Fire pierced his lungs. The forest burned around him, twisting into a spiral of screaming trees and bleeding stars. He reached for Lyra, but she was already ash. He tried to speak, but his mouth filled with dirt. When he looked down, he saw his chest had been torn open — not by blade or claw, but by shadow, curling like smoke.
Then nothing.
Then—
Now he stood in a field of white flowers beneath a blood-red moon.
Lyra stood in front of him, smiling, her hair loose in the wind.
"You found me," she said softly.
Qin took a step forward. "Where is this?"
She smiled wider. "You already know."
Then she stabbed him.
The dagger slipped between his ribs like it had always belonged there.
Qin gasped, tried to speak. Lyra leaned in, whispered into his ear.
"You were never meant to live."
His knees buckled. The field darkened.
And then, again—
Darkness.
Next, he was in the Sanctum of Echoes.
Cazriel sat on the silver dais, lounging like a king in a forgotten hall. He gestured lazily with one hand.
"You should not have come here, boy."
"I trusted you," Qin said, voice shaking.
"Your mistake."
Cazriel rose, and the chamber froze. The murals bled black. The air thickened.
Without a word, the vampire snapped his fingers.
Qin's bones shattered one by one. Slowly. Purposefully.
He couldn't scream.
He awoke.
And again.
And again.
Each time, the setting changed, but the outcome remained: death. Brutal, vivid, unforgiving.
Once, he drowned in his old master's arms, Narin whispering, "This is mercy."
Another time, he was crushed beneath a collapsing sky while trying to protect a child with his face.
Once, he simply faded — into nothing, unremembered and unloved, swallowed by a silent world.
It didn't stop.
Each time he awoke, he could feel his skin sweat and his limbs ache—but he was still dreaming.
Trapped.
Looped.
The pain grew. But worse than pain was the recognition.
In each dream, just before death, he saw it:
A flicker of violet light.
A pair of pupil-less black eyes watching from a corner of the scene.
Umbhrax.
He wasn't just watching.
He was feeding.
Qin woke in one dream screaming, his magic crackling out of control. He saw symbols branded into his arm, old and dark, like runes etched in ink and flame.
He clawed at them. Tried to cut them out.
They laughed at him.
Not aloud—but inside his skull.
"You are already mine."
Somewhere between the tenth and the hundredth death, Qin stopped begging to wake.
He floated in limbo, drifting between horror and numbness. The dreams began blending. Lyra's face morphed into Narin's. Cazriel's eyes became his own.
The fire of his spellwork melted away.
He had no power here. No control.
Only fear.
And then…
He saw the first mark.
It came in the form of a memory.
Not his, but real.
A vision: the night of the first encounter with Umbhrax, back in the forest ruins.
He saw himself — younger by weeks, still naïve, still hopeful — kneeling beside Narin's burned corpse.
Then something shimmered above him.
From the shadows behind, a hand reached forward. Pale fingers brushed the back of Qin's neck.
A sigil flared. A curse burned.
And then Umbhrax whispered a single word:
"Mine."
Qin jolted upright with a scream.
His hands lit with uncontrolled magic. Fire spiraled from his fingertips, searing the air.
Lyra sprang from her sleeping roll, dagger drawn. "Qin!"
Cazriel appeared in a blink beside him, hand half-raised, ready to kill or calm.
Qin's eyes were wild. He fell backward, gasping, crawling away from them both like they weren't real.
"I saw him," he rasped. "He's inside my head. He marked me."
"Who?" Lyra asked, already knowing.
"Umbhrax," Qin whispered. "He's been… watching. Since Narin died. Since I touched the ruins."
Cazriel's expression darkened.
"Not watching," he said. "He's tasting. Learning. Each death in your dream feeds him a little more."
Lyra knelt beside Qin, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. You're awake now."
Qin flinched at her touch. "Am I? I… I'm not sure."
Silence followed.
Then Cazriel muttered, "The Mark of the Devourer. I've heard of it, once. A binding curse. It connects a soul to Umbhrax's hunger."
"Why me?" Qin asked, shaking. "Why not kill me when he had the chance?"
"Because he doesn't want you dead," Lyra said quietly. "He wants to unmake you."
Qin looked up. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot.
"I died. So many times. You both killed me. Narin did. I even killed myself."
Lyra's hand tightened.
"That wasn't us."
"But it felt real," he said. "Every time. And I felt it. I felt my power slipping. He's eating away at it. At me."
Cazriel sighed and stood. "We'll need to protect your mind now. Your magic's not enough. You'll need a warding anchor. A totem."
"What kind?" Qin asked.
"One tied to the soul. A memory. A bond."
Lyra straightened. "I have an idea."
Qin blinked, dazed. "What?"
"I kept something. Since the Vale. When we escaped the time loop. You remember what you held onto?"
"My hand," Qin said slowly. "Yours."
Lyra reached into her pack and pulled out a piece of silver-threaded cloth — torn from the cloak Qin had nearly burned through when he broke the loop.
"I kept this. It was still warm."
Cazriel raised an eyebrow. "Sentimental for a wolf."
Lyra ignored him and handed it to Qin.
"Keep it near your skin," she said. "Until we find a stronger totem. For now, I think your soul needs a reminder it's not alone."
That night, Qin didn't sleep.
Not deeply.
But when he closed his eyes, the dreams didn't come.
The mark still burned faintly under his skin.
But for the first time, he felt something stronger pulsing beneath it.
Not fear.
But defiance.