“Those marked by the Eldritch’s touch forever bear the unholy stigma. Most are bound by its will, seeking only to serve the ceaseless voices permeating their mind. There are those who can resist, but they are still branded as heretics by the Order, shunned by many in the galaxy at large—blind fools, I say, to avoid the whispers of this dark god if they truly wish to know its intent.”

—Vildmar Gildenthrall, former leader of the Condemned, in his personal correspondence to the former Dyarch Ordel Uleriox

Zaina’s jaw dropped, her heart skipping a beat. Lancers, whose mystical exploits were recounted next to cozy fireplaces across the galaxy, were heroes. Zaina wasn’t a hero. To this point, she was an ordinary person living an ordinary life. Her gaze drifted toward the blackened, broken sky.

A sigh escaped her lungs. Ready or not, change was coming to her life. Maybe she was meant for more—her chest tightened at the thought. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. She turned to Gir and asked, “I could—I could be a lancer like you?”

Gir gave a grim nod. “Be warned, though, it will not be an easy road for you.”

Wondering why he was so somber—wasn’t this good news?—Zaina asked, “So, how does it work? Do lancers work for the government, or something?”

“Luckily, no,” he replied. “We’re employed by an ancient organization known as the Order of Riiva. The Order is run by scholars, and lancers carry out orders and go on missions to protect the commonwealth of the galaxy.”

Scholars, lancers, Riiva, ancient orders—it was all a bit much. “So, what’s the difference between scholars and lancers, then?”

Gir stared into the fire; a glimmer of sorrow hung in his eyes. “There are tradeoffs for the gifts granted by Riiva. Scholars receive vast knowledge with infinite capacity for learning, incredibly long lifespans, and access to some magick—in exchange, their bodies are broken, forever cut off from the pleasures of life, existing only for knowledge and to serve the commonwealth of the galaxy.”

Zaina sighed in relief—she was glad not to be a scholar. Still—why was Gir so downtrodden? Wasn’t this good news?

With a grin, she half-joked, “What, does being a lancer come with some crazy side-effect, too?”

A grimace crossed his face.

“Oh,” she said, her smile fading. “What is it?”

Staring back into the fire, Gir said, “Lancers receive great strength, durability, healing, and speed, access to Riiva’s magick, and a weapon known as a cipher. However, the cost is steep—to prevent our newfound power from corrupting us, our lifespans are drastically reduced. Unlike scholars, however, lancers can renounce their gifts entirely, at which point their original lifespan is restored. Otherwise lancers live only ten years past their encounter with Riiva. Many have stayed the course and died young, or, knowing their impending fates, recklessly perished in battle for some semblance of glory.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Her eyes fell to the ground. Ten years for the rest of your life.

Gir continued, “I should also warn you—if you join the Order of Riiva, there are those who will not accept you. It saddens me to say, but—”

“Won’t accept me?” she asked. “What—why?”

He pointed at her eye. “The mark.”

She frowned and touched her face. “This thing? Do you know what this is?”

“Yes,” he replied, “How much do you know about it?”

“Nothing, except that it won’t wash off—and I think that weird thing that came here gave it to me. Does this have anything to do with—you know, what’s happening to me?”

“Yes,” he said in a sad tone, “sadly, there is no known way to remove it. That blemish around your eye is known as the Mark of the Recalcitrant—and it complicates everything. Those bearing the mark are branded heretics by the galaxy and face scorn and mistrust wherever they go—whatever their intentions may be.”

Heretics. She remembered reading something about the Heretic Wars in school. According to the Synatorium, heretics were never to be trusted; they were invaders from the edges of existence far beyond the Nova Rim—monstrous warriors wielding black magick. Now Zaina was one of them.

I guess that explains the voices—and that weird feeling I keep getting. But still, I’m not—that’s not me, right?

She stared into the fire. “So, because I have this, I won’t be welcome anywhere I go?”

“Forgive me—the Order will likely accept you into their ranks,” he replied. “Most High Scholars don’t believe the Mark of the Recalcitrant should disqualify anyone from joining the Order. There hasn’t been a Heretic War for over a millennium. Of course, though, there are a few holdouts—scholars and lancers who view those bearing the mark as an enemy from an ancient war. I’m afraid the Nova Rim is not kind to heretics. Some planets have banned them outright. It is not an easy path ahead for you, no matter your choice.”

Zaina touched the mark—because of this, she was forever an outsider wherever she went. She sighed. How could people think the worst of her for having this? In a low voice, she asked, “Do you—do you think I’m the enemy?”

His dark eyes widened and his thin mouth dropped open and froze for a moment. Then Gir replied, “No, not at all.” With a shrug, he continued, “First, Riiva chose you—the universe chose you, warts and all, for a reason. That alone is good enough for me. Second, you seem like a nice person.”

Looking down, she asked, “But—didn’t the other thing choose me, too?”

Gir’s head bobbed back and forth. “Yes, I suppose so. But you haven’t given in. I can’t imagine what it’s like—light and darkness waging war with your soul as the prize. You’re very brave to keep fighting. I have a friend like you back at the Order—perhaps you’ll meet her one day.”

Zaina nodded. It was a lot to take in. On cue, the voices attacked. The whispers drowned out all other thought. She held her head in her hands and jammed her eyes shut, unable to hold back pained yelps.

Come to the Hollow, Zaina.

It is the only way to save Demelia.

The only way to save yourself.

Zaina was about to scream when a familiar sound snapped her out of it—Kitali’s high-pitched whimpers. She only whined like that when she was afraid. Zaina took a few deep breaths and rubbed the limphor’s chin to console her.

Was she—afraid of me?

“Are you all right?” Gir asked.

She vigorously shook her head and took a few deep breaths. “Yeah—yeah. I’m fine. No need to worry.”

In a concerned tone, he asked, “Is it the mark?”

“It flares up sometimes.”

Gir nodded, then shuffled the campfire’s outer kindling to keep the flame strong.

This stupid mark. It’s all because of this stupid mark.

There had to be a way to remove it. The mark was related to whatever was attacking the planet—maybe the key to getting rid of it had something to do with that. “Do you know what’s doing all of this?”

Gir’s eyes turned serious. “This world is under attack by a creature known as the Eldritch.”