Chapter 8: The Weight of the Mark

The days that followed were a blur of training and cryptic guidance. For Dorin, life had once been simple: help in the forge, learn from his father, live quietly in the village. But now, those routines felt distant, a life slipping further away with each lesson Seris put him through. She demanded more from him than he thought possible, forcing him to explore power he barely understood.

He learned to harness controlled bursts of energy—shifting small objects across tables or sparking flames with his fingers. But even in small doses, each success left him uneasy. He sensed a lurking force that felt both thrilling and dangerous, as if testing his control and waiting for him to fail. It wasn't long before Dorin wondered who was really in control: him, or this power?

Seris always watched, her gaze steady and calculating, as if weighing his every move. She barely spoke beyond instructions, yet her silence carried a weight Dorin could not ignore. There were times he caught her observing him as if he was someone else entirely, and he wondered if she saw a future he couldn't envision.

It was during one early morning, alone in the forest where he practiced, that he felt something stirring in the air. At first, it was subtle—a pull within him, faint and unfamiliar. He placed his hand on the cool ground, and the sensation grew, almost as if the earth beneath him was humming with life, reacting to his touch.

"What…is this?" he muttered, bewildered.

"You feel it, don't you?" Seris's voice came from behind him, startling him. He hadn't noticed her approach.

He pulled his hand back, but the lingering vibration still pulsed in his veins, leaving him disoriented. Seris stepped closer, her eyes fixed on him with an unsettling intensity.

"This is where it begins," she said, her voice a soft but commanding echo. "The land itself is responding to the mark inside you. You are no longer just Dorin of the village. You are the blood of kings, and now the world begins to take notice."

Dorin tensed, his jaw clenching as frustration rose within him. "I never asked for this," he retorted. "I never wanted any of it." The words spilled from him, raw with anger.

Seris stood firm, her eyes never leaving his. "Want it or not, it is part of you. The mark inside you—the power in your bloodline—is an ancient legacy. You can't erase it, Dorin. And whether you embrace it or not, you'll bear the consequences."

Her tone softened slightly as she reached out, letting her fingertips graze his cheek. "This power is not something you can simply ignore. It will either shape you, or it will consume you. But know this: others want it, too. And if you don't learn to control it, they will find a way to control you instead."

Dorin shuddered. He had seen how power could destroy people, twist them into shadows of themselves. His father had rarely spoken of their lineage, but rumors of the bloodline's curse had always lingered. The mark seemed less like a gift and more like a curse handed down through the ages—a curse that now weighed on him alone.

"What do I need to do to control it?" he asked, his voice betraying his fear.

Seris studied him, her expression unwavering. "You must learn to focus. Power demands discipline, Dorin. You must find the balance between strength and restraint. And when the time comes, you will face a choice: either claim what is yours by birth, or reject it and risk losing everything you hold dear."

Dorin swallowed hard. The future loomed before him, a dark and twisting path he was not ready to face. "I don't know if I can do this," he admitted, barely a whisper.

"No one is ever truly ready for the burden of power," Seris replied. "But those who bear it have no choice but to try."

She turned away, disappearing into the forest with the same silent grace she had come. Dorin watched her go, her words echoing in his mind. The mark pulsed in his chest, as if urging him onward, binding him to a destiny he could not escape.

In the village, life went on. The market bustled with activity, merchants called out for buyers, and children laughed as they played in the streets. Yet to Dorin, the sounds felt muffled, distant, like a life that no longer belonged to him. The people moved around him, going about their lives, unaware of the battle waging within him.

That evening, as he worked the forge alone, the door creaked open. Dorin turned, expecting Seris, but instead found his father, Calen, standing in the doorway, his face lined with worry.

"Son," Calen began, his voice low. "We need to talk."

Dorin wiped his hands on his apron and followed his father outside, to the quiet of the evening. The sun was low, casting a warm glow over the village, but Calen's expression was anything but warm. There was a heaviness in his gaze, something Dorin had rarely seen in his father.

"I've heard things," Calen continued. "There are whispers in the village. Rumors—about you, about the mark."

Dorin's chest tightened. The secrets he'd tried to keep hidden, the things he barely understood himself, were already seeping out. He hadn't wanted to drag his father into this. But it seemed he no longer had a choice.

"The soldiers were here again," Calen said, voice barely above a whisper. "They were asking questions. They're looking for you, son. And if they find out who you really are…" His words trailed off, the implication hanging heavily between them.

Dorin's heart pounded. "I thought they were gone," he whispered, though he knew it was foolish. The king's reach was vast, and the soldiers would not stop until they found him.

"You need to leave," Calen said firmly, his voice steady but pained. "This village—it can't protect you anymore. The people here don't understand, and they're afraid. You're not safe here, Dorin. If you stay, they'll come for you, and they won't care who they hurt in the process."

Dorin felt a pang of despair. The life he had known, the family and friends he cherished—it was all slipping away. He was an outsider now, even in his own home.

"But where will I go?" he asked, voice barely audible.

Calen's gaze softened, the weight of a father's love evident in his eyes. "I don't know. But I do know that if you stay, they will find you. And I can't lose you, Dorin. Not like this."

Dorin stood in silence, the realization sinking in. He would have to leave, not just the village but the life he'd known. The mark on his skin, the power in his blood—they had already set him on a path that could not be reversed.

That night, as Dorin packed his belongings, he felt a hollowness settle within him. The world he had known was slipping away, and a shadowy future awaited him. The forge, the village, his father—all of it was now part of a past he could never return to.

When dawn broke, Dorin left without a word. The sky was still dark, the village asleep as he slipped into the forest's embrace. His footsteps were the only sound, muffled against the earth that now seemed to pulse beneath him, a heartbeat resonating with the mark he bore.

The path ahead was unknown, and the weight of his bloodline hung over him like a storm. But as he walked, he felt something else—a flicker of strength he hadn't felt before, a fire that burned in his chest, urging him forward.

The mark was no longer just a burden; it was a promise of power, of potential. And though he feared what it might demand of him, he knew he had no choice but to follow where it led.