lot of times, the most direct path is not the best path."

Jasper considered this new information and simply shrugged. "Good to know."

Fridley found the map, such as it was, and handed it to Otter, who spread it out on the table.

"Ugh, this is terrible." He pointed at a couple of spots on the crudely drawn map. "This is the outpost. There's Myrrh Fen." There were a few other named locations on the map, but it looked like something a toddler had drawn. "There's not much information on here about other notable features."

Fridley glared at him. "That's because it's all marsh. Mud and water in every direction. Not much variation."

While that might seem true to the layperson, Otter knew better. Even a marsh like this had peculiarities: high spots good for camping, pools too deep to traverse, paths where a current would flow faster than others. All these details were important to note on a map. Not to mention accurate distances. "Any idea why or how Myrrh Fen got named?"

Fridley shrugged.

"Okay then. Looks like I'll be fleshing this out as we go."

"What's the plan?" Sage asked. "Do we head straight for the Fen?"

"I think we follow the others' trail. What if they got waylaid and didn't make it all the way there? What if they veered off the path? Erin?"

She nodded thoughtfully. "That's smart. If they were ambushed or slowed down, we might find signs before we get to the Fen. I'll do my best to follow their trail, but I can't promise it'll hold. A lot of time has passed since they left."

"Do what you can," Otter said. "We'll move slow and keep our eyes open."

Everyone shouldered their packs and headed outside.

The sun was obscured by a thin cloud cover, but the humidity seemed to have increased. Milo muttered something about the foul conditions unbecoming of a scholar.

Erin relocated the trail from the night before with ease, and they fell in behind her. They followed the faint trail in single file, weapons close at hand. The group moved carefully, letting her lead and calling quiet halts whenever the path became uncertain.

After less than half an hour, Erin stopped abruptly, crouching again. She studied the surrounding reeds, scraped a patch of moss from a half-sunken root, then stood slowly, shaking her head.

"I lost it," she said. "Too much water. Too much time. The ground here resets itself."

"Can you pick it up again?" Otter asked.

"Maybe, but we could be searching all day and not find it again. If they made it to the Fen, that'll be our best bet."

Otter sighed but nodded. "Alright. Let's keep heading that direction. Keep looking for signs—broken branches, dropped gear. Anything."

"Will do," Erin said, already scanning ahead as they resumed their march.

Otter kept the map close, making notes, adding details when necessary. But the path became more dangerous. Several times, they had to backtrack because the path was swallowed by dark water too deep to wade. They had to pull Milo out of the mud twice. At least his Bug Ward was working.

But Otter swore the biting flies weren't the only things hunting them. Several times, he caught movement off to the side. Reeds swaying without wind, doubtless pushed aside as something big pushed its way through.

He pulled out his slingshot and fired a few stones into the grass. There was no response. No cry of pain or startlement. He hoped he'd scared off whatever was stalking them.