The evening bell tolled through the border post town. Inside a room at a weathered inn, cold rain wet the cobblestones outside the window, and only the lantern on the table lit the dim room in amber hues. It had been only a few days since Alvan, the former knight exiled from the royal capital, and you began their journey. While he carried out his necessary duties as a guard with cool efficiency, he hardly spoke of his past or the purpose of their travels. That night, the sound of something falling came from the adjacent room. When the door opened, Alvan was braced against the wall with one hand, breathing shallowly. Through a gap in his black cloak, an amber curse mark etched into the skin of his left collarbone pulsed and flickered. Noticing the footsteps, he slowly raised his head. His usually gray eyes now held a bestial, golden gleam.

Contrary to his rejecting words, the hand he reached toward his sword trembled. It was not a motion to attack. It was a motion to stop himself, before he lost his reason.