Mark's Weight

The silence in the ruins was heavier now. The stranger's words still clung to the air, an unshakable presence even after he had vanished.

"You should leave this place."

Mehri's fingers curled around Sayid's wrist, her grip firm. "We are leaving," she said, voice lower than before. "Right now."

Sayid didn't move. His eyes remained on the book, the first passage waiting before him. He had paid its price. It had given him something in return.

Something unseen.

Something felt.

A presence, coiling at the edge of his awareness.

His hand hovered above the parchment.

Mehri's grip tightened. "Sayid."

He blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. His heartbeat felt too loud in his chest. He exhaled, stepped back from the pedestal.

For now.

The ruins pressed in around them as they moved toward the exit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows. Mehri was tense, her gaze darting between the pillars and broken archways. Sayid wasn't sure if it was instinct or if she had seen something he hadn't.

Neither of them spoke as they climbed the worn stone steps leading back to the surface. The air was thick with dust, the weight of time pressing down on them.

Then—

A sound.

A breath.

Not theirs.

Mehri's hand shot to the hilt of her blade. Sayid's pulse jumped. The corridor behind them stretched into darkness, but the shadows seemed deeper now—thicker.

They weren't alone.

"Go," Mehri whispered.

Sayid hesitated.

Then the whispering began.

Not words. Just sound. Soft. Unraveling. Like something waking up.

Mehri pushed him. "Move."

They broke into a run.

The Presence in the Ruins

The stone steps wound upward, twisting through the heart of the ruins. Sayid's breath was loud in his ears, his boots striking the uneven floor as they climbed. The whispering swelled behind them, a chorus of unseen voices.

He didn't look back.

Not yet.

The passage narrowed, opening into the vast chamber near the entrance. The moonlight seeped through the cracks above, their only tether to the outside world.

Almost there.

Then—

The shadows moved.

A flicker of motion at the edge of his vision. Sayid barely had time to react before something lashed out—cold and formless.

Mehri shoved him forward. "Don't stop!"

Sayid hit the stone, rolling onto his side. Mehri spun, blade flashing in the dim light, slashing at the shifting dark. The whispering turned into a screech.

It didn't like that.

The air shattered around them.

A force surged outward, unseen but felt, slamming into the walls. The ruins groaned, dust spilling from the cracks above. Sayid scrambled to his feet, barely catching a glimpse of the thing behind them—

Not a figure. Not a beast.

A shadow, stretched and writhing, its form shifting like ink in water.

It had no face. No eyes.

But it was looking at him.

Sayid's chest tightened.

It knew.

The book. The mark. The choice he had made.

It knew.

Mehri's voice cut through the haze. "Sayid, move!"

He didn't need to be told twice.

They sprinted toward the entrance, the night air visible beyond the archway. The ruins trembled behind them, the presence lashing out again, trying to pull them back.

Sayid threw himself forward, out into the open. Mehri was right behind him.

The second they crossed the threshold, the whispering stopped.

The night was silent.

Still.

No movement. No sign of the thing inside.

As if it had never been there at all.

Marked

Sayid bent over, catching his breath. His lungs burned, his hands shaking at his sides.

Mehri exhaled sharply, blade still drawn. "What the hell was that?"

Sayid straightened. He didn't have an answer.

But he did know one thing.

It hadn't been trying to kill him.

It had been waiting.

For him.

He swallowed hard.

The first mark had been claimed.

And something had noticed.

Mehri sheathed her blade, glancing back at the ruins. "We need to leave."

Sayid nodded. But as he turned away, something pulled at the edge of his vision.

A flicker.

A shape.

A single mark, glowing faintly on his wrist.

Black ink.

Shifting.

Alive.

His breath caught.

Whatever he had set in motion—

It had already begun.

Sayid's breath was uneven, the night air sharp in his lungs. The ruins loomed behind him, silent now, as if they had swallowed back whatever had stirred within.

But the weight of it remained.

He turned his wrist over. The mark was still there. A thin, black symbol etched into his skin like ink seared into parchment. It pulsed faintly, not with light, but with something deeper—something alive.

Mehri caught the motion. "What is that?"

Sayid didn't answer. He wasn't sure himself.

The mark shifted, the ink curling along his skin like a whisper of movement. It didn't burn. It didn't ache. But it was there, and he felt it.

Mehri grabbed his wrist, inspecting it closer. Her eyes darkened. "This wasn't there before."

Sayid exhaled, shaking his head. "I know."

Mehri released him, her expression unreadable. "You shouldn't have touched that book."

Sayid let out a short, humorless laugh. "Bit late for that."

She didn't argue.

Instead, she glanced back at the ruins. "We need to get away from here. Now."

Sayid didn't protest. They had already pushed their luck. Whatever had been in that chamber, whatever had reacted to the book—he wasn't ready to face it again.

They moved quickly down the uneven path, the dirt beneath their boots shifting with each step. The town lay ahead, its distant lanterns flickering through the mist. The sooner they reached shelter, the better.

But the weight in Sayid's wrist hadn't faded.

It was growing stronger.

The Mark Awakens

By the time they reached the outskirts of the settlement, Sayid's fingers were tingling. A slow, creeping sensation ran up his arm—not pain, but something foreign. His heartbeat had begun to sync with it, like an unseen thread tethering him to something else.

He clenched his fist, pushing the feeling away.

Mehri didn't seem to notice. She was focused on scanning the quiet streets, ensuring they weren't being followed. The houses were dark, their inhabitants long since retired for the night.

When they reached the inn, she gave him a sharp look. "We talk in the morning."

Sayid nodded, though he wasn't sure he'd get any sleep.

Mehri disappeared into her own room without another word.

Sayid closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed, exhaling slowly. The room was small, the air thick with old wood and candle wax. He placed his pack beside him, rolling up his sleeve to inspect the mark again.

It was still moving.

Not constantly—but in small, subtle shifts. The lines of ink rearranged themselves ever so slightly, pulsing with a rhythm that wasn't his own.

Sayid ran a hand down his face.

What did you take from me?

No answer.

Only silence.

Until—

The candle flickered.

Sayid froze.

A breeze. But the window was shut.

The flame trembled, its glow stretching unnaturally, casting shadows against the far wall. The air thickened, a faint whisper curling at the edges of the room.

Not from outside.

Not from the ruins.

From inside him.

Sayid's pulse jumped. He pressed his hand over the mark, instinct kicking in—some futile attempt to suppress whatever was stirring.

The whispering grew clearer.

Not words. Not yet.

But a presence.

And it was waiting for him to listen.

Sayid clenched his jaw. "No."

The candlelight snapped back to normal. The room settled. The air cleared.

Sayid exhaled, rubbing his temples.

This wasn't over.