Fate of the Marked

Landed

I rested my weight on my staff, my body still buzzing from the fight. Rowan, ever composed, cleaned his lance with calm efficiency.

"She didn't leave a mark," Rowan noted, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, analytical. "Hastira wasn't like the others we've encountered. She was a lesser demon—powerful, yes, but not of the same rank as the ones marked by sin."

Susan tilted her head, her brow furrowing. "So, that's why I..." She hesitated, her hand brushing over her chest.

"That's why you didn't get marked," Rowan finished. "The true demons, the ones like Lucian or Astaroth, leave behind something far worse than physical scars. They stain your very soul. Hastira wasn't one of them."

I nodded slowly, processing his words. It made sense. The weight of the mark I bore had always felt like a curse, a constant reminder of the demons' lingering presence. If Hastira had been one of them, Susan would have shared that burden.

But before anyone could respond, the sea began to churn violently beneath us.

"What now?" Torran barked, his voice filled with exasperation as the ship trembled beneath the growing waves.

I turned toward the dark horizon, my heart sinking as the rumbling intensified. The water surged upward, forming towering, frothing waves that rocked the ship. And then, from the depths, something emerged.

A massive figure rose slowly from the sea, water cascading off its broad, muscular frame. The creature stood far taller than any of us, towering over the ship as though it were no more than a toy. Its skin shimmered like wet obsidian, and its arms were thick with muscle, veins pulsating with a faint, eerie glow. In its massive hands, it held not one, but two colossal tridents, each as imposing as the figure itself. Upon its head sat a crown carved from coral and bone, its jagged edges gleaming in the dim light.

The very air seemed to still as the figure loomed over us, exuding a regal, almost divine presence.

Torran's voice cracked the silence. "My King," he whispered, and then, as though compelled by some unseen force, he dropped to his knees, bowing low.

The elven crew followed immediately, their faces pale with reverence and fear. Eryon glanced at me with wide eyes before he too knelt, his axes trembling in his grip. Susan, visibly shaken, sank to one knee, her earlier confidence replaced with something closer to awe.

I hesitated for a moment, then followed suit, lowering myself to the deck. My body moved on instinct, bowing before the figure whose presence seemed to demand it.

Everyone knelt.

Everyone, except Rowan.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He stood tall and defiant, his lance resting at his side. His face remained impassive, his piercing gaze fixed on the towering figure before us. If he felt fear—or awe—he gave no sign of it.

The massive being finally spoke, its voice a deep, resonant growl that echoed across the waves and seemed to shake the very air around us.

The air grew impossibly still as the King spoke, his deep voice resonating like the very pulse of the ocean itself.

"Am I too late?" he asked, his glowing eyes scanning the wreckage of the ship's deck and the bloodied remains of his kin.

Torran, still kneeling, bowed his head lower. "Yes, my King. I'm sorry for that."

The King's massive shoulders shifted as he sighed, his breath a gale that seemed to ripple through the sea itself. "No. It's not your fault." He gestured toward the remnants of Issathel. "He was our youngest, untested and unprepared. But tell me this—did you slay the one responsible for this atrocity?"