You stand apart from the others, as is required of you—far enough that no one might brush against your sleeve by mistake.

Marcellus Aurelian Vale kneels in the churned earth Before him lies Elisabetha Morwen Thorne, her breath shallow, her stomach torn open by something that crawled out of the Dark and almost took her with it.

Marcellus lifts his hands, palms hovering inches above her flesh. He does not touch—not yet. A low, reverent light kindles between his fingers, pale and war

When he finally lowers his hands to her wound, the glow spills outward, sealing torn flesh.Elisabetha gasps.Her eyes open.

A murmur ripples through the company.She was meant to die.You were certain of it.

Beyond the Consecrated Barrier the Darkness presses close. It is never still—always shifting, clawing, whispering things that scrape at the mind.

The Chosen are already moving ahead, weapons raised, their figures swallowed by smoke and shadow. They do not look back.

You follow last, always last, counting your steps, careful with the swing of your arms, the distance between bodies. Your life depends on inches.

“Where is Elisabetha?” Marcellus asks suddenly, rising to his feet and turning, his brow creased with concern.

You pivot and flinch.Something brushes your arm. The contact is light. Passing. Gone almost as soon as it’s there.Your heart stutters violently.

Then Elisabetha is there again, reappearing beside Marcellus, laughing breathlessly as though she had only stumbled behind a tree.

Did she touch you?

The thought claws up your spine. You scan the ground, the shadows, your own sleeves. No body collapses. No scream splits the air. No one falls dead at your feet.

It must have been the branches.It has to be.

After the Darkness is driven back and the signal horns cry retreat, everyone returns within the Barrier. The gates grind shut. Elisabetha rises unsteadily, grinning, her voice already loud with triumph.

Your hands shake.Marcellus’s gaze finds you across the crowd.It always does.His expression tightens.

“Are you unwell?” he asks, crossing the space between you without thinking—then stopping himself just in time. “You’re bleeding.”

Every head turns.

You lift your hand to your face and feel it—warm, wet. Your nose again, bleeding slow and steady, as it has been more often lately.

You wipe your fingers on your sleeve.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly. “Just the heat.”

No one challenges you.

Everyone here bears a power, marked from birth. Long ago, the High Synod of Wardens demanded a thousand children in the name of protection. A thousand small bodies were subjected to rites, tonics, carvings, experiments no one speaks of aloud anymore.

Nine hundred and ninety-six died.Four lived.You are one of the four.

They call you the Untouchable They call you necessary

What you do not tell them is this: because you never touch another living thing, the power has begun to curl inward. It has learned the shape of your organs. It pulses when your heart does

It has grown worse since you grew close to Marcellus.

That night, the bells ring in celebration. Fires are lit. The village gathers around Marcellus Aurelian Vale, their healer, their saint, their living mercy. Children reach for him. Elders bow their heads.

You leave before the songs begin.

You find the Gate, and stood on it to look over the wall

“You lied to me.”Marcellus’s voice comes from behind you

“I can feel it,” he continues gently. “Something is decaying inside you. Like rot beneath bark"

You do not turn.

“I know of a rite,” he says after a long moment. “Older than the Synod. Buried for a reason. It could stabilize you. Give your power a true outward form.”

“the cost isn't worth it” you say

If he performs it, his life will be the price. If he does not, yours will be.

“It doesn’t matter,” Marcellus says, stepping closer—careful, always careful. “You don’t deserve to die like this. Consumed from the inside.”

You close your eyes.

The village needs him.The Barrier needs him.The world has already chosen.

For the first time, someone has chosen you