'Where Am I?'

 Nox awoke to find himself lying in a soft, double bed.

'Is this what heaven looks like? Or have I not died yet?', he wondered.

He glanced around. The room was modest but clean. On a small table beside the bed, next to a bowl of fruit and a bottle of water, he noticed his lightweight gloves.

A sudden wave of panic struck him. He looked down at his hands. His Mark hadn't changed; it still resembled a thin crescent. The burning sensation in his right hand remained fierce. But there was something different. He could breathe more freely now. He felt... stronger.

Most of the Marked didn't show their Marks. Revealing yours could be dangerous. Both the colour and the lunar phase it represented were best kept secret. The closer one's Mark was to the new moon, the weaker their power and vitality became.

Nox couldn't stop thinking, who had taken off his gloves? Had they seen the brown Mark? Perhaps they thought it just a birthmark.

He prayed that whoever it was didn't bear the Green Mark of the moon.

He wasn't particularly afraid of red-marked warriors. They couldn't truly harm him. He was far too seasoned of a swordsman, trained by his father from a young age, and a survivor of many battles.

He thought of his family again. Of his father, a quiet, stoic warrior who bore the weight of their family's fate on his shoulders, as did so many others among the warrior class. Though only Karn bore the red Mark, all of his sons had followed in his footsteps.

Nox was a seasoned swordsman. He took on both contract missions as a mercenary and often competed in tournaments. Of course, he could never quite match his father's raw strength, but even so, his skill surpassed that of many.

And when it came to those Marked with the blue moon, they didn't trouble him in the slightest. Healers possessed no combat ability, and Nox had never once felt threatened in their presence. He had never seen a healer who would be a fighter. 'That just would've been silly', he thought to himself.

But a green-marked one? That was something else entirely. Those who possessed Green Marks could control minds.

The very thought made him shiver. He remembered all too well what he had endured during his last encounter with one of them.

His body trembled at the memory. Shaken, Nox pulled the blanket tightly around himself. He needed to banish the thought quickly as fear was already taking hold of him.

Eventually, his heartbeat calmed down.

With a deep breath, he decided to rest a little longer. He needed to regain his strength before facing his saviour.

As he let his eyes close, another thought crossed his mind.

He was wearing a soft shirt, far too large for his solidly built chest. He ran his fingers through his hair; brown strands, as dull as his dull mark, seemed shorter than usual. And his face... it was clean-shaven. As if someone had recently trimmed his beard.

Nox sighed and finally sat up in bed.

He remembered the grim rider who had looked at him with such disdain.

Was it him who saved me? Who brought me here? And how am I still alive?

The next thought came like a whisper: 'Perhaps I'll die tomorrow instead'

He stood, though his legs were still unsteady, and began to pace the room. Then it hit him: his horse! He had collapsed before freeing him. Had someone found him? Was it his saviour? That brown steed was as dear to him as a closest friend.

He decided to ask his rescuer about it right away.

Crossing the room, he reached the large wooden door, pressed the handle, and...

...He found it to be locked?!

Nox pressed down on the handle. It rattled uselessly in his grip. His hands were slick with sweat, the metal cold and unyielding. Panic stirred in his chest.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

'Am I locked in?' he thought. A cold chill was creeping down his spine.

He tried the handle again-once, twice, four more times; but the result was the same. He was trapped. He stepped back, breathing heavily, trying to quiet the rising noise in his head.

'Stay calm. Think.' He needed to approach this differently.

Pressing his ear to the wooden surface of the door, he listened. At first, there was nothing. Then, he heard the steady but quiet thump of footsteps. The echo told him two things: the corridor was vast, and whoever those footsteps belonged to was far away, somewhere in the eastern wing of the building.

The heavy shoes sent vibrations through the floorboards, carrying the weight of authority.

Nox's eyes shifted towards the window.

He rushed over, yanked the curtains aside, and froze. Iron bars. Thick, rust-stained, bolted deep into the frame.

'Am I a prisoner?', he didn't like that thought.

He leaned in, trying to look through the narrow gaps. Beyond, all he could see was a large neglected garden where weeds overtook what had once been orderly paths. In the distance, a weathered stable outbuilding sagged under its own weight.

The young warrior exhaled slowly. Rage, confusion, and fear twisted inside him, but he shoved them down. Now wasn't the time for emotion, it was time for planning his next move. He crouched by the door and waited. Someone would come. They had to.

Hours passed. The room grew darker and colder. His legs ached. His back stiffened. But he remained. 'Footsteps, there they are!', he thought in excitement. This time closer. Much closer!

Nox held his breath as the sound approached, slow and measured. The steps stopped right outside his door. Through the narrow gap beneath it, he saw the shadow of someone standing still, waiting. He shifted silently, preparing to pounce the second the doors open.

But the door never moved.

Instead, the shadow drifted away. The footsteps resumed, retreating down the hall with the same calm certainty. Nox exhaled and slumped against the door. His muscles were tight, his thoughts tangled.

Fatigue started to catch up to him. His eyelids grew heavy. Just for a moment, he let go.

Then, a strange sensation.

He was moving, but not by his own will. Lifted. Carried.

Some part of him registered the heat of another person's body. A presence. Intimate. Unwelcome.

Nox jolted back into awareness, his body tensed like a drawn bow.

The person who had been cradling him now dropped him roughly onto the bed.

"You can stop pretending you're asleep now," a rough voice said, low and edged with annoyance.

Nox decided to lay perfectly still. The man's tone wasn't hostile exactly, but it wasn't kind either. There was irritation in it. Impatience. Danger.

Better to stay quiet.

"Didn't you hear me?" the voice pressed, harsher now. "Get up and follow me. We've got a few things to discuss."

Only then did Nox open his eyes.

The man was already standing in the doorway. The room was cloaked in shadow, but the corridor beyond was dimly lit. The figure's body blocked much of the light, casting a long, sharp silhouette across the floor. Nox couldn't see his face, only the outline of a broad frame and a motionless stance.

Still, something in that voice, in the way the man stood so calmly, told Nox one thing with absolute certainty:

If he followed him... nothing good was waiting on the other side.