Mavin kept walking after the camp sounds faded.
The voices disappeared first. Then the clatter of gear. After that, even the smell of smoke thinned until it was just dust and dry leaves. He moved the way he had been taught, slow and careful, watching where he stepped. The ground here was half sand, half forest floor, roots pushing through in ugly knots. The trees were thin and spaced out, their leaves coated with grit.
He liked being away from camp sometimes. It was quieter. No one yelling. No one grabbing him by the arm or shoving a task into his hands. Out here, it was just him and whatever the Wastes decided to throw his way.
He crouched near a low ridge and listened.
That habit had kept him alive more than once.
At first, nothing felt wrong. Wind moved through the trees. Something small scurried nearby and disappeared. Normal sounds.
Then he heard breathing.
It was close. Low. Steady.
Mavin didn't move.
He stayed still, muscles tight, counting in his head. One. Two. Three. If it was passing through, it would move on. If it was hunting, running too early would make things worse.
The breathing stayed where it was.
He turned his head.
The hound stood between the trees, body low, shoulders rolling as it shifted its weight. Its fur was thin in places, missing in others. The skin beneath looked dark and tight, pulled wrong over muscle. Old scars crisscrossed its side. Its jaw hung slightly open, strings of saliva dripping down onto the sand.
Its eyes were pale.
They stayed on him.
Mavin stepped back.
The hound growled, deep and even.
He ran.
Branches snapped against his arms as he pushed through the brush. Sand slid under his feet, stealing traction. He could hear the animal behind him, claws biting into dirt, keeping pace without effort.
It didn't rush.
That scared him.
His chest burned. His breaths came fast and shallow. He tripped over a root and barely stayed upright. The ground dipped ahead and he lost his footing again. This time he went down hard, shoulder slamming into packed sand.
The air left his lungs in a rush.
He rolled, coughing, and saw the hound leap.
The weight hit him in the side. Teeth sank into his ribs and pain tore through him so fast his vision blurred. He screamed and clawed at its neck, fingers slipping on fur and blood.
The hound ripped back.
Something inside him tore.
Warm blood soaked into his clothes. The animal circled him, slow and controlled, head low, tail stiff. It waited.
Mavin tried to push himself up. His arms shook and failed. His hands pressed against his side and came away red.
He lay there, staring up through the thin canopy. The sky was flat and gray. His lungs stuttered with every breath.
Not how he thought it would happen.
Not out here.
A pressure built in his chest. Not panic. Not fear. Something heavier. It pressed inward, deep behind his ribs, spreading into his stomach and spine.
A word whispered in his mind.
Rot Born.
Pain exploded through him.
Cold flooded his body, sharp and biting. His muscles locked as something moved under his skin. His back arched and he screamed again, the sound ripping out of him without control.
The wound on his side burned. Then it itched. The sensation crawled outward, deep and wrong. Flesh darkened around the torn muscle, black and wet, spreading in uneven layers. The bleeding slowed, thickened, then stopped as rotting growth sealed the damage.
The hound lunged.
Something tore out of Mavin's back.
The sound was wet and violent. Three thick shapes forced their way through skin and cloth, ripping open his back as they unfurled into the air. They were long and heavy, black with dull green veins running through them. They moved without him thinking about it, slamming into the hound's head and shoulder.
The impact sent the animal crashing into the dirt.
Mavin collapsed onto his hands and knees, gagging. His spine burned. The weight behind him dragged against the ground, flexing and shifting like limbs learning how to exist.
The hound stood and charged again.
One tendril wrapped around its neck. Another punched into its side. The third caught a leg and pulled. The animal screamed as decay spread from the points of contact. Fur fell away. Skin split. The smell hit Mavin a moment later, thick and sour.
He felt it happen.
The pull. The resistance. The break.
The hound collapsed, body twitching as the rot ate through muscle and bone. Its jaw opened once, then went still.
The tendrils loosened and dragged back toward Mavin, sinking into his back. The holes they left sealed with a crawling sensation that made his stomach turn.
He fell forward and vomited into the sand.
His hands shook. His chest heaved as he tried to breathe. His side ached, but when he touched it, his fingers met solid flesh. Hard. Uneven.
He rolled onto his back, staring up through the trees.
On his chest, above his heart, a mark burned. A dark, uneven circle etched into his skin, surrounded by a single ring.
One circle.
He didn't know what it meant.
He lay there for a long time, listening to his own breathing, waiting for the pain to come back worse. It didn't. The rot beneath his skin felt warm, heavy, present.
Voices reached him faintly through the trees.
Shouting.
Someone calling his name.
Mavin closed his eyes, heart pounding.
The bandits were coming.