Fate of the Marked

Drakemire

The past six months had been a blur of blood, frost, and endless walking. Rowan and I had covered so much ground together, venturing deeper into the heart of the continent, but with every step forward, the weight of the world seemed to press heavier on my shoulders.

According to Rowan, we were heading straight for the epicenter of this chaos—a place where the war against Astoroth's forces burned hottest. The thought sent a chill through me, and not just from the biting winter air. If this was truly where we might find Astoroth, then we were walking straight into the lion's den.

It wasn't just the thought of facing another demon, though. It was what we'd seen on the way here.

So many soldiers—men and women who had once marched with purpose, with dreams of victory in their eyes—now dragged themselves along the roads like specters. Bloodied, broken, and hollow. Their faces haunted me. No songs of glory or camaraderie, just the silent, shared knowledge that they were losing. That we were losing.

This was the biggest continent in the world. If Astoroth's forces crushed it under their heel, there would be nothing left. No one left. That knowledge gnawed at the edges of my mind, even as I tried to focus on the next step forward.

And it was so cold.

Winter had crept in, stealing what little comfort the road had to offer. The nights were the worst. I slept curled into myself, wrapped in layers and blankets, with a heating spell pressed close to my skin. But even magic couldn't ward off the chill completely.

It didn't help that Rowan's snoring could probably bring down a mountain.

I tried everything—kicking his tent, shouting his name, even throwing rocks at it once. Nothing worked. So now, every night, I cast a muffling spell over my ears just to have a chance at sleep. If anything, it was good practice for precision magic.

He didn't mean to annoy me, of course. Rowan was... Rowan. Unshakable, pragmatic, and frustratingly calm no matter what we faced. I envied that about him sometimes. While I lay awake overthinking every detail of our journey, Rowan seemed content to take everything in stride, like even the end of the world couldn't bother him.

Maybe that's why he was still alive after everything. And maybe that's why I couldn't help but trust him.

Still, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel... something. Fear, maybe. A flicker of doubt in the back of my mind. We were heading straight for Astoroth, the strongest of them all. The soldiers were proof of his power, and they were just the edge of his army. What were the two of us supposed to do against that?

I shook the thought from my head, focusing on the crunch of snow underfoot. I didn't have time to doubt myself. Not now. If we didn't stop Astoroth, who would? If this continent fell, so did the world. And I wasn't about to let that happen.

Not while I was still standing. Not while I could still fight.

The icy wind howled through the narrow clearing, snow swirling like a living thing around the towering beast in front of us. Its hulking frame loomed against the backdrop of skeletal trees, muscles rippling under frost-covered fur. It was a Coldbear—a monstrous predator that was half beast, half nightmare, with jagged, ice-coated claws and fangs that seemed to glint with their own cold light.

It let out a roar that sent vibrations through the frozen ground, its breath a plume of mist in the bitter air. My staff was already in my hands, a shield spell ready to go at a moment's notice, but honestly? It felt unnecessary.

I glanced at Rowan, and sure enough, he was already walking toward the Coldbear like it was nothing more than a mildly annoying housecat. His lance was at his side, the sharp tip faintly gleaming as he carried it with the ease of a seasoned warrior.