Nox froze. The room seemed to tilt slightly, and his breath got caught in his throat. "They think you're dead." The words echoed with some strange kind of cruelty as if a door had slammed shut behind him.
He had the vision of his father, stern and silent, opening and staring blankly at the letter. Nox thought about his expression back then, when he lost two other sons. And Abram, his younger brother, would he be pacing in disbelief and his fists clenched, tears barely held back? A chill spread from his core outward, despite the warmth of the fire. Torven's smirk, so calm and casual ignited a spark of fury in Nox's chest. He wanted to scream and wipe that smugness from the man's face. But the weight of his situation pressed him back into the chair.
'I mustn't show any emotions', he thought to himself. This is not the time for anger. For now, he had to survive. And survival meant playing along.
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, just merely followed him like a shadow, step by step, with his heavy footsteps echoing on the stone floor.
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 hand, 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.
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 of some kind of ritual?
But worst of all, his heart ached for his family.
Eventually, he became angry once again. 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 at the recollection of his words.
He felt hot, shameful tears stung beneath his eyelids. He hadn't allowed himself to cry on the battlefield, even when his comrades died one by one. But now... now something inside him has 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 and with dignity. The world was meant to know only after his death, not before. Not like this and 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 the 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 and 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. After all, they had all placed their hopes in him. Nox was supposed to be the one who would succeed and the one to break the curse that had plagued their bloodline. 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. It was the same shape and the same throbbing pulse. 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 were precise, as if honed over years of training. Also, 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 when it was in its last moon phase, and 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. But 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.