(Vlad POV)
The mage did not look at me with pity.
That alone earned my respect.
She was older than I expected—silver threaded through dark hair pulled into a tight knot, robes plain and practical, fingers stained faintly with ink and mana residue. She smelled of dried herbs and ash. A woman who had done this kind of work before.
"Sit," she said, gesturing toward the low table at the center of the tent.
I did.
The canvas walls were drawn thick, reinforced with wards etched into the seams. This was not a place for comfort. It was a place where bodies were opened and put back together differently.
Her gaze flicked to my neck.
The mark stirred.
Not visibly—but I felt it. A familiar tightening beneath the skin, like a thing waking from shallow sleep.
She noticed my reaction immediately.
"It knows," she said.
I didn't bother asking what she meant.
