The Weight Of The Unseen

Sayid lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The faint glow of the mark on his wrist had dimmed, but its presence lingered like a shadow beneath his skin. It wasn't pain—it wasn't even discomfort. It was simply there, a quiet reminder that something had changed.

Sleep didn't come easily. His mind replayed the events of the ruins, the ink-like presence, the shifting book, the whispering that had curled around him like silk. Whatever he had taken—whatever had chosen him—it wasn't done with him yet.

A lesson his father had once told him echoed in his mind.

"Knowledge is not a gift. It is a burden. And those who seek it must be willing to bear its weight."

Was this the weight his father had spoken of?

The wind rattled against the window, the wooden shutters creaking softly. The village was asleep, its silence comforting in contrast to the restless presence beneath Sayid's skin. He turned onto his side, fingers brushing against the rough fabric of his cloak draped over the bedside stool.

A voice nagged at the back of his mind—Mehri's warning before they left the ruins.

"You shouldn't have touched that book."

She was right.

But he wasn't sure he would have done anything differently.

The Shadow of the Mark

Morning came sluggishly, the light filtering through the gaps in the wooden shutters. Sayid sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The mark had stopped shifting, but it remained, an ever-present reminder of what had transpired.

He pulled on his cloak, fastening it loosely at his shoulder. When he stepped out of his room, Mehri was already waiting at the table near the window, arms crossed. A cup of tea sat untouched in front of her, steam curling lazily in the morning air.

"You look like you didn't sleep," she remarked, not looking up.

"I didn't," Sayid admitted, taking the seat across from her.

Mehri finally met his gaze, her eyes sharp. "Is it still there?"

Sayid unrolled his sleeve slightly, revealing the dark ink against his skin. It was still as black as the moment it had appeared. Mehri frowned.

"You need to get rid of it."

Sayid exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "If you know how, I'm listening."

Mehri didn't answer immediately. Instead, she reached into her satchel, pulling out a small bundle of parchment. She untied the leather binding, spreading the worn pages between them. Sayid recognized the symbols immediately—variations of the same ancient script they had seen in the ruins.

"This wasn't the first time that book was found," Mehri said, her voice lower now. "There were records of it appearing in different places, different ruins, always centuries apart. And every time, someone like you walked away with a mark."

Sayid's fingers tightened against the edge of the table. "What happened to them?"

Mehri hesitated before answering.

"They vanished."

The weight of her words settled over them like a heavy fog.

Sayid glanced down at his wrist. The ink seemed darker now, as if it had absorbed the gravity of her statement.

"I'm not going to disappear," he said. It was a promise—to himself, if nothing else.

Mehri shook her head. "That's what they all thought."

The Path of Choice

They left the inn by midday, heading toward the marketplace. The village was small, its narrow streets lined with wooden stalls selling dried herbs, fabrics, and trinkets of carved bone. The scent of spiced tea and freshly baked bread drifted through the air, a sharp contrast to the tension in Sayid's chest.

Mehri walked ahead, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her blade. Sayid followed, his eyes scanning the crowd.

The mark still pulsed beneath his sleeve, not painfully, but insistently—like a second heartbeat.

"Knowledge is a burden."

His father's words repeated in his head, but another thought pushed forward.

If knowledge was a burden, then ignorance was a shackle.

And Sayid had never been one to live in chains.

The marketplace felt different today. The usual noise of traders and bartering villagers still filled the air, but beneath it was something else—an undercurrent, a subtle shift in the wind. Sayid could feel it, an unease creeping along his skin like the whisper of silk.

Mehri noticed it too. Her steps slowed slightly, her fingers twitching near her blade.

"Something's off," she murmured.

Sayid scanned the crowd, searching for anything unusual. The stalls were filled with their usual wares—bundles of spices, bolts of woven cloth, trinkets of carved ivory. Nothing seemed out of place, but the air carried something unseen.

His wrist pulsed.

Not painfully. Not aggressively.

Just enough to remind him.

Something was here.

A woman's voice cut through the noise. "You seek answers."

Sayid's head snapped toward the sound.

She stood near the edge of the market, partially hidden beneath the shade of a crumbling archway. Wrapped in layers of dark linen, her face was mostly obscured, but her voice carried weight—calm, knowing.

Mehri tensed beside him.

Sayid hesitated only for a moment before stepping closer. "Who are you?"

The woman ignored the question. "The mark is awake." Her gaze dipped toward Sayid's wrist, though it remained hidden beneath his sleeve. "It calls to what is hidden."

Sayid swallowed. "You know what this is."

She inclined her head slightly. "I know it is not a gift."

Mehri's voice was edged with warning. "Then what is it?"

The woman's gaze shifted to Mehri, something unreadable in her expression. "A debt."

Sayid frowned. "Debt?"

The woman exhaled slowly. "It does not grant power freely. It does not mark without purpose." She took a step closer, her voice lowering. "Something was taken from that ruin. Something unseen. And it will demand something in return."

Sayid's stomach tightened. "I didn't take anything."

The woman's lips curved slightly—not quite a smile. "Are you so certain?"

He opened his mouth to argue, but doubt settled in his chest. The book—the shifting ink—the moment the words had burned into his mind.

Had something been given in exchange?

"What does it want?" he asked quietly.

The woman studied him for a long moment before answering. "A choice."

Sayid's pulse quickened. "A choice between what?"

The woman tilted her head, as if listening to something only she could hear. "Between knowing and being known."

Mehri's grip on his arm was sudden, firm. "We're leaving."

Sayid turned to protest, but the look in her eyes stopped him. It wasn't just suspicion. It was fear.

The woman didn't argue. She simply nodded once, as if she had expected this. "The mark is patient," she said softly. "But patience does not mean mercy."

The last thing Sayid saw as Mehri pulled him away was the faint shimmer of ink on the woman's wrist—almost hidden, but there.

Like his own.

A Debt Unpaid

They walked in silence until they reached the outskirts of the market. Sayid could feel Mehri's frustration before she even spoke.

"This is bad."

He sighed. "I know."

Mehri whirled on him. "Do you? Because that woman—she knew. And she wasn't surprised to see you."

Sayid ran a hand down his face. "I don't think I'm the first."

Mehri's jaw tightened. "No. And if that mark is a debt, like she said, you don't even know what you owe."

Sayid stared at the ground. "If I left it alone—"

"You think it'll leave you alone?" Mehri shook her head. "That's not how things like this work."

Sayid wanted to argue. Wanted to believe he could just ignore it, walk away. But the weight on his wrist said otherwise.

The wind shifted. A whisper—faint, distant.

Sayid's breath caught.

It wasn't coming from the ruins.

It was coming from inside him.

His father's words returned, unbidden.

"Knowledge is a burden."

Maybe.

But Sayid had never been one to turn away from the truth.

Even when it came with a cost.