When Nox left Torven's living room, he headed toward the bedroom. Velkan followed closely behind. He was a massive warrior - like a mountain with broad shoulders, a thick neck, and a stoic, almost stone-carved expression.
Nox frowned. 'What a brute,' he thought. Velkan hadn't said a word, merely followed him like a shadow, step by step, his heavy footfalls echoing on the stone floor. In the quiet corridor, his footsteps sounded like echoes.
Nox felt uneasy, as if he was not only being watched, but also judged - as though every move he made would be remembered and used against him. He wondered if Velkan would enter the room after him. Thankfully, he didn't. When they reached the door and Nox opened the door, the giant stopped, gave a nod, and vanished into the darkness of the hallway.
Nox sat heavily on the bed, pressing his hand to his forehead. He didn't know what to think anymore. On one hand, he was relieved - at least for now, he didn't feel his life was in danger. On the other, he couldn't understand what Torven expected from him. What kind of answer was he looking for? Was there something Nox didn't know, though he should? Was it some sort of test? A trial? He felt deeply uncomfortable being a prisoner in this building. But worst of all his heart ached for his family.
He felt disoriented and confused. What did "a new answer" mean? "A different answer"? What expectations did Torven have? Was this all some kind of interrogation, a test to make him reveal any secrets he could be keeping, or part an obscure ritual?
Eventually, he became angry. His heart began to race, his hand clenched into a fist so tight that his nails dug into his skin.
'By what right did that man send the letter?!' he screamed in his mind.
He felt hot, shameful tears sting beneath his eyelids. He hadn't allowed himself to cry on the battlefield, even as his comrades died one by one. But now... now something inside him had broken.
It felt like betrayal - that's how he saw it. A violation of his last will, his final plan, to which he had clung so desperately. He was supposed to leave in silence, with dignity. The world was meant to know only after his death - not before. Not like this. Not now.
With trembling fingers, he wiped his eyes, as if trying to erase not only the tears but his thoughts. And then he remembered.
I asked him to do it myself. A quiet voice echoed in his head, a memory of an old conversation. He sighed.
"But only after my death..." he whispered to himself, as if trying to reassure himself he hadn't lost his mind.
He felt his anger slowly morph into something more bitter - helplessness. Maybe resignation too? His shoulders slumped, as if all his strength had suddenly left him. He shook - not from cold, but from the cruel, repressed despair he had been trying to suppress for months.
Now he felt like a prisoner, not only of this place, but of his own history. His decisions, his past, his mark-it was all tangling into something he was losing control over.
"This wasn't how it was supposed to be," he whispered, but his voice was hollow, devoid of conviction.
He wondered how his father and brother were feeling now. Abram was surely shocked - this wasn't an ordinary message, but something that could shake the very foundations of their family. They had all placed their hopes in him. Nox was supposed to be the one who would succeed - the one to break the curse that had plagued their bloodline for generations. The thought of how his loved ones might be reacting to the news filled him with a mix of sadness, fear, and guilt.
Hours passed as he continued pondering whether there was a way to contact his family. The Mark on his hand remained unchanged - the same shape, the same throbbing pulse. It still burned, pulsing like a living wound. It felt more intense than before, as if something about the conversation with Torven had awakened it. His thoughts drifted involuntarily to the mysterious man. What kind of Mark did Torven bear? Did he possess one at all?
He tried to recall every detail of his appearance. The figure was lean but strong. His movements-precise, as if honed over years of training. He had no visible Mark on his hands or face.
Having a Mark on the face would be a true curse - a brand that could not be hidden from the world.
He had known a few people with such Marks - they wore them either with pride or desperation, but one thing was certain: their lives were never easy.
He still remembered a swordsman with a red mark on his face. He had met him during his Mark's last moon phase. That very day, the warrior died in battle. Nox had fought then as a contract soldier - belonging to no one, anonymous. He had survived, as always. Always narrowly escaping death, despite not having a warrior's Mark. Not everyone was so lucky.
There was something eerily familiar in Torven's bearing - discipline, poise, coldness. Maybe he bore a Mark too, just hidden. How could he persuade him to reveal it?
'I have to find out what Torven really wants', he thought, finally lying down to sleep.
In his dreams came dark visions-faces of fallen comrades, blood on his hands, skies choked with smoke. He awoke drenched in sweat. Though he couldn't clearly recall the dream, a deep sense of unease lingered.