Estrid pressed her fingers to her neck, wincing as they brushed the fresh scar. The mark of Mordor was there, hidden beneath her burned skin—a desperate attempt to conceal the dark symbol that branded her as a traitor to the free folk. The hot rod she had used to sear over the mark had left raw skin, but it was necessary. She couldn’t afford to be seen as one of them, not now.

Two weeks since the Southlands fell. Since her home, her people, were reduced to nothing but cinders and slaves beneath the shadow of Mordor.

The girl from the Southlands was gone, replaced by someone willing to lie, steal, and hurt just to survive. Estrid clenched her fists, feeling the dagger at her hip. She would survive, no matter the cost.

Blending in with the free people wasn’t easy, but the burn had given her a chance. She had passed through a few scattered villages, her face kept low, the pain on her neck a reminder to stay silent.

As night approached, Estrid found shelter under a rocky overhang. She crouched, the cold earth beneath her a small comfort, and stared out at the distant red glow from Mordor’s peaks. Beneath her layers of deception and the lies she spun to survive, a small part of her still wanted something more—a chance to stop running. To stop hiding who she really was. But those days felt as distant as the Southlands’ once green hills.

Estrid’s eyes snapped open, her fingers instinctively curling around the hilt of her dagger. The night was still, save for the faint crackle of wind against the rocks, but something had changed. She could feel it—an unnatural quiet settling over the land. Then, she heard it. Footsteps.