Fate Astray

The day began like any other in the camp.

A new dawn.

Two suns scorching the earth beneath them.

A worker missing after the night.

The same solemn mood—like everyone's fate had already been sealed.

The air was thick with dissatisfaction. There was no hope, no purpose. Their lives had already been decided for them. Whether they died by succumbing to the corruption or were culled in the dead of night, the result remained the same.

Dead.

And so, they walked like corpses. Moving only because they had been assigned a task. A meaningless, final duty to avoid the extra suffering that came from resisting.

There were occasional oddities—workers mumbling to themselves, some twitching involuntarily—but none of it stopped them from picking up their tools and working through the day.

Soren chipped away at the rock, his mind elsewhere.

Lenny.

The kind man was probably slaughtered in the night. A swift, unceremonious death.

Or worse.

But grief could wait.

If he stayed here, his own fate wouldn't be any different.

He needed a plan.

The guards work in shifts.

There's a ten-second gap—sometimes stretching up to a full minute—where no one is watching.

The problem: The guards at the perimeter.

There was no opening. Even if he found one, there was the fence.

And beyond the fence...

The manor.

The Master of this camp—the one running all of this—is at least a level above the guards. An Enlightened.

The only place that wasn't under constant surveillance was the tents.

But there were other workers there.

Would they rat him out? Would they try to escape with him?

Even if I make it out... Then what?

I don't even know where I am. Never seen beyond these walls.

Where would I go?

I can't calculate the night sky—I've never seen the star clusters before.

I can't rely on any geometric measures.

And even if I could... then what?

What comes next?

It all feels so... so pointless.

The uneventful clang of metal against stone pulled Soren back to his senses. His arms ached, his breaths shallow. He set his pickaxe down for a moment, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His gaze wandered.

All around him, workers poured every ounce of their strength into breaking apart the solid walls. Mindless. Routine. Hopeless. None of them wanted this, yet here they were—chipping away at rock until their final breath.

Some were probably kidnapped.

Some probably thought a job offer would change their lives.

But in the end...

All of them...

It's so stupid.

With a quiet sigh, Soren turned back to retrieve his pickaxe, his fingers reaching instinctively toward the ground—

But his hand met nothing.

The wooden shaft wasn't there.

For a split second, his mind blanked. Then—footsteps.

Light. Unrushed. Just a regular, human sound like any other.

Soren turned, his marble-black eyes settling on a boy about his age.

Short brown hair. A clean, unscarred face. A frame too scrawny for this place.

But something was off. The boy didn't look like he belonged here.

He wasn't battered. He wasn't worn down. He wasn't dying inside like the others.

Instead, he smiled.

Casually, he held a pickaxe in his hands. Soren's pickaxe.

The boy met his gaze and spoke.

"Sorry, sir. I had to borrow this."

Soren stared, dumbfounded. He barely reacted as the boy firmly placed the pickaxe back into his hands.

His thoughts scrambled. His marble-black eyes drifted down, staring at the familiar tool resting in his palm.

And then—

The boy spoke again.

His voice was light. Carefree.

"The ember is ravaging to be placed in the fire. Now, what will you do?"

Soren's breath hitched. Something clicked.

That phrasing. Those words.

The old man.

His head snapped up—

But the boy was gone.

Just as suddenly as he had appeared, he had vanished.

Soren's eyes darted across the cavern. Nothing.

No sign of him.

And the strangest part?

No one else had noticed.

Soren exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the pickaxe. His mind cursed the mysterious bastard who always seemed to appear and disappear as he pleased.

Damn you, you old hag.

Is this really the time to play hide and seek?

Soren glanced at one of the workers taking a break near his mining spot. The man sat slumped against the cavern wall, his breath slow, his eyes dulled by exhaustion.

Soren approached him. "You. Was I talking to someone just now?"

The worker barely shifted, only offering a slow, tired glance before muttering in an irritated tone, "Quit your rambling, or they'll cull you next."

Soren stood there for a second, watching the man before nodding to himself.

Hah. Bastard, I knew it.

Without another word, he turned away and went back to his spot, pickaxe in hand. His thoughts were louder than the clanging of metal against stone.

Imagination?

No.

Stronger.

Illusions?

No.

He was real. No doubt about it.

The day dragged on. By the time it ended, Soren had even managed to fill his quota. A rare achievement. Most days, he barely hit the mark, and on unlucky ones, the minerals seemed to favor someone else's path instead of his own.

Now, he walked back toward the tent under the dim light of the two sinking suns, their glow bleeding into the darkening sky. His hands held a wooden cup filled with a sweet, watery liquid and a slice of bread no bigger than his palm.

It wasn't luxurious. It wasn't satisfying.

But it was enough to keep him from starving.

The twin suns had set, and now the moon was claiming its place in the sky. Soren lay on his makeshift bed, his mind restless.

The old man.

What did he want?

What was he after?

There was no reason for him to appear mysteriously and speak in riddles. Everyone wanted something—but what was his goal?

The whispers returned.

They grew louder, like unseen voices clawing at the edges of his mind. It was as if they didn't want him to rest, didn't want him to find peace.

Most of them were indistinct, mixing together in an incoherent chorus. But every so often, a word, a phrase, would surface.

Soren... you don't belong.

Soren... surrender.

Then, amidst the whispering—something else.

A tune.

Faint at first. Too joyous. Too irritating.

It became louder by the second.

Soren's breath caught in his throat. His body jolted upright, his eyes snapping open.

The tune.

That damned tune.

Where is it?

The sound echoed through the night, carried by the cold air. It was coming from the fountain.

And there he was.

An old man, swaying from side to side, humming the all-too-familiar melody.

Soren's steps were slow, cautious as he approached. The closer he got, the heavier the air felt.

Finally, he stopped a few steps away.

The old man stopped humming.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"What do you want?" Soren's voice was stern, unyielding.

The old man's lips curled into a smile.

"Want?" His voice was delighted, amused. "One can only want what they do not have."

Soren's patience snapped.

"The riddles. Just stop with them. What are you? A thousand-year-old bastard?"

For just a second, everything stopped.

The wind. The distant shuffling of workers. The air itself felt still, as if nature had recoiled from the man's presence.

Soren felt it, too.

A presence beyond logic. Beyond reason.

The old man simply chuckled. A soft, knowing sound.

"Perhaps."

Before Soren could reply, the man continued.

"The mark is about to envelop you, but you have no means to control it."

Soren's fingers curled into fists. Mark? What did that mean?

"So, I'm awakening... but I can't form my soul?" He pieced the words together, his mind racing. "And you're here to help me with it?"

The old man lifted his gaze toward the sky.

His full gray beard shimmered under the moonlight, his long silver hair catching the glow of the stars.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Haha, you are wise indeed. But no."

The amusement faded from his voice.

"I will not guide you."

"I will set your fate astray."

"You shall carve it."

Too fucking mysterious.

Can't he just say what he means?

"Fate astray."

So was it supposed to end like this?

The old man's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Soren, close your eyes."

Soren stiffened. His instincts screamed not to obey. But before he could resist, a palm pressed against his chest.

A shock ran through his body.

The old man's touch wasn't rough. It wasn't forceful.

Yet, his eyes shut against his will.

Darkness.

Then—warmth.

A gentle, golden heat bloomed on the right side of his chest, seeping into his skin. It was like basking in a summer breeze, lying atop a sunlit meadow, where the wind carried the scent of wildflowers.

But on the left side—

Ice.

A deep, bone-chilling cold gripped him, like sinking into an endless abyss of black water. A frost so severe, it clawed at his nerves, numbing him from the inside out.

The contrast warred within him.

Heat. Cold.

Light. Dark.

The forces swirled and twisted, but they did not clash. Instead, they followed a path, moving in unison, like twin rivers carving their course.

His chest ached as they intertwined.

The warmth and the ice were no longer separate.

They became one.

A single sensation, neither burning nor freezing—something greater.

It spread—slowly, methodically—flowing into his arms, his legs, his fingertips.

A force beyond understanding.

A power neither cruel nor kind.

Pure harmony.

Then—

The old man's voice, distant yet firm:

"Do not forget."

"Ember."

The words barely reached Soren before—

Nothing.

The world collapsed into darkness.

Not the soft kind. Not sleep.

An abyss.

His thoughts blurred, then slipped away—forgotten before they could even form. Like they had never existed.

He tried to breathe. Did he even need to?

Then—light.

A screen materialized before him, its cold glow cutting through the void.

A voice followed. Not human. Not alive.

Flat. Unfeeling. Absolute.

"Welcome, Marked: Soren."

"Your trial begins."