Nox awoke to find himself lying in a soft, double bed.
'Is this what heaven looks like? Or have I not died yet?', he wondered.
He glanced around. The room was modest but clean. On a small table beside the bed, next to a bowl of fruit and a bottle of water, he noticed his lightweight gloves.
A sudden wave of panic struck him. He looked down at his hands. His Mark hadn't changed - it still resembled a thin crescent. The burning sensation in his right hand remained fierce. But there was something different. He could breathe more freely now. He felt... stronger.
Most of the Marked didn't show their Marks. Revealing yours could be dangerous. Both the color and the lunar phase it represented were best kept secret. The closer one's Mark was to the new moon, the weaker their power and vitality became.
Nox couldn't stop thinking - who had taken off his gloves? Had they seen the brown Mark? Perhaps they thought it just a birthmark.
He prayed that whoever it was didn't bear the Green mark of the moon.
He wasn't particularly afraid of red-marked warriors. They couldn't truly harm him. He was far too seasoned of a swordsman, trained by his father from a young age, and a survivor of many battles.
He thought of his family again. Of his father - a quiet, stoic warrior who bore the weight of their family's fate on his shoulders, as did so many others among the warrior class. Though only Karn bore the red Mark, all of his sons had followed in his footsteps.
Nox was a seasoned swordsman. He took on both contract missions as a mercenary and often competed in tournaments. Of course, he could never quite match his father's raw strength - but even so, his skill surpassed that of many.
And when it came to those Marked with the blue moon, they didn't trouble him in the slightest. Healers possessed no combat ability, and Nox had never once felt threatened in their presence. He had never seen a healer who would be a fighter. 'That just would've been silly', he thought to himself.
But a green-marked one? That was something else entirely.
The very thought made him shiver. He remembered all too well what he had endured during his last encounter with one of them.
His body trembled at the memory. Shaken, Nox pulled the blanket tightly around himself. He needed to banish the thought quickly - fear was already taking hold of him.
Eventually, his heartbeat calmed down.
With a deep breath, he decided to rest a little longer. He needed to regain his strength before facing his savior.
As he let his eyes close, another thought crossed his mind.
He was wearing a soft shirt, far too large for his solidly built chest. He ran his fingers through his hair - brown strands, as dull as his dull mark - seemed longer than usual. And his face... it was clean-shaven. As if someone had recently trimmed his beard.
Nox sighed and finally sat up in bed.
He remembered the grim rider who had looked at him with such disdain.
Was it him who saved me? Who brought me here? And how am I still alive?
The next thought came like a whisper: 'Perhaps I'll die tomorrow instead'
He stood, though his legs were still unsteady, and began to pace the room. Then it hit him - his horse. He had collapsed before freeing him. Had someone found him? Was it his saviour? That brown steed was as dear to him as closest friend.
He decided to ask his rescuer about it right away.
Crossing the room, he reached the large wooden door, pressed the handle, and...
...He found it to be locked?!