The First Mark

Sayid steadied his breath. The ruins around him felt colder now, as if the air itself had changed. The whispers were gone, but the memory of them lingered—crawling at the edges of his mind, trying to take root.

He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the stiffness in his limbs. The book still lay on the pedestal, its cover undisturbed, yet Sayid knew better. It was not the same as before.

Neither was he.

Mehri rose beside him, watching him closely. He could feel her hesitation, the unspoken questions in her gaze, but she said nothing.

Instead, she turned her attention back to the book. "Are you going to open it?"

Sayid didn't answer immediately. He wasn't sure what he expected to see. The shifting ink, the reaching tendrils—none of it had left a physical trace. But the weight in his chest told him otherwise.

He stepped forward.

The candlelight wavered as he reached for the cover. The instant his fingers brushed the surface, a pulse of warmth shot through his hand—subtle, yet undeniable.

Sayid inhaled sharply.

The book recognized him.

He lifted the cover.

The First Page

The pages were not ordinary parchment. They were thick, almost leathery, inscribed with a script that did not stay still. The words shimmered, rearranging themselves in patterns that shifted as he tried to focus on them.

Mehri leaned in. "Can you read it?"

"No," he admitted.

But that wasn't entirely true.

Somewhere, beneath the movement of the words, a meaning pressed against his mind. It wasn't something he could translate—not in any language he knew—but it wanted to be understood.

His eyes trailed over the first line.

A sharp pain lanced through his skull.

He staggered, gripping the pedestal for balance.

Mehri's hand was on his arm in an instant. "What is it?"

Sayid exhaled through clenched teeth. The pain faded as quickly as it had come, but it had left something behind. A thought. A fragment of knowledge that was not his own.

"Blood," he murmured.

Mehri frowned. "What?"

Sayid turned his hand over, staring at his palm. His skin was unmarked. But he knew, without being told, what the book required.

A price.

His pulse quickened. This was not a mere record of history. It was something alive, something bound by rules older than language itself.

It would only reveal its secrets if he was willing to pay.

Mehri must have understood too. Her expression darkened. "Sayid, we don't know what it will do—"

"I have to," he said, more certain than he should have been.

Mehri hesitated, but she didn't argue.

Sayid withdrew his dagger. The blade was sharp, well-maintained despite the years of wear. He pressed the tip against his palm, just enough to draw a single bead of blood.

The moment it touched the page, the ink rippled.

The words stilled.

And then—

A name.

His name.

Written in a language he had never learned, yet understood perfectly.

The air grew thick. A deep, resonant hum spread through the chamber, vibrating through the stone beneath their feet.

Sayid's heartbeat thundered in his ears. The ink shifted again, expanding outward from his name, forming a mark—a symbol that burned itself into the parchment like a scar.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the book stilled.

The hum faded.

The candlelight steadied.

Sayid pulled his hand back, breath uneven. The page had changed. No longer shifting, no longer unreadable. The first passage had been unlocked.

He could read it now.

But before he could begin, a slow sound echoed through the ruins.

Footsteps.

Not his. Not Mehri's.

Someone else was here.

The Stranger

Sayid's head snapped toward the entrance. The corridor beyond was shrouded in shadow, but movement flickered within it.

A figure emerged, stepping into the dim light.

He was tall, wrapped in dark robes that swept against the stone. His face was partially obscured by a hood, but the sharp glint of his gaze cut through the gloom.

Sayid instinctively took a step back. Something about this man—his presence, the way he moved—sent a ripple of unease through his chest.

The stranger stopped just beyond the threshold, studying them. Then, his eyes flicked to the book.

"You've opened it," he said. His voice was smooth, deliberate.

Sayid swallowed. "Who are you?"

The man did not answer immediately. Instead, he took another slow step forward.

"The name is unimportant," he said at last. "What matters is that you have set something in motion."

Sayid's grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger. "And you know this how?"

A faint, unreadable smile. "Because I've been waiting."

Mehri shifted beside Sayid, her posture tense. "For what?"

The stranger tilted his head slightly. "For the first mark to be claimed."

Sayid's pulse skipped.

He looked down at his hand.

No mark. No sign that anything had changed.

But he knew better.

The book had taken something from him. And now—

Someone else had noticed.

The man exhaled, as if satisfied. "You should leave this place," he said. "What has begun cannot be undone."

Sayid's jaw clenched. He had already heard enough warnings. "And if I don't?"

For the first time, the stranger's expression flickered—something cold beneath the surface.

"Then you will not leave at all."

A silence settled between them.

Then, without another word, the man turned and walked away, vanishing back into the darkness of the ruins.

Sayid stared after him, his breath tight in his chest.

Mehri exhaled slowly. "We need to get out of here."

Sayid hesitated, glancing back at the book. The passage was waiting, its meaning laid bare.

He could leave.

But he had already claimed the first mark.

And something told him—

This was only the beginning.