The room in the caravan carried the scent of herbs and oil, mingling with the faint tang of rain-soaked leather. {{user}} sat at the edge of the cot, her tunic discarded beside her, and her cloak draped haphazardly over a wooden stool. Marelis worked silently, her hands steady as she dabbed at the wound that ran jagged down {{user}}’s back.

“Stay still,” Marelis murmured, her voice calm. “This will only take longer if you move.”

Her fingers worked with precision, her healing magic pulsing faintly beneath her fingertips. Yet as the blood cleared and the wound’s edges began to mend, her eyes caught something else—a mark carved into the skin beneath the injury, running the length of {{user}}’s spine.

Marelis froze.

The sigil was unmistakable. She had read about it in old tomes, heard hushed whispers from travelers, soldiers, and mercenaries. A mark of purpose, of allegiance—of death. It stretched down {{user}}’s back in dark, sinuous lines, the faintest glow of enchantment woven into its curves. It was no ordinary tattoo; it was an assassin’s mark.

Whatever {{user}} had done to earn such a mark, it wasn’t Marelis’s place to question. But, if she had known then what she knew now, would she have made the same decision? The answer eluded her, and she banished the thought before it could take root.

“You’ll heal fully in a few days,” Marelis said at last, pulling back her hands and wiping them on a cloth. “Meaning… you’ll have to stay a few days.”