Fate of the Marked

Malric the Maddened

Or so I thought.

The Stalkers were gone, their charred remains reduced to ash and scattered across the scorched ground. The village fell silent once more, the oppressive hum of growls and snarls replaced by an eerie stillness. I should've felt relief. I should've allowed myself a moment to breathe.

But I didn't.

The air was still thick, too thick, pressing down on me like an invisible weight. The stench of decay and burned fur clung to the humid breeze, but it wasn't just that. There was something else—something heavier, darker, lingering at the edge of my senses.

I gripped my staff tighter, the wood warm beneath my fingers as I turned slowly, scanning the ruins. The hum of magic still tingled faintly in the air around me, a whisper at the back of my mind that I'd learned to trust.

No. This wasn't over.

The villagers of Frostmere might have been caught off guard, but they weren't helpless. They'd survived in the shadow of danger before, facing wolves, wild beasts, and even the Stalker Roderick and I had killed a year ago.

Six Stalkers alone couldn't have done this.

They were vicious, yes. Smart, yes. Deadly in numbers, absolutely. But not enough to reduce an entire village to this level of ruin. Not enough to slaughter every man, woman, and child without so much as a single survivor.

Something else was here.

Something stronger.

I made my way back to the square, the weight in the air pressing down on me harder with every step. The ruins around me looked worse under the midday sun, the cracks and bloodstains more vivid, the silence more oppressive.

And then I saw him.

I'd noticed a figure earlier, just at the edge of my vision when I first entered the village. At the time, I thought it was just another ruined shadow, one of the many lifeless shapes scattered across Frostmere. But now, standing in the square, I saw it clearly.

He stood at the center, back to me, hunched slightly, his head tilted to one side as if he were studying something on the ground. His robes, or what was left of them, clung to his bony frame in tatters, and the faint shimmer of dark magic pulsed faintly around him like a shadow given life.

I tightened my grip on my staff, the glow of my shield spell flickering faintly. "Guess you're the one responsible for this mess," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than him.

As if hearing me, the figure straightened, his movements sharp and jerky, like a puppet pulled upright by its strings. He didn't turn right away, but the faint crackle of energy that ran along his frame sent a chill down my spine.

When he finally turned, I felt my stomach drop.

His face was pale, gaunt, and stretched thin over a skeletal structure that looked barely human. Veins of dark energy pulsed under his skin, glowing faintly like magma trapped beneath the surface. And his eyes—black pits with flickering red cores—locked onto me with a gleam that was equal parts amusement and malice.

"Well, well," he said, his voice sharp and sing-song, like the kind of lullaby you wouldn't want sung to you at night. "A visitor. How delightful."

I tightened my grip on my staff, the air around me crackling faintly as I prepared myself for whatever this thing was. "Let me guess," I said, my voice steady despite the growing tension in my chest. "You're the one who turned Frostmere into your personal art exhibit."

The man—or whatever he was—grinned, his sharp teeth catching the light. "Oh, my dear, you flatter me," he said, spreading his arms as if presenting himself to an adoring crowd. "Though 'art exhibit' is a bit crude. I prefer to think of it as... a masterpiece."