Fate of the Marked

Rest

Standing there alone amidst the ruins of Frostmere, the oppressive silence pressing in from all sides, I couldn't shake the weight settling in my chest. The fight was over, Malric's madness was silenced, but there was no triumph in it.

I looked around at the remains of what once was a village. Scattered rubble, bloodstains long dried into the cracked earth, and the remnants of lives now extinguished. A cold breeze swept through, carrying with it the faintest trace of decay.

Is there anything I can do?

The thought gnawed at me, as futile as it felt. I'd come here to investigate, to see what happened, and maybe to stop whatever was responsible. And I had. But Frostmere was still gone. The people who laughed, who worked, who lived here—they weren't coming back.

I remembered a time, not so long ago, when Frostmere was filled with life. When Roderick and I had come through, tired from the hunt, but greeted with smiles. A granny, her hands worn from years of baking, had pressed a loaf of bread into my hands. It hadn't been much—dense and a little overcooked—but it was warm. And somehow, that warmth had spread through me, chasing away the fatigue of the day.

Now, that memory felt like it belonged to another life.

I could still taste that bread if I thought hard enough. The crust wasn't great, but the feeling it gave me... that warmth and coziness, that sense of belonging—it was gone now, just like the granny who'd made it, just like everything else.

I gripped my staff tighter, the wood solid and grounding in my hands. But it didn't stop the ache in my chest.

I wasn't naïve. I knew I couldn't bring them back. No spell I'd learned, no magic in this world could undo what Malric and his demons had done. But damn it, I wished there was something—anything—I could do to make this village what it had been again.

Feeling the heavy weight of futility pressing down on me, I turned my gaze to Malric's frozen body. Encased in ice, his gaunt form looked less menacing now, more like a twisted statue than the maniac who had wreaked so much havoc.

He was dead. Stopped. Whatever madness or ambition had driven him, whatever dark force had tainted his soul, it ended here. Frostmere's fate wouldn't be repeated, not by his hand.

And that was something, wasn't it?

This village wasn't far from Hollowbrook—maybe too close for comfort. If Malric had made it there...

I shook the thought away. No point in imagining the horrors he could have unleashed. He didn't make it there. I'd made sure of that.

I stepped closer, staring at the frozen expression locked on his face. Hatred, confusion, and desperation all etched into a mask of ice. The same emotions that had guided his actions, that had brought him to this end.

"Well," I muttered softly, raising the tip of my staff, "guess you won't be turning anywhere else into your 'masterpiece.'"

The cold glow of the ice reflected faintly off the staff as I touched its end to his frozen form.

The moment the wood made contact, the body shattered.

The sound was sharp, echoing in the empty square like glass breaking against stone. Pieces of Malric fell to the ground in jagged shards, scattering across the scorched dirt. No blood. No screams. Just an instant, hollow silence.

I packed my belongings with methodical precision, each motion steady and deliberate, more for keeping my mind busy than anything else. The village was silent around me, save for the occasional rustle of the wind through broken timbers. I cleaned up what I could—not much to tidy in a graveyard—but it gave me a moment to breathe, to center myself after everything.