Jadwiga blinked, the lingering green pulse in her palms fading as the chill night air poured through the raw hole in the manor wall. Dust motes danced in the slivers of moonlight, a frantic, glittering swarm above the rubble-strewn garden. The distant clamor of the Exarch’s forces grew louder, a hungry, rising tide of shouts and clanking armor. Duszan, recovering from his shock, moved with sudden, brutal efficiency. He caught Jadwiga’s arm, dragging her towards the gaping breach. “We move. Now.” Feliks, who had been frozen just outside the splintered library door, stumbled back, his face a mask of bewildered terror. “What was that? Jadwiga, what did you just do?” “No time!” Duszan barked, a rare edge of desperation in his usually steady voice. He shoved Jadwiga through the opening first, not waiting for her to respond, then turned back to Feliks. “Are you coming, or do you intend to greet them?” Feliks hesitated, his gaze darting between the library, now a deathtrap, and the moonlit garden where Jadwiga was already scrambling down the uneven debris. His betrayal, still a raw wound, seemed to war with a deeper, ingrained loyalty. With a choked sound, he flung himself over the lip of the shattered wall, landing clumsily beside Jadwiga. They ran, a desperate, frantic sprint through the manicured hedges and weeping willows of the estate gardens. The shouts intensified, the crunch of boots on gravel growing unnervingly close. Duszan moved like a wraith, his broad frame a dark blur against the night, always a half-step ahead, guiding, protecting. Jadwiga stumbled, her legs burning, the adrenaline a bitter taste in her mouth. She could feel the lingering tingle of power in her hands, a phantom vibration that both terrified and exhilarated her. They reached the garden wall, a high, ivy-choked barrier that seemed insurmountable. Duszan scaled it with effortless grace, then reached down, heaving Jadwiga up with a grip of iron. She was hoisted over, dropping onto soft earth on the other side, her breath ragged. Feliks followed, less gracefully, almost tumbling over the top. Beyond the estate, the city of Velesca was a maze of shadowed alleyways and darkened thoroughfares. Duszan navigated them with an instinctual knowledge, weaving through refuse piles and past sleeping vagrants. They were a trio of shadows fleeing the light, the distant wail of the Vigilant trumpets a constant, chilling reminder of their pursuit. He led them through the city's underbelly, then out into the fringes, where the paved roads gave way to muddy tracks and the scent of pine needles replaced the stench of refuse. Hours later, as the moon began its descent, they found refuge in a dilapidated hunter’s cabin, nestled deep within the whispering woods of the Kragdan Mire. The cabin was little more than a single room, its roof sagging, its windows boarded over with planks that rattled in the damp breeze. A faint, earthy smell clung to the air, mixed with the sharp scent of damp moss. Jadwiga collapsed onto a rickety bench, exhaustion seeping into her bones. Her muscles ached, her lungs burned, and her mind, usually a whirlwind of calculations and theories, was utterly blank. Feliks huddled in a corner, draping a threadbare blanket he’d found over a broken chair around his collar, his face pale and drawn. He avoided Jadwiga’s gaze. Duszan, ever watchful, secured the entrance, bracing a thick log against the door. He moved with a slight stiffness, and Jadwiga noticed, for the first time, a dark stain blossoming on the left sleeve of his tunic. A fresh tear in the fabric showed a jagged laceration beneath. “You’re hurt,” she stated, her voice hoarse. He merely grunted, shrugging off the discomfort. “A scratch.” Jadwiga pushed herself up. The raw anger she felt towards him, towards Feliks, towards everyone who had lied to her, still churned, but a more immediate concern surfaced. “It’s not a scratch. Let me see it.” Duszan turned, his dark eyes meeting hers. There was a weariness in them that had nothing to do with physical exertion. He sighed, a sound barely audible, then slowly unfastened the clasps of his tunic. He drew the cloth away from the flesh, revealing the wound. It was deep, still seeping, the skin around it already inflamed. “Sit,” Jadwiga commanded, surprising herself with the authority in her tone. “I might be a miserable excuse for a fugitive, but I’m a reasonably competent amateur physician. My governess insisted.” She found a tattered cloth in the corner, remarkably clean, and a small, corked vial on a dusty shelf. “Feliks, fetch some water if you can find a stream nearby. Don’t wander too far.” Feliks nodded numbly, glad for a task, and slipped out of the cabin. Jadwiga knelt before Duszan, her movements precise despite her fatigue. “This will sting.” She uncorked the vial, its contents a clear, bitter-smelling liquid. She poured a generous amount onto the cloth and pressed it gently to the wound. Duszan remained impassive, not a flicker of pain crossing his face, though the tendon along his neck went rigid. “Why?” Jadwiga asked, her voice low. “Why are you doing this? The oath. My family. It’s all just… some old superstition, isn’t it?” She paused, her eyes searching his. “You said they saved your village. From what?” Duszan’s gaze drifted past her, to the rough-hewn planks of the wall, as if seeing something far away. “The Blight of Raska,” he began, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual clipped efficiency. “A corruption that crept from the Glimmering Fens. It touched everything. Turned flesh to ash, spirits to despair. My village, Krolos, was in its path. We tried everything. Prayers. Sacrifices. Nothing worked. People withered. Animals died. The earth itself started to decay.” He spoke with a quiet intensity, a deep, abiding sorrow woven into his words. “Your parents,” he continued, his eyes returning to her, “they arrived. Not with armies, not with dogma. With knowledge. They understood the currents of the land, the flow of the primal energies. They worked for weeks, tirelessly, building conduits, weaving… protective wards. They channeled the natural strength of the land, healing the blighted ground, drawing the poison out of the air. It was a miracle.” Jadwiga listened, her hands still tending his wound, the story painting a vivid, almost unbelievable picture in her mind. Her parents, the placid academics, had wielded such power? It felt like another layer of the intricate deception that had been her life. “But the cost,” Duszan said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The Blight was… persistent. It marked those who fought it most directly.” He carefully pulled down the collar of his tunic further, exposing his back. Jadwiga gasped. Across his broad back, stretching in intricate, web-like patterns down his spine, were deep, silvery scars. They weren’t ordinary wounds. They glowed faintly in the dim light, a network of arcane sigils burned into his skin, twisting and pulsing with a barely contained energy. They looked like something ancient, something drawn by lightning, yet undeniably a part of him now. A permanent reminder of the plague, and her family's sacrifice. “The conduits they formed, the energies they manipulated to save us,” he explained, “they left their residue. A part of the Blight’s power was absorbed by those closest to the work. We thought it a curse at first. But your father, he said it was a reminder. A bond.” Duszan looked at her, his dark eyes fixed and unblinking. “I am the last of Krolos. They gave me back my life, and the lives of my kin, even if they couldn’t save themselves entirely. My oath is not just to your blood. It is to that memory. To the hope they embodied.” A profound connection settled between them, a quiet understanding born of shared burden and revealed vulnerability. Jadwiga finished bandaging his shoulder, her touch lighter now, more hesitant. As she secured the knot, her fingers brushed against his skin, warm and solid. The silence between their faces contracted, thick with heat. Duszan’s gaze dropped to their hands, lingering there for a beat too long, before he cleared his throat, hauling his tunic back into place. The charged silence was abruptly shattered by a soft rustle outside the cabin, followed by a faint, rhythmic *thump-thump-thump*. Jadwiga and Duszan stiffened, their heads snapping towards the boarded window. Duszan rose, drawing a small, wickedly sharp knife from a sheath hidden in his boot. He moved to a gap in the planks, pressing his eye to it. Jadwiga joined him, peering through another crack. It wasn’t the methodical approach of the Vigilants, nor the frantic thrashing of Feliks returning. Outside, in the inky blackness of the mire, stood a lone figure. Feliks. He held a signal flare aloft, its crimson glow casting his face in a stark, agonizing light. His eyes, fixed on the distant sky, were wide with an unreadable mix of fear and conflicted resolve. The flare sputtered, then shot upwards, a fiery arrow piercing the night, leaving a long, burning trail in its wake. “Who are you signaling, Feliks?”

The Scars We Share