The gates slam shut behind me with a final, resounding thud. The sound echoes in my head as I stand there, staring at the closed, rusted iron. The world beyond is gone. The Delmire Manor, the family, the life I knew—it's all behind me now. All I have left is this chest, the weight of it heavy against my ribs.

  I don’t know what to do. I can’t even feel my feet on the ground. It’s like I’m floating, like I’m not really here. I never thought I’d end up like this. Thrown out like trash. Alone.

  I can hear voices in the distance, but I don’t move. The air is thick with dust. The street in front of me is cracked and littered with broken bits of glass, empty bottles, and discarded scrap. People pass by, their eyes either too tired to care or too wary to get too close. I am nothing here. My magic is useless—just a weak gift, a curse I can’t even control.

  The Uncalled. The ones they toss away. That’s what I am now.

  Stupid power!

  The thought eats at me. My chest tightens, and I can’t breathe.

  “Hey, kid!”

  I jump, my heart leaping into my throat. A figure stands a few feet away, leaning against a rotting building. His clothes are torn, his face worn from years of living here. The sword on his belt is a dull, rusty mess.

  He eyes me up and down, taking in the chest I clutch tightly. “You lost?”

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out. My voice is stuck in my throat, a sharp ache I can’t swallow away. How am I supposed to talk to him? How am I supposed to ask for help?

  “I… I was exiled,” I manage to say, my voice shaking. “From the Delmire family. They… they sent me here.”

  The man just laughs, a hollow, humorless sound. “Yeah, they all do. You’re not the first, kid. Won’t be the last. Welcome to Deadreach.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  Deadreach.

  That’s the name of this place. I can barely even process it. My heart is pounding so loudly I can’t think straight. It’s like everything is spinning. I’m going to die here. I know it. I was already useless in the manor.

  Now I’m just… nothing.

  “You’re in for a rude awakening,” the man says, pushing off the wall. “Deadreach doesn’t care about your name, your magic, or your family. You want to survive here, you follow the rules. First rule: keep your head down.”

  I can barely focus on his words. My brain keeps flashing between the Zenith, where the Answered live in comfort, and this place. The Hollows. The lawless, brutal land outside the gates.

  Survive, I echo quietly.

  I’m not going to survive here.

  How can I? I can’t even walk through the streets without feeling like the world is closing in on me. I’m a child, barely thirteen, thrown into this hellhole with nothing. Not even enough magic to protect myself.

  “Don’t trust anyone,” the man adds, stepping closer. “Not even me. People here take what they want. If you want something, you fight for it.”

  I nod, not knowing what else to do. He turns to leave, but before he walks off, he looks back at me. “And you won’t get close to the Zenith. The guards there don’t let the likes of you through. Not anymore.”

  Zenith. I can see it now—those high gates, the shining towers where the Answered live. Protected. Safe. I’ll never get close.

  The thought settles in my chest like a heavy stone, weighing me down even more.

  I watch the man disappear into the crowd, his footsteps swallowed by the noise of the slums.

  The streets are filled with people just like me—lost, discarded, and barely clinging to whatever scraps they have left. But they know how to survive. They’ve been here longer.

  I feel the coldness of the air again, biting at my skin. I feel it like a thousand needles, all of it reminding me that I am alone.

  I keep moving, though every step feels heavier than the last. The weight of the chest digs into my shoulders, but it’s the only thing I have left. I can’t let it go. Not yet.

  I don’t know where I’m going, but I need to keep walking. I need to find somewhere to hide, somewhere safe, but I don’t even know where that is. The thought of The Hollows is enough to make my stomach churn. That place, I know, is worse than Deadreach. I don’t want to think about what happens to those who end up there.

  Suddenly, a rough hand grabs my shoulder from behind, spinning me around. Before I can even react, another hand grips my throat, shoving me against the nearest wall. I barely have time to suck in a breath before a sharp voice spits in my face.

  “What do we have here? A little lost noble boy, thinking he's worth something?”

  I struggle, gasping for air as I try to push the man away, but he’s too strong. He slams my back into the stone, and a flash of pain shoots through my spine.

  “Let me go!” I gasp, but he just laughs, pressing harder.

  “Not gonna happen, pretty boy. You got something valuable on you?”

  I feel a surge of panic. My chest tightens, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s closing in. I’m helpless. I don’t have anything. I’m not even worth robbing.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The man laughs again, leaning in so close I can feel his rancid breath on my face. “You’re going to be a good little plaything, aren’t you?”

  I thrash harder, my heart racing. But in the struggle, something inside me snaps—something I can’t control. A reflex, a desperation. I reach out and shove my hand against his arm, and before I can even process what’s happening, I feel the mark form.

  I place my palm on his arm—just a touch, just a quick brush. A swirl of gray appears where my fingers meet his skin, a symbol that looks like a swirling vortex.

  He freezes. His grip loosens, and his eyes widen in confusion, staring at the mark. For a moment, neither of us moves.

  “What the hell?” he mutters, taking a step back, but before I can fully react, the other men, the ones who must have been waiting nearby, close in.

  They kick me to the ground. My chest hits the dirt, and the world spins. Blood rushes to my head, and I can barely see as they start laughing, pulling at my clothes.

  “Think you’re worth something because you put a mark on me?” one of them sneers, pulling my arms back behind me as they continue their assault. “What does it do? Huh?”

  The question stabs into me like a knife.

  What does it do? I don’t know. It doesn’t do anything. It’s just a stupid mark, something I accidentally left on him. I wish it would do something, anything. But it doesn’t. I don’t even know why I did it.

  “It doesn’t do anything!” I shout, my voice breaking as they slam me into the ground. “I don’t know what it is! It’s just a mark! That’s why I’m here.”

  I’m not strong enough to fight them off. I know it, feel it. I’m too small, too weak. I won’t make it. I can’t.

  But as one of them grabs me by the hair and yanks my head up, he glares at me. “Get up. Now. Eat it.” His voice is cold, venomous. He’s holding something in his hand, and I can see it’s disgusting—shit. He forces it closer to my mouth.

  I gag. “I won’t… I won’t…”

  “Do it!” he shouts, slamming his fist into my side. “You need to learn—you ain't from Zenith no more.” Pain explodes through my ribs, but I don’t care. I can’t let him make me eat that.

  Someone! Help!

  But no one is coming.

  With everything I have left, I hurl myself into them. One man stumbles, caught off guard, but it’s not enough. Hands like vices seize me and slam me into the ground. My head hits stone, stars explode behind my eyes, and before I can move, the beating begins.

  Boots crash into my ribs, a savage rhythm of pain. One strikes my back—sharp, jarring. Another fist caves into my stomach, curling me in on myself. My lungs seize; all I can taste is blood.

  My limbs twitch under the punishment. My ribs scream. My mind reels. Their laughter is a distant, jagged thing—but it's the blows that own me.

  Someone drives a knee into my side and I hear a pop. Pain blossoms like fire down my leg. A hand grabs my hair and yanks my head up—just to slam it back down. Dirt grinds into the open cuts on my face.

  They strip what little I own: the chest, the cloak, anything they can take. I don't even try to stop them anymore. I can't. I’m not even a person to them. Just a body to empty.

  By the time they’re gone, I’m a mess of bruises and broken sounds, half-conscious and gasping for breath, lying in the gutter like refuse left to rot.

  ***

  I don’t know how long I've been lying here. Minutes. Hours. The world fades in and out like a dying flame. My fingers twitch. My vision blurs. I feel the blood drying on my skin, crusting into my shirt. I try to move—try to crawl—but my limbs don't listen. I blink, and the night swallows me whole.

  Then a voice. Faint. Nearby.

  "Chest was heavy, too. Probably something valuable. Brat's probably already dead. Could’ve made something outta him. Maybe sold him to the brothels if he wasn’t so mouthy."

  A laugh follows, sharp and cruel.

  "Yeah, but did you see that mark? Weird, huh? Looks like a damn tattoo. Thing won’t come off. Been scrubbin’ it for hours."

  Another voice grunts. "Told you not to touch him, Gav. That’s what you get."

  I don't know where they are. But I can hear them. My ears are ringing, but the words are clear—as if they’re right next to me. Something tugs at me, somewhere deep in my chest. A pull. A thread. I clutch at it with my mind, anything to stay tethered to this pain, this moment.

  I crawl, dragging myself across the cracked stone, leaving a smear of blood in my wake. An alley. Darkness. Somewhere to disappear.

  Sleep takes me again.

  When I wake, the light is gray, and the pain is duller. I ache, but I can move. That pull is still there—faint, but undeniable. Like a string tied to something far off, tugging gently.

  I follow it.

  Step by step, I limp through the narrow paths and rubble. The pull leads me to a warehouse, slouched between crumbling tenements. The windows are shattered. The door hangs loose on rusted hinges. I press myself against the side of the building and peek in.

  There they are.

  The men who beat me. Laughing. Drinking. Tossing around my chest like it’s a toy.

  And then—

  "Still got that freaky mark," the one called Gav mutters. "Hate the way it itches."

  I freeze.

  I can hear them. Through the wall. No magic runes, no spells. Just… the mark.

  I know where he is. I know what he’s saying.

  My heart pounds.

  It does do something.

  It had to be the mark. Nothing else made sense. But how? Why now? Why me?

  I should be shaking. But I’m not. The fear’s gone. Only this cold clarity remains.

  Something dark curls inside me. Not just pain. Not just rage. Something deeper—venomous and cold. A realization: I can feel him. I know exactly where he is. Like a thread tied from my chest to his spine, pulling, guiding, whispering.

  They think I’m dead?

  Let them.

  Let them think the brat didn’t make it.

  Because I’m not just going to survive.

  I’m going to kill them.

  And not just them.

  I see my mother’s face—the tight lips, the eyes that never looked at me with love. Only shame. Disgust. Like every time I entered the room, I dragged dirt in behind me. And my uncle—the way he looked at me when my Calling came. Like a broken tool. His sneer as he signed the exile order burned itself into my mind, as if I were a blemish they could scrub from the Delmire name.

  They cast me out to die.

  And maybe part of me did.

  But what crawled into this alley isn’t what they buried. It’s something new. Something sharpened.

  Every kick. Every insult. Every whispered mockery in the halls of Delmire Manor. Every fake smile and cold meal. Every betrayal.

  They will all pay.

  I lower myself behind the wall, breathing through my teeth, eyes fixed on the warehouse like a predator waiting for the dark.

  They left a mark on me.

  But I left one on them.

  The one who tried to make me eat shit!

  I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. The memory flashes—his filthy hand shoving that rot into my face, the laughter, the stench, the fist slamming into my ribs. They wanted to humiliate me. Break me. Make me something less than human.

  But now I know where he is. I know what he's saying. I feel him like a sickness under my skin. The thread tugs, and all I want is to follow it—to close the distance, to make him feel just a piece of what he gave me.

  He thinks I’m just some brat from a noble house. A mistake. A joke.

  Let’s see how long he laughs when I’m standing over him.

  ***

  Above, on a crumbling balcony half-swallowed by smoke and shadow, a figure leaned on rusted rails.

  One hand idly twirled a hook-shaped charm between his fingers. A soft smile curled on his lips, though it never reached his eyes.

  "Still breathing," the man muttered, voice a rasp against the wind. "Tough little bastard."

  A breeze fluttered the edge of his coat, revealing scars like coils across his arms—memories inked in flesh. Below, the boy bled quietly into the street.

  "Marked, huh?"

  He pocketed the charm.

  "Interesting."

  A pause.

  Then, almost to himself: "We'll see if you can survive this place, kid."