It had been days.
Vincent didn't know how many.
He wandered through fields that whispered and skies that never looked quite right — alone, hollow, and too small for his own bones. His body, now that of a child, felt like a puppet pulled by strings he didn't know how to use. Each step was clumsy. Each breath tasted like dust.
The first day, he learned how helpless he truly was.
He woke up on the side of a cracked, ancient road — barefoot, barely clothed, the wind cold against skin that wasn't his. His stomach clawed at itself, and the thirst came fast, brutal. He drank from muddy puddles and chewed sour leaves. Night came like a threat. He curled beneath crooked roots, trembling.
The second day, he learned to steal.
He found a hunting shack and waited until its owner stepped into the woods. Then he snuck in. He took bread that made his gums bleed, a scratchy wool cloth to wrap himself in, and a knife too big for his hand. He didn't feel guilt. Only shame that he'd waited too long to take more.
The third day, he followed crows.
The fourth, he followed smoke.
The fifth, he collapsed.
There had been a sharp ridge, a strange light in the trees — and a pulse in his chest like thunder in reverse. A voice, maybe. He couldn't remember.
He hit the ground.
Darkness swallowed him.
⸻
Warmth.
That was the first thing he noticed.
Not sunlight — not the sickly haze of whatever sky ruled this land — but real warmth. Blankets. A pillow beneath his head. The smell of stew and old wood and wax candles. A breeze drifted through a cracked window, carrying with it the sound of voices. Children's voices. Distant, but real.
He blinked.
The ceiling above him was wooden, aged and crossed with spiderwebs. The pain in his ribs had dulled, but the ache in his chest — that strange hollowness — lingered.
He shifted, groaned.
A voice spoke near the door.
"You're finally awake."
Vincent turned his head.
A girl stood in the doorway. Barefoot. Maybe ten or eleven. Long sleeves stained with dirt. Hair tied messily back. She had the look of someone used to going unnoticed — and a calmness that didn't match her age.
"You've been asleep for three days," she said.
He stared. "…Where am I?"
She walked in and set a bowl of water beside the bed. "Drenwick's Orphanage. We found you face-down near the old ridge trail. You were half-frozen and talking nonsense. Matron almost didn't let you in — said you felt wrong."
Vincent tried to sit up. His arms barely obeyed. "…Why help me?"
The girl shrugged. "Guess Matron got curious. Not every day a kid shows up glowing."
His breath caught. "Glowing?"
She hesitated, then reached for the blanket.
"Here," she said. "Don't freak out."
She pulled it down a little — just below his collarbone.
Vincent froze.
Etched across his chest, just over his heart, was a mark — glowing faintly, almost like the ember of a dying fire. Intricate lines curled outward like roots or veins, forming a jagged, alien symbol at the center. It didn't look burned or scarred. It looked carved by something deeper.
Like it had always been there.
Vincent's throat dried.
"…What is it?"
"I don't know," she said, honest. "But Matron called it an Oathmark. I've… I've never seen one in person before."
The word hit something deep in him.
Oathmark.
It sounded like a promise made long ago. A buried command. A crack in the foundation of who he used to be.
Vincent looked away.
The mark still pulsed beneath his skin — a slow, steady rhythm that didn't match his heartbeat.
The girl stood quietly for a moment, then added, "You should rest. Matron will want to talk to you soon."
She turned and slipped out, the door creaking shut behind her.
Vincent lay there, staring at the ceiling, the word still echoing in his mind.
Oathmark.
Something was waking up inside him.
And it remembered things he didn't