A week passed in the hunter's cabin, each day following a rhythm as predictable as it was necessary. Adrian rose at dawn, shared a simple breakfast with Karl, then attended to whatever tasks the old hunter assigned—checking traplines, gathering firewood, repairing tools, or preserving meat for the approaching winter. Evenings were spent around the hearth, with Karl offering invaluable knowledge about the transformed world Adrian now inhabited.
The routine proved therapeutic, giving Adrian's mind space to process his impossible situation while his body remained productively occupied. Karl proved an excellent teacher—patient when explaining the basics of forest survival, brusque when Adrian overthought simple tasks, and consistently forthright about the dangers that lurked beyond the cabin's relative safety.
On this particular morning, Adrian sat cross-legged on the cabin's wooden floor, meticulously sharpening a collection of hunting knives. Karl had emphasized that with winter's approach, every tool needed to be in optimal condition. The repetitive motion of stone against steel helped focus Adrian's thoughts, which had been increasingly drawn to the silver rune on his forearm.
Twice since arriving at the cabin, he'd felt the mark warm against his skin—once when tracking a wounded deer through a particularly dense thicket, and again during a thunderstorm that had rattled the cabin's sturdy timbers. Each time, the sensation passed without incident, but the pattern troubled him. The rune seemed to respond to danger, even potential danger, like an early warning system embedded in his flesh.
Karl entered from outside, his arms laden with herbs harvested from his garden. The old hunter moved with the easy efficiency of someone who had performed the same actions thousands of times, hanging bundles from specific rafters where the hearth's smoke would cure them properly.
"You've been quiet today," Karl observed without turning around. "More so than usual."
Adrian tested a blade's edge with his thumb. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime, thinking." Karl secured the last bundle before facing him. "Especially for men like us. We tend to circle problems like wolves around wounded prey."
This observation—so casually accurate—drew a slight smile from Adrian. In just a week, the old hunter had demonstrated an uncanny ability to read him. "I've been considering my... condition," he admitted, setting the knife aside. "Specifically, this."
He rolled up his sleeve, revealing his forearm where the silver rune had become increasingly distinct since his arrival at the cabin. What had once been a faint outline now resembled an intricate tattoo—a crescent moon surrounded by flowing script in a language Adrian couldn't decipher.
Karl crossed the room with surprising swiftness for a man his age, crouching beside Adrian to examine the mark more closely. His weathered fingers hovered over the rune without touching it, eyes narrowing with unmistakable recognition.
"You've seen this before," Adrian said. Not a question.
Karl withdrew his hand as if burned, rising to his feet with a grunt that seemed born more from emotional than physical discomfort. "Once," he confirmed, moving to a shelf where he kept his precious few books. "Long ago."
The old hunter selected a volume bound in faded red leather, its spine cracked from years of handling. He returned to Adrian, lowering himself onto a nearby stool. "My grandfather's journal," he explained, carefully turning brittle pages. "From when he was a scholar in Meridian University, before the Northern Wars forced him into these woods."
Adrian recognized the institution's name from their previous conversations. Meridian University had been founded decades after Astor's fall, becoming the preeminent center of knowledge in the fractured kingdoms that had risen from his homeland's ashes.
Karl found the page he sought and turned the book toward Adrian. There, rendered in careful ink strokes, was a symbol nearly identical to the one on his arm—the same crescent moon, the same flowing script, though drawn by someone who had copied rather than worn it.
"The Évermark," Karl said, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. "The Mark of Undying. In the old tongues, it was called Thanatos's Blessing—or Thanatos's Curse, depending on which text you consulted."
Adrian stared at the drawing, a chill running through him despite the cabin's warmth. "Thanatos... the death god from eastern mythology?"
Karl nodded. "The Bearer of Souls, the Final Judge. Different cultures have different names, but all speak of a deity who decides when a soul has fulfilled its purpose." He traced the air above the drawing, careful not to touch the page. "This mark is said to be given to those Thanatos finds... interesting. Those given tasks yet to complete."
"Tasks?" Adrian echoed, unconsciously rubbing the rune. "The silver woman mentioned a contract, a responsibility. But she explained nothing."
"They never do," Karl murmured, almost to himself. He caught Adrian's questioning look and sighed heavily. "My grandfather encountered a marked one during his scholarly days. A woman who claimed to have lived through three centuries, dying seventeen times yet always returning."
Adrian leaned forward. "What happened to her?"
The old hunter's expression darkened. "She went mad eventually. Grandfather's notes describe how each death and resurrection seemed to fracture her mind further, until she could no longer distinguish between her many lives. In her final documented appearance, she walked willingly into a pyre, claiming 'only fire cleanses memory.'"
The implications hung heavy in the cabin's air. Adrian's military training had prepared him for the possibility of death, but not for the psychological toll of endless resurrection.
"Were there others?" he asked quietly.
Karl carefully closed the journal. "Legends speak of perhaps a dozen throughout recorded history. All followed similar patterns—multiple deaths, returns, growing power with each resurrection, but also growing instability." He fixed Adrian with a penetrating stare. "How many times have you died and returned?"
"Twice that I remember clearly," Adrian answered. "The battlefield and the wolves. Though there might have been others during the... gap. The void between my original death and awakening in this forest."
"Then you're still early in the cycle," Karl said, rising to replace the journal on its shelf. "My grandfather's research suggested the madness typically began after the fifth or sixth resurrection. The mind wasn't designed to process multiple deaths, apparently."
Adrian absorbed this information with the disciplined calm his academy instructors had instilled in him. If panic was useless for normal problems, it was doubly so for supernatural ones.
"You seem remarkably untroubled by having an immortal under your roof," he observed, rising to his feet.
Karl's laugh held little humor. "These woods have taught me to adapt quickly or perish. Besides, I've suspected your nature since you first mentioned surviving the red-eyed wolves." He gestured toward the knives Adrian had been sharpening. "Continue your work. I need to check the southern snares before nightfall."
The old hunter donned his leather coat and selected a spear from the weapons wall—his preferred tool for forest excursions. The massive hound, which Adrian had learned was named Grim, rose from its place by the hearth to follow its master.
"Karl," Adrian called as the hunter reached the door. "Thank you. For not fearing me."
The old man paused, his hand on the latch. "I didn't say I didn't fear you, Adrian Felton. Only a fool wouldn't fear what you represent." His weathered face softened slightly. "But fear and respect can coexist. Remember that."
With those cryptic words, Karl departed, leaving Adrian alone with his thoughts and the weight of his newly contextualized condition.
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The afternoon stretched into evening with no sign of Karl's return, though Adrian felt little concern. The old hunter often spent hours in the forest, especially when game presented itself unexpectedly. Adrian completed his assigned tasks, then prepared a simple meal of dried venison and wild tubers, setting aside a portion for Karl's eventual return.
As shadows lengthened across the cabin floor, Adrian found himself drawn repeatedly to the shelf where Karl kept his grandfather's journal. The temptation to read more about his condition warred with respect for the old hunter's privacy.
Eventually, curiosity overcame courtesy. Adrian carefully retrieved the red leather volume, settling beside the hearth where the light was strongest. The journal's pages were filled with dense, scholarly handwriting, annotated with symbols and cross-references that spoke to an organized, methodical mind—not unlike Adrian's own training had instilled in him.
He found the relevant section quickly, recognizing the illustration of the Évermark. Karl's grandfather had dedicated several pages to documenting the woman bearing the mark, including detailed observations of her physical condition and mental state.
"Subject S. demonstrates no apparent aging since our first meeting three years prior," one entry noted. "She claims to have died twice during this period—once from drowning, once from a poisoned arrow—yet bears no scars from either incident. Most remarkably, she reports that each resurrection occurs at the exact location of death, regardless of whether the body was moved afterward."
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Adrian's breath caught. This matched his own experience precisely. He continued reading, fingers tracing the faded ink as if it might somehow make the words more real.
"S. claims the mark grants additional abilities beyond resurrection. Enhanced healing of non-fatal wounds, resistance to disease, and occasional 'insights' she describes as flashes of knowledge she could not possibly possess. Most concerning is her assertion that with each death, these abilities strengthen while her connection to her original self weakens."
The journal described experiments the woman had willingly participated in—controlled cuts that healed in hours rather than days, exposure to diseases that failed to take hold, blindfolded identification of objects she could not see. All documented with the dispassionate precision of a true scholar.
The final entries grew increasingly disturbing.
"S. arrived today in evident distress. She claims to have died again, her seventh recorded resurrection, after falling from a cliff. Unlike previous returns, this one left her disoriented for days, unable to recall basic details of her original life. More troublingly, she reports seeing visions of other marked ones—predecessors who now exist 'between worlds.' I fear her grip on reality is slipping."
Two pages later, the scholar had written:
"S. disappeared three weeks ago after our final meeting, wherein she burned her hand deliberately in my presence, watching the flesh heal with disturbing fascination. Local reports place her in Highgreen, walking into a ceremonial pyre during their harvest festival. If true, this represents her eighth death. I have relocated to the eastern foothills to await her potential return, as this location is nearest to where the incident occurred."
The journal's account ended abruptly there, with no confirmation of whether S. had indeed returned or what became of her afterward. Adrian closed the book carefully, replacing it exactly as he'd found it.
The information swirled in his mind, individual pieces aligning with his own experiences while hinting at developments yet to come. Enhanced healing—hadn't the scratches he'd received while gathering firewood yesterday faded unusually quickly? Resistance to disease—he'd always been healthy, but was that natural constitution or something more?
And what of these "insights" and "visions" the woman had reported? Would he too begin seeing these other marked ones after sufficient deaths?
Adrian paced the cabin's confines, suddenly feeling trapped despite the spacious interior. His military mind demanded verification, evidence, concrete facts upon which to base decisions. Yet the only way to confirm these accounts would be to—
"To die again," he whispered to the empty cabin.
The thought, once formed, couldn't be dismissed. If the journal was accurate, each resurrection would strengthen whatever abilities the mark conferred. Knowledge was tactical advantage, and Adrian had been trained never to waste such opportunities.
He moved to the table where his hunting knife lay among its newly sharpened companions. The blade gleamed in the hearth light, sharp enough to split a hair. Adrian rolled up his sleeve, studying the silver rune that had inexorably altered his existence.
"If you've given me a duty," he addressed the mark directly, "the least you could do is provide clear instructions."
The rune remained inert, offering no guidance. Adrian grimaced, military pragmatism overriding natural hesitation. Karl would be gone for at least another hour. Time enough for an experiment with relatively controlled conditions.
Adrian positioned himself on the cabin's dirt floor, away from furniture or anything else that might be damaged. He wouldn't risk Karl's property for his personal investigation. With methodical calm, he removed his shirt, setting it aside neatly folded. No sense ruining good clothing.
The knife felt perfectly balanced in his hand, crafted by someone who understood both aesthetics and functionality. Adrian silently apologized to Karl for what he was about to do, then pressed the blade against his left wrist.
"Knowledge requires sacrifice," he murmured, reciting an old academy maxim.
The cut was swift and deep, severing the major vessels with surgical precision. Blood immediately welled forth, shockingly bright against his skin. Adrian felt the sharp pain transform almost instantly to spreading numbness as his heartbeat began pumping his life onto the cabin floor.
He watched with detached fascination as crimson pooled beneath him. The academy had taught him about arterial wounds—how quickly consciousness would fade, how little time remained when major vessels were compromised. Applying these lessons to himself produced a surreal disconnect, as if he were simultaneously instructor and subject.
The edges of his vision darkened within seconds. Adrian maintained his seated position through sheer force of will, observing his body's systematic shutdown with clinical detachment. His heartbeat accelerated, then grew erratic as it attempted to compensate for rapidly dropping blood pressure.
"Fascinating," he whispered, voice already weakening. "The process is quite... efficient."
The silver rune began to glow as his consciousness faded, pulsing with increasing brightness as if drawing power from his diminishing life force. Adrian's last coherent thought was that he should have left Karl a note explaining his actions.
Then darkness claimed him once more.
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Adrian gasped awake, lungs burning as if he'd been underwater for too long. His body convulsed with the shock of resurrection, every nerve ending seeming to fire simultaneously in a cacophony of sensation. He rolled onto his side, coughing violently as his systems recalibrated to living once more.
"That," he managed between rasping breaths, "was extremely unpleasant."
As his faculties returned, Adrian took inventory of his surroundings. He lay precisely where he had died, but the pool of blood had vanished completely. Not dried, not cleaned—simply gone, as if it had never existed. His wrist, where the knife had opened a fatal wound, showed unblemished skin. Even the silver rune appeared unchanged, though it felt warmer to the touch than before.
Adrian staggered to his feet, steadying himself against the table. Despite the absence of blood loss, his body felt drained, as if he'd marched for days without rest. Resurrection, it seemed, exacted its own toll regardless of how the prior death had occurred.
"Well," he murmured, retrieving his shirt, "that confirms one theory."
The experiment had verified Karl's grandfather's account—death followed by resurrection at the exact location, complete healing, no trace of the fatal event remaining. Adrian wondered briefly what would happen if his body were moved after death but before resurrection. Would his consciousness follow the corpse, or reappear where life had departed?
Questions for another time.
He had just finished cleaning the knife and replacing it among its companions when the cabin door swung open. Karl entered, Grim padding silently beside him, both dusted with forest debris that suggested a successful hunt.
The old hunter took one look at Adrian and froze, eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. "You died while I was gone," he stated flatly. Not a question.
Adrian considered denial, then abandoned the notion. Karl's perception was too keen for such attempts. "Yes," he admitted. "I needed to verify certain aspects of my condition."
"So you killed yourself." Karl's tone remained neutral, though his posture spoke volumes about his disapproval.
"I cut my wrist," Adrian clarified. "It seemed the cleanest method available. I ensured nothing was damaged."
Karl placed his spear carefully in its wall brackets, movements deliberately measured. "Except yourself."
"I returned unharmed," Adrian pointed out.
"Your body, perhaps." Karl shrugged off his coat, hanging it by the door. "The mind is another matter."
Adrian watched the old hunter move about his evening routine—stoking the fire, checking the meal Adrian had prepared, all with the practiced efficiency of decades of self-reliance. "You're angry," he observed.
"I'm disappointed," Karl corrected, finally turning to face him directly. "Not in your curiosity—that's natural enough. But in your failure to consider consequences beyond the immediate."
"I considered—"
"Did you?" Karl interrupted, unusual for the typically patient hunter. "Did you consider what might happen if you didn't return? If the process took longer than expected? If I returned to find a corpse on my floor?"
The questions landed with uncomfortable precision. Adrian hadn't considered these possibilities, fixated as he'd been on confirming his own theories.
"Or perhaps," Karl continued more softly, "you did consider, but deemed your need for knowledge more important than my peace of mind."
The rebuke struck deeper than Adrian anticipated. He had approached the situation as a tactical problem, applying the cost-benefit analysis his military training had instilled. But he had failed to account for the human element—for the fact that Karl, despite his gruff exterior, had welcomed a stranger into his home and life.
"I... apologize," Adrian said, the words unpracticed but sincere. "You're right. I didn't consider how my actions might affect you."
Karl studied him for a long moment before nodding once, acceptance rather than absolution. "What did you learn from your experiment that was worth dying for?"
Adrian explained his findings—the instantaneous resurrection, the absence of blood, the lingering weakness despite complete physical restoration. Karl listened without interruption, his weathered face unreadable.
"The journal mentioned increased abilities with each death," Adrian concluded. "I haven't noticed anything yet, but perhaps it takes time to manifest."
"Or perhaps it requires more significant deaths," Karl suggested grimly. "The woman my grandfather studied died through drowning, poisoning, falling—substantial trauma each time. A controlled bleeding might not trigger the same response."
Adrian hadn't considered this possibility. "That complicates future research."
"Future research," Karl repeated with a short, humorless laugh. "You speak of your own death as casually as discussing weather patterns." He moved to the hearth, serving himself from the pot Adrian had prepared. "That detachment—that's the first sign, according to the journal. The separation of self from the fundamental human fear of mortality."
"Is fear of death truly fundamental?" Adrian countered. "Or merely conditioned? I was trained to accept death as a potential outcome of duty. This just... changes the permanence."
Karl settled into his chair, regarding Adrian with eyes that held centuries of inherited wisdom. "There's accepting death might come, and then there's actively seeking it. One is courage. The other..." He left the thought unfinished, focusing instead on his meal.
Adrian remained standing, aware he had crossed some invisible boundary in their developing relationship. "What would you have me do, Karl? Ignore what I am? Pretend this mark doesn't exist?"
The old hunter chewed thoughtfully before responding. "No. But perhaps approach it with reverence rather than clinical detachment. Death has claimed every soul that ever lived—except, apparently, yours. That exception should inspire awe, not experimentation."
The rebuke was gentle but landed with precision. Adrian realized that despite his academy training, despite his battlefield experience, he was navigating territory no living person had mastered. Karl, with his secondhand knowledge and forest wisdom, might be the closest thing to a guide he would find.
"I won't die again without discussing it with you first," Adrian promised, the compromise falling naturally from his lips.
Karl's weathered face creased with a wry smile. "An unusual household rule, but appropriate under the circumstances." He gestured toward the second chair. "Eat. Death apparently builds appetite, and you've prepared more than enough for both of us."
As Adrian joined the old hunter at the table, he felt the silver rune warm slightly against his skin—not the burning intensity of resurrection, but a subtle acknowledgment, as if the mark itself approved of this human connection.
Outside, night had fully claimed the forest. Within the cabin's sturdy walls, an unlikely partnership continued to form—an ancient hunter and an immortal soldier, both displaced from the worlds they had known, finding unexpected common ground in their shared isolation.
The Évermark on Adrian's arm pulsed once more, then settled into quiescence, biding its time until its bearer would once again cross the threshold between life and death—a journey that, despite today's experiment, remained as mysterious as it was inevitable.