SPIRITBINDER: The Boy Without A Mark
Chapter 42: Manifest

Chapter 42: Manifest

The warm, calming atmosphere of the liquor store shifted in an instant. Crimson’s deep, rattling cough pierced the air, drawing the attention of Medas and Morvane. When Crimson lowered his hand from his mouth, the sight of blood streaked across his palm made their hearts stop.

"Crimson!" Medas exclaimed, his calm demeanor cracking for the first time.

"What happened?" Morvane asked, his voice sharp with panic as he leaned closer.

Crimson’s breathing was labored, his face pale. "I... I don’t know," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the blood in his hand.

Medas immediately turned his attention to the bartender, his tone demanding. "What did you put in his drink?"

The bartender, startled and confused, raised his hands in defense. "Nothing but the finest whiskey, I swear! I’d never tamper with a ruler’s drink!"

While Medas interrogated the bartender, Morvane’s focus remained fixed on the hooded young man outside the store. The figure hadn’t moved from his spot across the street. Then, as if sensing the commotion inside, the young man tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable beneath the hood.

But then it happened—just for a moment, the corner of his lips curved upward into a faint, sinister smile.

Morvane’s breath caught in his throat. It was subtle, but the timing was too perfect. The young man’s reaction felt deliberate, as though he was silently claiming responsibility for what had just happened.

"Medas," Morvane said urgently, his voice cutting through the tension.

Medas, still gripping the bartender’s collar, turned to him. "What is it?"

"It’s not the drink," Morvane said firmly, his gaze never leaving the young man. "It’s him."

Medas frowned. "Him? The man outside?"

Morvane nodded, his voice low but resolute. "When Crimson started coughing, I saw him smile. He knows what’s happening. He’s the one behind this."

The hooded figure began to move, slipping into the crowd with a deliberate, unhurried pace.

"He’s leaving," Morvane said, already rising to his feet.

"Wait!" Medas grabbed his arm. "You don’t know what he’s capable of."

"I can’t just let him go!" Morvane shot back. "You stay with Crimson. Make sure he’s okay. I’ll be careful."

Medas hesitated, his hand still gripping Morvane’s arm. But he could see the determination in the younger man’s eyes, the fire that wouldn’t be extinguished. Reluctantly, he released his hold.

"Fine," Medas said, his voice tinged with concern. "But don’t lose him. And if anything happens, get back here immediately."

Morvane nodded. "I will."

Morvane slipped out of the liquor store, his eyes scanning the crowd for the hooded figure. The market was still bustling, lanterns casting flickering shadows over the cobblestone streets. He caught a glimpse of the cloak disappearing around a corner and quickened his pace.

As he moved through the crowd, Morvane kept his distance, careful not to lose sight of the young man while staying out of view. The hooded figure’s movements were deliberate, his pace unnervingly steady. He navigated the labyrinth of the marketplace with ease, as though he had walked the path countless times.

The pursuit led Morvane away from the lively market and into a darker, quieter part of the kingdom. The lanterns grew sparse, and the cobblestones were uneven, cracked with age. The air felt colder here, the silence pressing down like a weight.

Finally, the hooded figure stopped in an open courtyard, bathed in pale moonlight. Morvane ducked into the shadows, observing him carefully.

The man was hunched slightly, his frame almost skeletal beneath the loose cloak. His pale hands, which gripped the fabric tightly, were thin and almost claw-like, with veins protruding unnaturally against his sickly skin. When he finally pulled back his hood, Morvane caught his breath.

The young man’s face was gaunt, his cheekbones sharp, and his skin so pale it almost seemed translucent in the moonlight. Dark circles ringed his sunken eyes, which gleamed with a strange mix of exhaustion and intensity. His hair, thin and unkempt, fell in uneven tufts over his forehead.

Despite his frail appearance, there was something unnerving about him—an air of quiet menace that sent a chill down Morvane’s spine.

"You’ve been following me," the young man said, his voice low but steady, carrying a mocking undertone. "Bold of you."

Morvane stepped out of the shadows, his fists clenched. "Who are you? What did you do to Crimson?"

The young man smirked, his chapped lips curling slightly. "Crimson... that is just fitting for him." He tilted his head, his eyes scanning Morvane with a sharp, almost predatory gaze. "But you—you’re the interesting one here, aren’t you?"

"What do you mean?" Morvane demanded, forcing himself to hold his ground despite the unease building in his chest.

The young man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden talisman. It was no larger than a palm, its surface etched with strange symbols that seemed to writhe and shift in the dim light. The talisman pulsed faintly, as though alive.

"You’re like me," the young man said finally, his voice carrying a note of bitter amusement. "Different."

Morvane’s eyes widened. "How do you know that?"

The young man’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his hollow eyes. "I know more than you think. About you, about the rulers, about this entire world."

Morvane took a cautious step forward. "What do you want?"

The young man’s expression darkened, the smirk fading. I hate everyone. And if I have to break this kingdom apart, so be it."

Before Morvane could respond, the talisman in the young man’s hand began to glow with an eerie, otherworldly light. The air around them grew heavy, a strange pressure pressing down on Morvane’s chest.

"This is just the beginning," the young man said, his voice barely audible over the rising hum of the talisman’s power.

Then, in a flash of light, he vanished, leaving behind only a faint, acrid smell and an unsettling silence.

Determined to find him, Morvane drew a dagger from his belt and slashed his palm, blood dripping to the cobblestones. Closing his eyes, he muttered a soft chant, summoning his shadow beast. The air grew cold, and from the dark alley beside him, the massive form of his beast materialized—its body a swirling mass of shadows with glowing red eyes that pierced through the dim light of the street.

"Find him," Morvane commanded, holding up his bleeding palm. The beast sniffed the air, growling low as it picked up the man’s scent. Without hesitation, it bolted into the dark, and Morvane leapt onto its back, gripping tightly as the beast carried him through the streets.

The chase led them into the forest just outside the kingdom. The shadows of towering trees stretched eerily across the ground as the beast weaved effortlessly through the underbrush. Ahead, Morvane caught sight of the hooded young man, running sluggishly. His movements were labored, his thin frame swaying unsteadily with each step.

"Stop!" Morvane shouted, his voice echoing through the forest. The beast lunged forward, cutting off the man’s path. The young man stumbled to a halt, his breath ragged as he turned to face Morvane.

Up close, the young man looked even worse than before. His face was pale and gaunt, his eyes sunken with dark circles that hinted at sleepless nights. His cloak hung loosely on his emaciated frame, and his bony hands trembled as he pulled the hood back to reveal unkempt hair and a haunted expression.

"Who are you? Why did you do that to Crimson?" Morvane demanded, dismounting the beast and stepping forward.

The young man’s lips curled into a bitter smile. "You want to know why?" he rasped, his voice filled with frustration and anger. "Fine. I’ll tell you. My name is Drace. I was cursed—marked—at the awakening ceremony last year."

Morvane froze, his eyes narrowing. "Cursed? What do you mean?"

Drace let out a hollow laugh, unfastening his cloak and pulling it aside to reveal his shoulder. There, etched into his skin, was a large, intricate mark. Unlike the simple, glowing marks of others, his was chaotic—a swirling mix of dark and vibrant colors, almost as if it were alive and writhing under his skin.

"This is my mark," Drace said bitterly. "Not a blessing. Not a gift. A curse."

Morvane frowned. "What seems to be the problem with it? Plenty of people have powers that are hard to control."

Drace’s expression darkened. "You don’t get it, do you? This... this thing has ruined my life. My mark doesn’t grant me power—it brings misfortune. It’s not a gift. It’s a disease. Everywhere I go, I bring bad luck to anyone around me."

Morvane was taken aback. "Bad luck?"

Drace nodded, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and despair. "I can manifest bad luck in others. I don’t even have to try sometimes—it just happens. You think being markless is bad?" He scoffed. "I’d rather have no mark at all than live with this... this curse."

Morvane hesitated, his own insecurities about being markless surfacing. "You’d rather be markless? You have no idea what it’s like to be nothing. To have no place in a world where power defines everything."

Drace’s laugh was sharp and bitter. "Nothing? At least you don’t hurt everyone around you. At least people don’t look at you like you’re some kind of plague."

Before Morvane could respond, Drace’s expression shifted, a cruel smirk spreading across his face. "You want to see my ’power’? Fine. Let me show you."

He clenched his fists, his mark glowing faintly as he repeated a single word under his breath: "Manifest. Manifest. Manifest."

Morvane’s knees buckled suddenly, his legs trembling as an unnatural weakness spread through his body. He tried to steady himself, but his muscles refused to obey. Panic set in as his vision blurred, and his body collapsed to the forest floor.

"You’ll be paralyzed soon," Drace said coldly, stepping closer. "That’s what my curse does. Your body betrays you. You’ll feel helpless. Vulnerable. Just like I’ve felt every day since I was marked."

Morvane gritted his teeth, struggling to move. But no matter how much he willed his body to respond, the weakness only grew.

Drace’s smirk faltered as he suddenly coughed violently, doubling over. He clutched his chest, his thin frame shuddering with each hacking breath. Blood spattered onto the ground, his fragile body seemingly unable to contain the very power he wielded.

"Damn it," Drace muttered, his voice strained. Without another word, he turned and started running, his movements unsteady but driven by sheer desperation.

Morvane watched helplessly as Drace disappeared into the shadows of the forest. His body refused to move, the curse holding him in its paralyzing grip. His shadow beast growled softly, circling him protectively.

As his vision darkened, Morvane’s thoughts raced. Who was Drace, truly? And what kind of danger did his curse pose—not just to Crimson, but to everyone?

Before he could dwell further, exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he passed out.