The ruins ended as if they had been cut by a giant's blade.
Beyond the final jagged wall lay Oakhaven. It was a medieval nightmare stitched together with high-voltage wire. Huts made of wattle and daub sat in the shadow of massive, humming pylons that carried Essence to the Spire-Cities above.
The village smelled of woodsmoke and ozone—the scent of the past being burned to power the future.
"Cover your arm," Ere said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "The guards at the gate aren't Stalkers. They're Awakened. They don't just have eyes; they have sensors."
Golden pulled the sleeve of his suit tight. The fabric hummed, masking the faint silver glow, but it couldn't mask the hunger. The closer they got to the village, the more the Mark writhed. It could sense the massive flow of Essence in the pylons.
To the Mark, that pylon wasn't a power source. It was a feast.
"Stay behind me," Ere commanded. "Don't speak. Your accent is... wrong."
They reached the gate—a heavy barricade of reinforced timber and pulsing blue lasers. Two guards stood there. They weren't wearing rags. They wore Reformed plate armor—black, matte metal that looked like it had been grown rather than forged.
One guard stepped forward, his helmet a smooth visor of black glass. A red light swept over Ere, then locked onto Golden.
"Identity," the guard rasped.
Ere flashed a small, crystalline token.
"Scout-Rank 4. Returning from the ruins."
The red light lingered on Golden. It felt hot, like a needle pricking his skin.
"And the Outlander?"
"A survivor," Ere lied smoothly. "Found him in a collapse. He's been processed."
The guard didn't move. "He hasn't been scanned for Corruption. The Spire-City issued a Red Alert an hour ago. A 'temporal anomaly' was detected in the ruins.
Everyone coming through this gate gets a deep-tissue Essence scan."
Golden felt his blood turn to ice. A deep-tissue scan would peel back the suit's masking like an onion. They would see the silver. They would see the black veins.
Ere's posture shifted. Her weight moved to the balls of her feet. She was going to draw her blade.
No, Golden thought. If she fights, we're dead. They'll seal the village and call down a Griffin from the Spire.
He looked at the pylon ten yards away. He looked at the way the guard's armor hummed—a specific, vibrating frequency. He remembered the feeling of the Mark "bending" time. If it could stretch time, could it pull energy?
Golden stepped forward, stumbling. He didn't look like a hero. He looked like a dying boy.
"Please," Golden wheezed, grabbing the guard's armored forearm.
"Back off, stray," the guard growled, raising a gloved hand to shove him.
But Golden wasn't just begging. As his hand touched the Reformed plate, he did something he hadn't tried before. He didn't fight the Mark's hunger. He fed it.
Take it, he whispered in the dark corners of his mind. Just a sip.
The Mark didn't flare. It simply acted like a vacuum. It sucked a tiny fraction of the Essence powering the guard's visor.
For a split second, the red scanning light flickered and died. The guard's HUD went dark.
"Dammed Essence-leaks," the guard hissed, shaking his head. "This armor is a century old and the filters are rotting."
"I... I think I'm going to be sick," Golden groaned, falling into the mud.
Ere caught on instantly. She grabbed Golden by the collar, shoving him toward the open gate. "See? He's dying of Aether-poisoning. You want to scan him while he vomits on your boots, or do you want me to get him to the Alchemist before he becomes a bio-hazard?"
The guard, frustrated by his flickering visor and the prospect of cleaning his gear, waved them through. "Move. Before I change my mind."
They hurried past the lasers and into the muddy streets of the village. Only when they were hidden behind a row of tattered tents did Ere let go of him.
She turned to him, her blue eyes wide with something that looked like respect—and fear.
"You shorted his armor," she whispered. "You didn't use magic. You stole his power. How?"
Golden looked at his hand. It was trembling.
The Mark felt warm, satisfied. Like a predator that had finally been given a piece of meat.
"I didn't steal it," Golden said, his voice colder than it had been an hour ago. "I just gave the Mark what it wanted."
For the first time since the bell rang, Golden wasn't just a victim. He was a predator in training.