Three months later, Theron had learned three important truths about survival in a dying world.
First, the Weave's collapse was accelerating. What had started as hairline cracks in reality's fabric had grown into gaping wounds. Some places simply ceased to exist, consumed by the void. Others twisted into impossible shapes, landscapes that hurt to look at because they violated every law of physics. Travel between cities had become deadly. Trade routes that had lasted centuries vanished overnight.
Second, people were terrified. Of the collapsing Weave, yes, but more immediately of anyone who showed signs of divine power. Theron had learned to hide his mark, to suppress the silver light that wanted to blaze from his chest whenever strong emotion took him. He had learned the hard way after a mob in a small village had tried to kill him, convinced he was responsible for their suffering.
Third, and most disturbing, he wasn't the only one being hunted.
Theron crouched in the ruins of what had once been a prosperous trading post called Oldport. The town had been swallowed by a Weave tear two weeks ago. Half of it simply didn't exist anymore, buildings sheared in half with the missing portions vanished into nonexistence. The other half stood as a ghost town, abandoned by everyone with sense enough to flee.
He picked his way through debris, following the pull of his mark. It had led him here, burning with that insistent warmth that meant another crown bearer was close. Or had been close. The warmth was fading now, which filled him with a dread he tried to ignore.
The bodies appeared as he ventured deeper into the ruined town. Five of them, dressed in strange armor that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Their faces were hidden behind helmets etched with runes that hurt to look at directly. Theron had never seen their like before, but something about them screamed military organization.
Whatever they had been, someone had killed them with brutal efficiency. Scorch marks and frozen blood told the story of a desperate fight. Theron's tracking skills, learned during long hunts with Master Orin, painted a picture. Multiple attackers against a single defender. The defender had won, but barely.
He found the message in the town square, written in blood that had dried black. The letters were shaky, written by someone wounded and exhausted.
THEY'RE HUNTING US
Three words that confirmed Theron's worst suspicions. Whoever had sent those armored soldiers, they were specifically targeting crown bearers. Which meant they knew about the crowns. Knew what they were, what they could do. That knowledge terrified Theron more than the Weave's collapse.
He knelt beside the message, studying it. The blood was fresh, no more than a day old. The crown bearer who had written it might still be alive. His mark pulsed, but the direction was unclear now. Either the bearer had moved far away, or...
Theron didn't let himself finish that thought. He had to believe there were others out there still alive. Still fighting. Because if he was alone in this, if all the other bearers had been killed, then whatever the voice had meant about saving the world was impossible.
A sound behind him made Theron spin, hand going to his sword. The blade cleared its sheath in one smooth motion, steel singing as it came free. He had gotten better at fighting over the past three months. Much better. Survival was an excellent teacher.
The woman who stepped from the shadows was young, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. Dark skin, close cropped black hair, and eyes like amber that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. Those eyes widened when they saw him, and her hand moved with practiced speed to the knife at her belt.
"Wait," Theron said, not lowering his sword but trying to keep his voice calm. "I'm not with them."
"That's what they all say." Her voice carried the slight accent of Gravenmoor's lower districts, rough edges that spoke of hard living. The knife was in her hand now, balanced perfectly for throwing. "Right before they try to take what doesn't belong to them."
Theron's mark flared with sudden heat. His breath caught. This was her. The crown bearer who had left the message. Who had killed those armored soldiers. Who was now looking at him like he was her next target.
"You feel it too," he said quietly. "The pull. The recognition. Our marks are reacting to each other."
Something flickered in her amber eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or fear. Her grip on the knife shifted slightly. "How long have you had yours?"
"Three months. Since the night the gods fell." Theron slowly sheathed his sword, a gesture of peace. "My name is Theron Blackthorn. I was at the Celestial Monastery when it happened. I'm the only one who survived."
"I know that monastery." She didn't lower the knife, but her stance relaxed fractionally. "My mother used to tell stories about it. Said the monks there could see the Weave itself."
"Some of them could. My master, Orin, he taught me the basics before..." Theron gestured vaguely at the ruins around them. "Before all of this."
"And now you're hunting crown bearers like me?" The accusation was sharp, defensive.
"No." Theron held up his right palm, showing her the three interlocking circles that marked him. The birthmark pulsed with faint silver light. "I'm trying to find them. I think we're supposed to work together. There was a voice, after I received the crown. It said to find the others."
The woman stared at his mark, then slowly raised her own left hand. Her birthmark was on the inside of her wrist, the same three interlocking circles. Hers pulsed with gold.
"Lyssa," she said after a long moment. "Lyssa Vane. I didn't have a monastery. I had the streets and people who wanted to use me. Then this." She touched her chest where, Theron knew, her own crown fragment was embedded. "Changed everything."
"The armored soldiers," Theron said carefully. "Did you see any insignia? Anything that might tell us who sent them?"
Lyssa's expression darkened. "Void Wardens. That's what one of them called their order before I killed him. They think crown bearers are abominations. Mistakes that need to be corrected."
"How many are there?"
"Enough that they can hunt us in packs." Lyssa finally lowered her knife, though she didn't sheath it. "I've been running for two weeks. Killed maybe twenty of them total. They keep coming."
Theron processed this. An entire order dedicated to hunting them. That complicated everything. "We need to move. This place isn't safe."
"Nowhere is safe." But Lyssa was already moving, gathering a small pack from where she had hidden it in the ruins. "I was heading to Gravenmoor. Big city, easy to disappear in crowds. You?"
"Same direction," Theron admitted. "My mark has been pulling me north for weeks. I think there might be more bearers there."
Lyssa shot him a sharp look. "More of us together means a bigger target."
"Or it means we're strong enough to fight back." Theron hefted his own pack. "Your choice. Travel alone and keep running, or take a chance that maybe the voice was right. Maybe we are supposed to find each other."
For a long moment, Lyssa said nothing. She studied him with those amber eyes, and Theron had the distinct feeling he was being weighed and measured. Finally, she gave a short nod.
"Together, then. But if you try anything stupid, I'll kill you before the Wardens get the chance."
"Fair enough," Theron said, surprising himself with a slight smile. It felt strange on his face after three months of solitary survival. "I'll try to avoid being stupid."
They left Oldport's ruins as the sun set, two crown bearers traveling together for the first time since the Falling. Behind them, the message in blood slowly faded as reality's cracks consumed it. Ahead lay Gravenmoor, and whatever fate awaited them there.
Theron's mark pulsed steadily now, no longer just pulling him forward but resonating with Lyssa's presence beside him. The sensation was strange but not unpleasant. Like being less alone than he had been since the monastery fell.
"So," Lyssa said after they had walked in silence for an hour. "What can you do? With your crown?"
Theron flexed his fingers, remembering the few times he had consciously used his power. "I can see the Weave's structure. Sometimes I can manipulate it, anchor things in space. Made a falling tree freeze mid air once. Held it there for almost a minute before I passed out."
"Useful." Lyssa glanced at him sideways. "I can phase through shadows. Become one with darkness. It's like the world forgets I exist for a few seconds."
"Also useful." Theron smiled again. "We might actually survive this."
"Survival's what I do best," Lyssa said. But there was something in her voice, a hint of uncertainty that suggested she wasn't as confident as she sounded.
They walked on into the growing darkness, two strangers bound by divine power neither of them understood, heading toward a city that might hold either salvation or destruction. The game was accelerating. And they were only just beginning to understand the rules.