By midday, Skullshore's humidity had risen to a sweltering fever. The kind of heat that clung to the skin like a second, wet shirt. Flies buzzed lazily around cooking fires, and even the jungle's usual cacophony seemed muted—like the whole island was holding its breath.
Darion Vane sat outside Seraphina's hut beneath a tattered sailcloth awning. His shirt was unbuttoned and clinging to his back with sweat. Despite the heat, his fingers trembled.
Not from exhaustion.
From what now marked his skin.
It had appeared during the night.
A brand.
An intricate symbol burned into the flesh over his heart—like a curling serpent swallowing its own tail, glowing with a faint orange shimmer beneath the skin, as if fire lived just beneath the surface.
He hadn't told Seraphina. Not yet.
He didn't know what it meant.
But he knew when it had started.
The orb.
Every time he thought about it, his pulse quickened—his muscles twitched like they weren't fully his. It wasn't pain, not exactly. More like something deep inside was shifting. Awakening.
A predator rising from sleep.
He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. But every time he did, he could hear it.
A whisper.
Soft. Feminine. In a language he didn't understand, but that pressed into his skull like a dream he couldn't shake.
He nearly jumped when Seraphina kicked the side of the post next to him.
"Stop brooding."
"I'm not brooding."
She snorted. "You've got that storm-cloud look again. We need to move."
He stood, brushing his hair back. "Where are we going?"
She looked around, then lowered her voice. "There's someone who might know about the orb."
"Someone on the island?"
"Not in the village," she said. "He's a hermit. Lives deeper inland. Name's Crow."
Darion raised an eyebrow. "Friendly?"
"No. But useful. He used to be a naval scholar before he went mad. He's obsessed with pre-Calamity artifacts."
Darion blinked. "So we're taking a glowing relic that may or may not be cursed to a madman?"
"Basically."
He sighed. "Sounds like a plan."
They left the village behind quickly, slipping into the dense underbrush of Skullshore's untamed interior. The jungle was a living cathedral—thick with vines, ancient stone markers swallowed by roots, and air that tasted like wet moss and decayed fruit. Birds screamed overhead in warning calls.
Darion kept his knife at the ready, eyes scanning the shadows.
The jungle didn't like them.
And the feeling was mutual.
As they walked, Seraphina kept glancing sideways at him.
Finally, she said, "You've been quiet."
"I like listening to birds that sound like dying pigs."
She didn't laugh. "What's really wrong?"
He hesitated.
Then he stopped walking and opened his shirt.
Her breath caught.
The mark on his chest pulsed like embers in a forge.
"…What the hell?" she whispered.
"I woke up with it."
She stepped closer, touching it gently. The moment her fingers brushed his skin, she yanked them back with a hiss.
"It's hot," she said. "That thing branded you."
Darion nodded. "I think it's alive. Or linked to something that is."
He saw the way her lips tightened, the way she stood half a step back now. Not from fear of him—but the unknown.
"We'll let Crow look," she said. "He might know more."
They walked on in silence, the jungle growing darker as clouds gathered overhead. Thunder rumbled far in the distance.
An hour passed before they reached the edge of a broken hill scattered with shattered statues and moss-choked ruins.
Atop it sat a crooked shack built from driftwood, bones, and rusted cannon parts. Wind chimes made of shattered bottles and bent silverware danced from the eaves.
"Crow's place," Seraphina said.
As they climbed the hill, a voice drifted from inside:
"Two fools and a ghost. What a lovely number."
Darion reached for his knife, but Seraphina shook her head. "He always does that. Creepy bastard."
They stepped onto the porch, and the door creaked open.
Inside sat a wiry man with skin like tanned parchment, eyes like twin oil slicks—shifting colors beneath the surface. His beard was braided with tiny bones, and he wore a robe stitched from naval banners and feathered skins.
"Seraphina," he rasped. "And a stranger. Or perhaps not so strange."
He pointed a crooked finger at Darion.
"You've touched fire that speaks."
Darion stiffened.
"You know about the orb?" Seraphina asked.
Crow chuckled. "Of course. It calls. It sings to those who've seen death. He was close, wasn't he?" He sniffed the air. "Yes. Very close. But the fire brought you back."
Darion stepped forward. "What is it?"
Crow's eyes glowed faintly.
"A relic from the age before gods fell. A shard of something that once tore reality's skin and fed on what spilled through."
"…That's comforting."
Crow grinned. "You carry the mark. The flame chose you. Or cursed you."
He walked in circles around Darion like a crow inspecting carrion.
"Will it kill me?" Darion asked.
"Eventually. Or worse—it may change you."
Seraphina crossed her arms. "Can you remove it?"
Crow looked offended. "Remove? No. That would be like pulling the heart from a hatching dragon."
"Is there any way to control it?"
Crow tapped his temple. "The mark is a doorway. But it needs keys. The first is here—on this island. A memory locked in fire."
Darion stepped closer. "Where?"
Crow's eyes glinted. "The old beacon tower. Abandoned after the tidewalkers came. But beware—the mark has awakened others. You are not the only one who hears the song."
Darion looked at Seraphina.
She nodded grimly. "We'll go."
Crow held out his hand. "Wait. Payment."
She groaned. "Of course."
"Bring me a feather from a red-plumed thunderbird. North cliffs."
"That's suicide," Seraphina snapped. "Those things can fry you alive!"
Crow only smiled.
Darion sighed. "We'll get your damn feather."
Crow leaned in and whispered into Darion's ear.
"Be careful what you awaken. Some fires do not warm—they consume."
They left the shack under a thickening sky. Rain began to fall, soft at first, then in heavy drops that pattered against the leaves like fingers drumming on coffins.
Seraphina didn't speak for a long time.
Then she said, "You should've told me about the mark."
"I didn't know how."
"I would've understood."
He looked at her. "Would you?"
She didn't answer right away. But her hand brushed his as they walked.
Just for a second.
But it stayed with him longer than the mark ever could.