I trace the burn scars in the makeshift camps grimy outside mirror. They've faded slightly, albeit after so long. But the memory of that fire still burns fresh, tormenting my mind and dancing freely whenever I rest.

  The mirror's cracked surface fractures my reflection—a face I barely recognize anymore. My white hair, cut short against my scalp for combat ease, stands stark against skin tanned and weathered by years on the road. The red eyes I inherited from my mother stare back, hollow with purpose.

  My snake tattoo ripples beneath the scars—no longer the weak marking of a child, but a true weapon now. Still, it wasn't enough then. It isn't enough now.

  I pull my shirt back on my behemoth frame, covering both scars and tattoo. Clenching my jaw, somewhere out there, Camilla still roams around and wields that hideous magic that destroyed my people. One day, she'll learn that she should have made sure every last one of us was dead.

  Fuck mages

  One small knife in my hands, against a world of mages. But it's a start.

  The camp bustles with activity, but I keep to myself, sharpening my Jeolara issued blade while watching the others. Captain Maya stands tall among them, her scarred face, and short black hair that could easily mistake her for a man, was creasing with laughter at some crude joke. Eleven years under her command, and she's taught us well—taught me well. If I didn't get this burden, I may have stayed with these guys forever.

  "Come on, pretty boy, show us what you've got!" A mercenary throws a punch at another, who dances away with practiced ease.

  "Your footwork's shit as always," Maya barks, but there's a soothing warmth in her voice. These mercenaries might not seem like much, but they became something close to family for me. Been here longer than my tribe, though I never let myself get too attached. I have a goal.

  The familiar weight of my snake tattoo shifts and coils beneath my sleeve, it's getting hungrier and hungrier as i've noticed. I've learned to control its manifestations better now being able to equip it on the fly with enough focus. My skills with the blade is nothing to scoff at either, all thanks to Maya's relentless and brutal training. But I needed it, I was as green as they come.

  "Markus." Maya's gravelly voice cuts through my brooding. She insists on calling me that—like I'm still the scrawny kid she found all those years ago. "You're always quiet at these times. Time for a round, ay? That'll liven you up."

  I rise from my spot, knowing better than to refuse. The other mercs form a loose circle, their usual rowdy banter dying down to excited murmurs. Maya hasn't lost a match in fifteen years of leading the company. Her scarred face breaks into that familiar predatory grin as she circles me, each step measured and deliberate.

  "Show me what you've learned, boy."

  I stand opposite Maya, my six-foot-eight frame towering over her compact, battle-hardened body. Two predators sizing each other up.

  She explodes forward—she always does—a blur of steel and leather. I twist aside, my right hand bringing my greatsword up toward her shoulder while my tattoo pulses. The familiar cold sensation spreads through my left arm as my tattoo materialises a black sleek knife. But Maya reads the move before I complete it. Her bracer parries my large blade with a resounding clang— a skillful move—and suddenly the world spins as her leg sweeps mine.

  Thump.

  I roll through the fall, dirt spraying as her sword bites into the ground where I lay a heartbeat ago. The snake-knife allows me to spring back faster than she expects, and for once I see a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

  "Better," she grunts, adjusting her stance. "But still too predictable."

  She presses forward with a combination of strikes—high, low, thrust. Each attack flows into the next like water. I parry two, dodge the third, but her elbow catches my ribs. Pain blossoms, but I use the momentum to create distance.

  My snake tattoo writhes beneath my skin, hungry for more. I feint with my left, and when she moves to counter, I dismiss the snake-knife and put both hands on the huge sword— thrusting forward at her head. The sudden switch forces her to abort her counter-attack. This is my chance.

  She laughs—actually laughs—as she ducks under it. "Now that's new!"

  Her counter is brutal. A knee to my stomach doubles me over, followed by a shoulder charge that sends me sprawling. But I'm ready this time. Materialising the knife again. I plant the greatsword into the dirt, using it as an anchor to control my fall. My boots connect with her advancing form, and for the first time ever, I manage to stagger the captain.

  The gathered mercs roar their approval. Cheers and whistles are abundant. Maya's eyes narrow, all pretense of training gone. She comes at me with her full speed now, her sword a silver arc in the morning light, beautiful. I meet her strike-for-strike, my blades becoming a defensive web. But she's still Maya. A subtle shift in her weight is all the warning I get before her pommel cracks against my jaw.

  The world goes fuzzy. My legs give out, and I taste blood. When my vision clears, I'm face-down in the dirt, her boot pressed firmly between my shoulder blades, I could get up but choose to lie there for a beat.

  "Much better, luckily your jaws strong" she says, helping me up. "That leg trap was inspiring. But you still telegraph your snake-knife switches."

  Progress.

  Dawn breaks cold and grey over the battlefield. One battle of many in this world.

  The Kingdom of Jeolara's forces stretch out before us—steam tanks, rifle squadrons, our mercenary company integrated among their ranks. Across the field, The Grand Duchy of Egozia's banners snap and flow in the wind.

  Then I see them. Mages. Dozens of them, their robes catching the morning light creeping over the towering walls. My tattoo writhes beneath my skin, responding to their presence. My grip tightens around my weapon. Blood heating up.

  "Steady," Maya murmurs beside me. "Remember your training boy."

  Bang.

  The first volley of rifle fire echoes across the field. Steam tanks groan forward. My heart starts pumping, and for a moment, I dare to hope our technology might prevail.

  Then the mages respond.

  Boom!

  Earth erupts beneath our front lines, swallowing entire squadrons in my line of sight. Walls of flame slice through our formations. I watch in horror as a single mage turns our largest steam tank barreling towards them to ice, its crew frozen solid inside, unable to do anything.

  "Hold the line!" Maya exclaims, even she looks at the magic in awe, but her voice is drowned by screams.

  Our company charges forward—it's what we're paid for, after all. But against this magic, we might as well be children throwing stones at a mountain.

  Im reminded yet again, just how unfair this disgusting power that the fairies use.

  The world spins as I hit the ground hard, my snake-knife dispersing from the impact. Dirt and blood fill my mouth. Through the ringing in my ears, steel-clad boots crunch closer.

  Two Egozian soldiers emerge from the chaos, their dirty uniforms marking them as common infantry. The taller one lunges with his spear while his partner circles right, aiming to flank me.

  My tattoo pulses, and the snake-knife materialises just in time to deflect the spear thrust. I roll left, sweeping my other blade at the second soldier's legs, attempting to take it clean off. He jumps back, but not quite far enough. Blood sprays from his calf.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "Bloody mercenary scum!" The spearman drives forward again.

  I spring up between them, both blades moving in opposite arcs. The wounded one's sword meets my regular blade with a clang, deflecting it with my power. While my snake-knife slides along the spear shaft. Close combat— just where I want them.

  The spearman's eyes widen as I step inside his reach.

  Bang.

  My elbow cracks against his nose. He stumbles, blood flowing down his broken nose, spear clattering away. His partner tries to help, but his injured leg slows him.

  I drive my knee into the spearman's gut, then slam his head into my rising blade. The snake-knife thirsts for his throat—

  Something hard crashes into the back of my skull. Stars explode across my vision—my grip loosening— dispersing my blades onto the battlefield. My knees buckle as two more soldiers appear behind me, one holding a wooden club.

  "Got the bastard!" A voice calls out triumphantly.

  I try to stand, to fight, but another blow sends darkness crashing in.

  Then everything goes black.

  *****

  I was five years old.

  The needle bites into my skin, each prick marking the sacred path of our ancestors. Father's steady hand traces the serpentine pattern across my forearm, his weathered face fixed in concentration. The pain is sharp, but I refuse to flinch. This is my birthright—my first tattoo.

  "The snake brings swiftness, predation," Father says, dipping the bone needle in mystical ink once more. "In time, it will become your blade."

  Through the open flap of our tent, distant drums echo across our mountain valley. The autumn wind carries whispers of change, of the spreading cities with their steam-powered monstrosities and magic-wielding rulers.

  "The world grows smaller," Father continues, his voice heavy. "Our ways... they fear what they don't understand. The kingdoms, they see our tattoos as primitive, Mark. But they forget—we were here first. We knew the old magics before they corrupted them."

  The final stroke complete, Father wraps my arm in herb-soaked cloth. "We are the last tribe that remembers. That's why they—"

  A horn blast splits the air. Not our signal. Different. Wrong.

  Father's head snaps up. "Inside. Now."

  But I'm already at the tent's entrance, transfixed by the sight. A woman in crimson robes stands atop the ridge, her hair like a living flame against the grey sky. Fire blooms from her hands, turning our wooden palisades to ash.

  She turns. Crimson eyes lock onto mine.

  An unfamiliar feeling, despair.

  "Camilla," Father spits the name like poison. He manifests a gigantic club, the bear tattoos on his chest beginning to pulse with blue light. He roars loudly "Run, Mark. Run!"

  I bolt, but the slippery heat finds me first. Fire rains from above, catching tents, warriors, and children. Our mighty defenders leap forward, their tattoos blazing, their weapons whistling through the dusty wind—wolves, eagles, bears—but her flames are absolute.

  Schlink.

  Waves of fire cut through them like paper. It looked supernatural, such force, such power. My new snake tattoo tingles, churning a primal instinct to come out, to reap. It yearns to respond, to become the knife it promises, but it's too new, too young, too weak.

  Much like me.

  The burns come next. Searing pain splashes across my neck, my back, my chest. I scream, or try to at least. Rolling in the dirt, but the magical fire clings like oil, it declines to detach from me. Through tears, I see Father charge the witch, his bear-spirit manifesting in a rush of blue light. Other warriors join him, buying time as mothers grab distraught children, as elders point to different escape routes.

  I crawl toward the forest's edge, each movement agony. The trees swaying at the wind created from her. Swaying in ways that appear to be laughing at me, mocking my attempt at escape.

  Behind me, Father roars again, hoarsely this time—the sound becoming a death cry cut brutally short. My fresh snake tattoo pulses once, my skin felt like it was being torn open.

  Twice, I could feel a wriggling that felt nauseating, and finally, something manifests in my mangled hand—a small knife, barely longer than my palm, appearing in my loose grip.

  The witch's laughter carries across the burning valley. "The last of the marked ones, Finally" she calls out coldly. "Your primitive, disgusting ways die today."

  I reach the treeline, darkness taking me as crackling flames consume everything I've ever known.

  *****

  Clang

  I wake to chains rattling around and encasing my dirty hands, surrounded by stone walls. My weapon is gone, I'm cold and hungry, but my tattoo still pulses beneath my skin. Through iron bars, I see others—young soldiers from Jeolara, barely old enough to hold rifles, now prisoners like me.

  "Look at this one, isn't he something," a guard says, peering at my body. "Look at his tattered body."

  I search for familiar faces among the prisoners, but find none. Maya. Dex. The others. All gone.

  The guard continues, "Take him to the special holding cells. The High Marshal will want to examine this one personally."

  I don't resist as they drag me away. Not yet. But my tattoo writhes, eager for vengeance, and I think of Camilla. Her clean vermillion hair enchanted in the fire, swaying in the magical wind, her cold expressionless appearance, constantly reminding me of my drive.

  Another mage, another prison. History repeats itself.

  But this time, I'm not a child. And this time, I'm ready.

  The guards drag me through dimly lit corridors, clearly a technique to mess with me. My chains rattle with each stumbling step, two can play that game. My tattoo pulses beneath my skin, yearning to manifest, but I keep it in check. Not yet. Not here.

  We stop before an ornate door with brass fittings shaped like flames—the Egozian royal emblem. One guard knocks while the other tightens his grip on my arm. Any harder and it might break.

  "Enter," commands a stern voice from within.

  They shove me into a spacious chamber. Bookshelves line the walls, and a massive desk dominates the center. Behind it sits a bony man with a meticulously trimmed beard and cold, calculating black eyes. The High Marshal of Egozia I presume.

  A woman sits across from him, her posture relaxed despite the chains around her wrists. She has black hair pulled back in a practical style, a striking physique and even in prisoner's garb, she carries herself with confidence. She glances at me half-heartedly, her blue eyes assessing, then returns her attention to the Marshal.

  "As I was saying," the Marshal continues, "your steam engines are impressive, but primitive. Tell me about the new prototypes your engineers were developing."

  The woman—clearly from Jeolara—shrugs. "Wouldn't know. I just drive what they give me."

  "Miss H?nel," he says, drumming his fingers on the desk, "we found you at the controls of an advanced scout vehicle. Surely you understand I cannot believe you're merely a... chauffeur."

  "Believe what you want." She stretches her legs out, chains clinking. "But engines go vroom, I make them go vroom faster. That's the extent of my expertise."

  The Marshal's eye twitches. "Your insolence does you no favors."

  "Neither does your cologne, but here we are."

  I almost smile despite myself. The Marshal's face darkens as he turns to me.

  "Ah, our special guest. The guards tell me you have some... interesting markings." He rises, circling the desk. "Remove your shirt."

  I remain still, meeting his gaze. I browse my options on whether I act in front of this fairy.

  "I said, remove your shirt." His voice drops dangerously. And a piercing aura starts to form.

  "Go fuck yourself."

  The Marshal's hand shoots out, a faint glow emanating from his fingertips. My chest constricts, lungs refusing to fill with air. Magic. I recognise the sensation immediately—the same helplessness I felt watching my tribe burn.

  "I don't typically dirty my hands with interrogations," he says calmly as I struggle to breathe, "but for special cases, I make exceptions."

  The pressure increases. Black spots dance across my vision.

  "Show me your markings, tribesman."

  I fall to my knees, hatred burning hotter than the pain in my chest. My tattoo writhes beneath my skin, responding to my rage.

  "Careful," the woman—H?nel—speaks up. You might not like what happens when you push him."

  The Marshal turns slightly. "Explain?"

  "I know enough to recognize when someone's about to lose control of a situation." She leans forward. "And your carpet looks expensive."

  The pressure eases slightly. I gulp in air, fighting to maintain control of both my body and the knife trying to manifest.

  "Interesting." The Marshal steps back. "Two peculiar prisoners in one day. Perhaps you should both reconsider your positions."

  "I'm reconsidering lunch options," H?nel says, examining her nails. "Prison food is universally terrible, but yours might set a new standard for awful."

  The Marshal's face flushes. "You mock me while in chains?"

  "No, I'd mock you regardless of my situation. The chains are incidental."

  I've regained enough breath to speak. "She's right about one thing," I rasp. "You don't want to push me."

  The Marshal studies me, then smiles thinly. "I think I'll let you both contemplate your circumstances in the special holding cells. Perhaps a few days without food will improve your attitudes."

  He gestures to the guards, who haul us to our feet.

  As they lead us out, H?nel glances at me. "Nice to meet someone else who thinks he's an arse. I'm Anja."

  "Mark," I reply, my voice still rough.

  "Well, Mark, looks like we're neighbors in this lovely establishment." She nods toward my arm where my tattoo pulses beneath my sleeve. "Hope you've got something interesting up your sleeve. I have a feeling we'll need it."