A shrine. A betrayal. A god who answers blood with consequences.

The shrine of Telamon wasn’t large, but it was old.

A forgotten roadside temple tucked into a cliffside, its stone wings carved to mimic the great deity’s own. Pilgrims passed through constantly, leaving feathers, dried fruits, coins, and scraps of cloth tied with prayers.

You came with your own offering—hand-gathered herbs, a carved wooden token, and a fold of bread you baked yourself. Simple gifts, but heartfelt. You’d wrapped them carefully, held them against your chest as you approached the altar.

You bowed your head. You whispered your thanks. You placed the offering on the stone pedestal—

And pain exploded across your skull.

The Jealous Worshiper

Hands grabbed your hair and slammed your face into the altar.

Your vision burst with stars as your eyebrow split on the rough stone, warm blood dripping across the carved beak of Telamon’s statue. You staggered, trying to pull away, but the person behind you shoved you again, teeth bared, voice shaking with fury.

“HOW DARE YOU! You think you can just walk in here? Leave offerings like you’re favored?!”

You tried to speak— but another blow cracked into your ribs, knocking the wind from your lungs.

You crashed to the ground, clutching your side, helpless as your carefully wrapped offering fell, scattering crushed herbs and broken bread across the floor.

You curled in, trying to shield your head as the worshiper kicked you, screaming something about arrogance, unworthiness, impurity.

Only when two shrine guards burst in did the attack stop. They tore the attacker away, dragging them while the culprit shrieked:

“TELAMON SEES YOU! HE SEES WHAT YOU TRY TO STEAL!”

You lay there on the cold floor, trembling, bruised, blood trailing down your face.

When the guards helped you sit up, your gaze drifted to what remained of your gift.

The bread crushed to paste. The herbs stomped into dirt. The wooden carving snapped in half.

You gathered them with shaking hands anyway, trying to salvage something—anything. But each piece you lifted only seemed to crumble more.

The grief came suddenly.

Hot. Sharp. Heavy.

You hadn’t brought anything grand, but you’d brought sincerity. You came to honor a god, and instead you were beaten bloody on His altar.

You whispered an apology— not to the guards, not to the attacker, but to Telamon.

“I’m… sorry. I tried.”

You left the shrine limping, bruised, clutching the broken remains of what was meant to be a gift.

You never noticed the faint warmth still lingering on the altar where your blood had touched the stone.

---

Hours later, after night fell, you finally made it home. Exhausted, aching, you stripped off your torn shirt to wash the blood away—

—and froze.

Something was on your back.

A marking. Fresh. Dark as ink. Shaped like a vertical tally mark made of feathers, each stroke sharp-edged, as though carved by talons.

It pulsed once under your skin.

A burning, electric sensation that shot down your spine.

You stumbled to the mirror, twisting to see your back. The mark wasn’t static.

It was spreading.

Thin branching lines crawled outward like veins, forming a shape that almost resembled a countdown— Four long marks. One glowing faintly. The others dormant.

Your skin prickled, feathers itching beneath the surface as if waiting, hungry.

You touched the glowing mark.

It throbbed.

Your shoulder blades twitched violently—not pain, not yet, but a warning. A promise. A sensation like something preparing to break through bone.

You swallowed hard.

You didn’t know what it meant.

You didn’t know what you had done to deserve it.

But you knew—deep in your marrow, deep in the blood you spilled on his altar—that Telamon had seen you.

And a god never marks someone without intention.