Mark of Silver: The Ladrian Chronicles, #1

By Jeremy D. Schone

Banished from his town...

        Exiled from his country...

                Forgotten by his race...

The ordinary life of Derith "Silver" Sylvarado, the hunter for his village, gets suddenly torn away when a fateful run-in with a dying man imbues him with the power of the Ladrian, an ancient and accursed race empowered with strength, speed and the ability to transform.

Despite his earnest efforts to keep his new power a secret, an attack on his town by the royal army forces him out of hiding and out of excuses. A hero at heart, Silver chooses to use his power to protect those he loves... and is exiled from his home town because of it.

With the words of the dying Ladrian echoing in his mind to "Guard the Power", he sets out to locate the hidden city where the Ladrian dwell, in hopes that he can rally their army against the forces of Uthak Tairyth, the corrupt tyrant who rules his country. Along with a band of exiles consisting of a pessimistic, pragmatic man named Searin, a deaf and mute Elvin psychic named Niri, a mysterious and intelligent water adept named Clarity and a modest but merciless monster named Que-Que, Silver follows a trail of riddles that leads him from one heroic undertaking to the next in an effort to find the ancient city... before his enemies find him...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy D. Schone
• Release date: Nov 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215376669

Jeremy D. Schone

Jeremy David Schone was raised in Columbia, Maryland as the oldest of six children.   He started writing at a very young age and finished his first draft of Mark of Silver between ninth and tenth grade. The story, characters and wording have evolved many times since then and now, over a decade later, are ready to be shared with the world. He moved to Utah when he went to Brigham Young University, where he studied Linguistics. He served a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Singapore and Malaysia.   When he was 19, he got into a serious accident that tore his aorta and caused many other severe injuries. While he still experiences painful backlash from these experiences, they have only solidified his beliefs and increased his empathy as a writer.   He met his true love, Shirley, while they were at BYU. They were married in 2015 and now live together with their two children, Natalie (6) and Joshua (3) in Saratoga Springs, Utah.

Book preview

Prologue: Decree

Firemoon 41, 2553 R.M.—Bladrill Castle, Bladrill, Litheran

HIS VICTORY WAS ASSURED. His power was unchecked, his authority unlimited. Nobody would oppose him. Nobody could oppose him. Not until it was forever too late.

King Uthak Tairyth allowed a wry grin to creep onto his handsome face. Decades of planning were finally about to come to fruition. With just a snap of his fingers, Litheran would move at his command.

Tairyth sat up straight in his silver-plated throne. Clutching his regal scepter in one hand, adjusting his high crown with the other to put on his most kingly air, he turned to one of his valets and said in his gentlest voice, Son, we are in need of a scribe. Would you find one for us, please? The scrawny young page bowed his head toward the King and left through the throne room’s high, double doors, his face rosy with relief.

Several minutes passed and the valet entered with another individual. He was a tubby youth with hair the color of smoldering ashes and more freckles than face. He was dressed in an outlandish robe mottled with alternating green and red splotches and a green, low-brimmed cap topped with a red feather that flapped back and forth as he walked.

Introducing Barus Cirey, your Majesty’s newest royal scribe, the valet announced in his best orator’s tone, his youthful voice crack betraying his attempt at professionalism.

The King held out one hand, being sure to show the jeweled rings on each finger. Thank you, young man. Please leave us now. Take the rest of the day off. The page nodded and quickly dashed from the chamber, a look of relief on his young face.

The King stared at the oddly dressed scribe. He was shaking like a caged bird that just discovered a hungry cat. Even when Tairyth snapped his fingers and cleared his throat, the scribe refused to meet the King’s tawny gaze. The King banged the base of his scepter on the tile floor, startling the young man into jumping several inches off the ground. Men do not get positions as scribes in our castle unless their work is immaculate, he announced, coolly leveling a stern glare. Your penmanship must be far less shaky than you, or our scribe master would never have hired you.

Y-y-yes sir, sorry sir, the scribe babbled, eyes wide with anxiety. He cleared his throat. The scribe master s-says m-my penmanship is u-u-unparalleled, sir. He shook his head rapidly and pressed down on his ridiculous clothes as though to smooth out some unseen wrinkles. J-just in awe of b-being before y-you today, sir. Truly a g-great honor, sir.

Tairyth smiled and the light glinted off of his pearly teeth. You are too kind, dear scribe. Indeed, far too kind.

Barus’ face flushed, turning brighter than the freckles that consumed his visage. "Wh-wh-what can I d-do for you today, sir?

The King knit his bony hands together. We cannot sleep at night, Babus...

Um, it’s Barus, s-sir, he said with a twitch. The scribe’s eyes widened in realization and he quickly cast his gaze to the ends of his pointy shoes. Not that it’s important sir! S-s-sorry sir.

Right, Tairyth snorted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Anyway, he continued, keeping his tone mellow and his voice low, We cannot sleep at night. We are constantly preoccupied with worries for the safety of our people. Every day, our dear and loyal friends throughout Litheran are killed: slaughtered like sheep at the hands of those vile shape-shifters.

Barus was silent for a moment, his face contemplative. Do you mean, p-p-perhaps, the Ladrian sir? he asked worriedly.

The Ladrian, the ancient race of shape-shifters, were a subject of great interest to Tairyth. They were, as a race, rarely found and even more rarely captured. As the rightfully appointed King, it was his duty to protect his people from any and all threats, even if the general populace did not see the danger behind the Ladrian’s subtle advances.

At first glance, Ladrian appeared the same as ordinary Humans. They talked, walked and acted like normal intelligent beings. They had been known to hide in Litheran and other countries like they had rights to belong there. Under their veneer, each had a shining and brilliantly colored mark indelibly burned into their skin granting them the power to change their shape. Thus, they could take on the appearance and traits of any living being. This gave them power beyond comparison, but more than that, a belief they were superior to all others.

A quiet panic had been growing among Litheran’s elite due to the shadowy dealings of the Ladrian. The aristocrats feared the Ladrian would soon seek to place their own tyrant on the throne and on all other seats of power in their nation. Already, eighty-three high ranking Litheranti patriots, mostly those who spoke out against the rise of the so-called Shifties, were found dead, each with conditions similar to a fatal accident or heart failure. That was in the last year alone. The King knew the work of these Ladrian assassins. He recognized the poisons and tactics they used.

The King grinned in a way that could be described as either hopeful or vengeful, it was hard to tell which. Ten years ago, he said to his scribe, whatever his name was, when our good father was King, rest his soul, he set a law in place that Humans are not to fight against the Ladrian, that we may have peace. The Ladrian have taken advantage of our so-called ‘peace’ and risen up against us. We have seen with our own eyes that this wretched law has brought only Human suffering. The Ladrian have become a threat to national security and to public peace. We hereby decree that law and all those related to it shall now be annulled.

He stood from his throne and moved very close to Barus. He gripped the young man tightly in his arms and the awkward scribe went instantly stiff. We love our people, boy, he whispered softly, face inches from the scribe's. Though his voice was kind, his eyes were full of burning hatred. We do not want their hands tied in defending themselves against this unfathomable threat. They should have the right to fight back. They should have the right to kill the Ladrian, to protect their families and themselves.

B-but, if we just l-l-left them alone, wouldn’t the Ladrian stop fighting us, sir? Barus asked weakly. His whole body was trembling from nervousness.

Oh, Barus. Our dear, sweet, innocent, naive, stupid little Barus, Tairyth sneered, shaking his head sadly. "That’s precisely what they want you to think. The Ladrian are a crafty people, to be sure. They would do anything to convince you they are our allies. They would do anything to make you think they want to be left alone. What they really want is war. War and dominance. Think of what would happen if we had a Ladrian warlord on the throne! This is their plan, Barus. We have interrogated enough of them to know they will stop at nothing to dominate all Humans, those they openly call their inferiors."

B-b-but... Barus stuttered.

The King placed his finger gingerly on the chubby boy’s lips. No ‘buts’, our friend. We would not make this decree if there were any other way. We would not attack the Ladrian if they would accept our envoy of peace. They have not only rejected it, some of our best men have died at their hands. We want the Ladrian, each and every one of them... dead... and we will pay any price to see it happen.

The boy was silent for a long moment. Why are you so intent on d-d-destroying the Ladrian, sir? Tears filled his innocent blue eyes and his lower lip trembled. We can just talk to them, sir. We can sort this out that way, sir. We can ask them to leave, sir. We can... we can...

They kill my people, scribe! he roared, posture changing instantly from a father figure to an enraged ikne. Barus’ body went rigid from the fervor in the King’s words. Noticing he had recoiled, the King pulled in close to him and whispered again, gently, "They kill our people. We are already at war, whether we like it or not. The time for negotiations is over. We need to stop them before their power takes their ego to the next level. If we do not, it could quite literally be the end of Humanity. They have been a thorn in our side for far too long. More innocents will continue to die until these demons have been exorcized."

Barus, his hands shaking frantically, mustered up all his remaining courage to look the King in the eye and stutter, It’s against the law to change a decree another king set into place! He then hastily added, S-s-sir.

Oh, it is, is it? the King asked rhetorically, his thick, brown eyebrows cocked in wry humor. Well then, we will simply change that law too. From this time forward, a king may change any corrupt law at any time, including the one forbidding the rightful execution of the Ladrian. They are the foulest of beings, creatures born of Yxl’s own magic. Failure to destroy them would be like failing to pluck a weed from a garden: it must be done, no matter how tiresome it may seem. He let out a bellowing chuckle so close to Barus’ face that the feather in the scribe’s cap snapped backward.

Now that we’ve taken care of that triviality, he concluded, "We hereby decree that any man, woman or child living in the nation of Litheran is now permitted, nay, required by law to exterminate any member of the Ladrian clan with whom he or she may come into contact."

The King waited, then seeing that his decree was not being transcribed, shouted at the secretary. Write it down, you obese excuse for a wingless waterfowl! Barus jumped and took out a roll of parchment and a calligraphy pen. He began to frantically pen the words of the King.

When Barus looked up from the parchment, the King continued. "In fact, returning to the subject of hunting the shape-shifters, when one has killed a Shifty they must capture the colored smog he emits inside a solid container. This gas must not touch anything else, especially not Human flesh. It carries the Yxlite plague that gives the Ladrian their power. After they send the bottle to the castle, then they shall have their... he hesitated a moment to think of the right word, ...reward."

And what kind of ‘r-r-reward’ will you give them, sir? the scribe stuttered, unsure what to write.

It does not matter to us, the King said, waving a hand. Just put ‘The thing your heart most desires.’ He gestured around him to the majesty of his throne room. Riches, food, land. Whatever they want shall be theirs and rightfully so. After all, they will have done their country and their King a great service: a service well worth any reward we could give.

Barus finished his transcription of the decree. Using the ring which the King extended to him, he placed the royal seal on the bottom in red ink. He rolled it into a scroll and bowed to the King. I will have the heralds d-d-declare this at once, sir, he mumbled. He bowed, again unable to meet the King’s eyes and then exited the large chamber.

Tairyth waited for the door to close tightly before he smiled again. Phase three of his plan was now complete. The plebes would fulfill phase four in a matter of a decade or three, a trivial time to wait for one blessed with his consummate patience. Money was a good incentive and he intended to keep his promise to the letter. He would give all who helped him exactly what they most desired.

The common folk would not realize he would simply be paying them from enormous taxes he had collected and the loot from the old, abandoned and decaying castles of the Litheran League. They were simple-minded peasants who only saw things in the scope of their present needs. They would never ask for enough to make him flinch.

Monetary wealth was not his goal in life, anyway. There was something far greater. With his plan in motion, the only thing left to do was wait and he could wait as long as it took. Indeed, for the ultimate prize they would willingly if unwittingly bestow upon him, he could wait for much longer than a few mere decades. This, he said to himself, "is going to be... fun."

Chapter I: Deer Hunt

Darkmoon 30, 2603 R.M.—Balgâzar Forest, Turod, Litheran

COLD OR NOT, THE VILLAGE needs me. Derith Sylvarado straightened up his spine and breathed deeply to stop his shivering. His village could not afford for him to go home empty handed. This was not his first winter hunt and, heavens help him, it would not be his last. People relied on him. He would not let them down. A man of duty, his focus was helping his village in their constant quest for survival.

He clutched the silver fivemark he carried around his neck. He was not generally superstitious, but he had always worn the coin for good luck anyway. It had become somewhat of a namesake for him. Combined with his surname, common though it was in the village of Maresde, it was not long before friends, family and even passing acquaintances started calling him Silver. He used it as a code name for the games he would play as a child, but eventually it stuck and he used it more frequently than his own name.

He did not particularly mind Derith. It was Elvin for Hunter, a role he now took upon himself willingly. It sounded similar to the name of his father, Arith, a man of great repute among the villagers. That name had become reserved for exclusive use by his mother. Everyone else called him Silver and the already special keepsake had become even more meaningful.

He stared earnestly into the snow-covered forest, his firm, gray eyes filled with a look of determination and careful attention. The long hunting excursions each month were never enjoyable, but this time had been worse than usual. He hoped he could take a deer soon, but he was worried the stifling cold affecting his aim might force him home without a kill. He shivered violently and rubbed his hands along his bow’s thin shaft in a vain attempt to warm and steady himself.

Practically cut off from the rest of the world by sheer distance and dense forests through which few could navigate, the small village of Maresde had to survive on farmed crops and hunted meat. As the largest and strongest in the village, he had taken the responsibility upon himself to hunt big game to provide meat.

Searin Labonic stepped closer to him. I saw something move over there, Silver. Searin pointed to a small clearing. Searin, stoic though he usually was, perhaps due to being orphaned at age eleven, would never admit it, but he was just as devoted to helping his adopted village survive as Silver. He was smaller in build and a head shorter in height than the next smallest man around. He preferred to study books and exercise his brain rather than his body.

Unlike Silver, adored by everyone, Searin was a loner. Silver was his only friend, not that Searin would ever call him that. Some of the residents of Maresde blamed his solidarity on his pessimistic outlook and glum nature. Searin rarely laughed and nobody could remember seeing him smile. Despite Searin’s negativity, he was like the brother Silver never had and Silver cared about him just as much.

His dark, almost black eyes showed no emotion, but that was normal for him. Even still, Silver could tell by Searin’s firm and tense stance that he had discovered something.

The two young men crept slowly toward the spot, careful to not make a sound. As they entered the clearing, a deer staggered out of the woods. It had a long, deep gash on its left side and was bleeding profusely, the red blood dripping steadily upon the frosty ground. Searin and Silver ducked behind two nearby trees and nodded to one another.

It’s already hurt! Silver whispered excitedly. This should be an easy shot. He sprang up and let his arrow fly before Searin could protest his impulsiveness. The deer’s ears twitched and the animal leaped to the side, allowing the arrow to sail past and sink into a tree. A loose cascade of snow fell from the tree as the deer limped off into the woods.

A nearly perfect sniper, flawless in his accuracy and as silent as possible in the art of the hunt, Silver’s arrow should have been embedded deep into the weakened stag’s heart before it even knew he was there. Somehow, the deer noticed the arrow flying toward it at blinding speed and dodged it. Silver had never seen that kind of agility in any beast, much less a wounded one.

After a moment of staring in surprise, Searin growled. Silver, you idiot. Silver had heard that one enough that he jumped to the sound like his real name. I thought even you would know not to jump right in front of a deer. Now we have to track it down again.

Silver smiled sheepishly. Sorry! I just got excited, that’s all.

Are you ever not excited? Searin grumbled, massaging his temples. He rolled his eyes and waved for his taller hunting partner to follow him. Come on. It can’t have gotten too far.

Even in pain, the deer was faster than the two hunters. They had to put their bows away to keep up with its tracks. After running through the woods for over an hour, they had become fully exhausted and could no longer continue, so they sat down in a small grove to rest.

I say... we find a new deer, Silver finally sighed, panting from their long run. His lungs were well accustomed to the general humidity of his hometown and were less adjusted to the dry, wintry air that had blown in over the past week.

Searin, unfazed by the weather, furrowed his brow. No, he said simply. We’ve been hunting for three full days now, Silver and we have nothing to show for our efforts. We have to stay with this deer. If we don’t, it might be another three days before we find a different one. The village will be out of meat in two. They need us home by tonight, if possible. If we can’t track one injured deer, how are we supposed to bag a healthy one?

Silver sighed. He hated to admit it but, as usual, Searin was right. His canteen was bone dry and their provisions were nearly gone. Searin was older and smarter than Silver. He had traveled across much of Litheran as a young boy and had more practical experience that Silver often deferred to. Silver, on the other hand, was a happy-go-lucky sort who had never left the Balgâzar Forest surrounding his hometown like an omnipresent cloud. He had paid little attention in school. He preferred to have Searin think for him, so he could keep his mind free to enjoy life.

After resting for a few minutes, Silver rose to his feet. Ignoring the vertigo that struck him, he dashed off into the underbrush, giving Searin no choice but to follow after him at a brisker pace due to his shorter legs. A frigid wind blew at their faces, tossing Silver’s ear-length hair in all directions. Since the sun was already setting, they needed to move with increased speed. Neither of them knew where the already dry trail of hoof prints and blood would lead.

After a seemingly endless time, the tracks simply stopped. Searin suggested they split up, each keeping to the less heavily wooded paths in an effort to pick up the deer’s tracks again. Silver nodded and went right while Searin took the left path.

Several minutes after they split, Silver saw the blood trail again, this time more clearly than before because the deer’s injury had been aggravated. Silver picked up his pace. Not five minutes later, he saw the injured deer lying in the same clearing where he had first seen it.

When Silver came into view, the large stag did not leap away like before. Instead, it glowered at him, hostility evident in its steely, green eyes, a color Silver had never seen in a kinturi. The large local deer variety that could feed all of Maresde for a week usually had black eyes, but these were startlingly bright. Meanwhile, the whites of its eyes burned red, more like fire than sleep deprivation. The eyes held his gaze fast in a glare of intense spite.

It was the beast’s intelligent eyes that drew Silver’s attention first, but his focus soon moved up to the even more impressive splendor on the stag’s forehead. There, radiating with its own light, was a thin crescent of iridescent blue starting at either temple and arching down across its brow in a shape like a moon glowing faintly in the evening light. As Silver looked at the crescent shape, part of him was afraid, while another part sought to understand why the creature had a mark like that. Then again, another part of him felt the mark drawing him to the deer. It was almost as if he could hear a voice calling to him from within the mark, although he shook off such ideas as nonsense.

He could not bring himself to slay this animal so brutally. It was too intelligent and too hard of a fighter to end up on a dinner plate. Even still, Searin was right when he said they needed the meat to feed the people of the village.

In the end, he decided to give it a warning. Deer, if you understand me... He felt silly talking to a beast, but any deer marked like that had to be special. If you understand me and value your life, you should run. He drew an arrow from the quiver on his back and nocked it into his bow. He aimed it at the stag’s heart and drew back the string just far enough to penetrate the beast’s thick flesh. The deer stood motionless, not making even the smallest sign of running. Silver gritted his teeth in worry, then released the arrow.

With lightning reflexes, the deer jumped straight up and over the arrow. Judging by the strength that the deer had shown and the rippling sinews in its legs, it should have been able to clear the arrow without much effort. Weak from the running and the injury it had sustained, the shot previously aimed at the stag’s chest struck its leg and it fell clumsily into the shrubbery. Silver frowned and went to collect his prey.

As he looked where the deer had landed, he was taken aback. Behind the bush was a young man no older than his mid-twenties laying sprawled on the ground. He had bright, blond hair of a similar length and style to Silver’s own brown hair, flowing down around his ears in the style popular in Maresde. He wore all black with a heavy tunic, pants and a long, thick overcoat, all mottled with a pattern designed to confuse the eye. A high-quality bow was strung across his back and a long bladed knife was hanging unsheathed on his belt. This man was a well-trained warrior or, perhaps, an assassin.

A shining blue crescent shape arched upward across his brow, the same mark that had so entranced Silver just moments before. In his left leg was the arrow Silver had just shot. Silver’s eyes widened. He had almost killed a man. How can this be? he thought. My arrow hit that deer. His ash gray eyes widened with realization. That mark was on the deer! Wondering about the strangeness of the scene was not helping anyone, so Silver rushed over to help the wounded man who had somehow tricked Silver and Searin both into thinking he had been a stag.

The man’s icy emerald eyes opened and he backed away until his hand hit the root of a tree and he crumpled onto the ground. He clutched the wound in his side, his hands visibly shaking, but his gaze steady and full of hate. He growled like a wildcat even as he limped backward and said with a hiss like a serpent, Go ahead. I’m ready. He shut his eyes tightly in expectation of pain.

Silver nocked an arrow, but could not bring himself to aim at the stranger. His hands and forehead were noticeably sweating and he could hear his heart in his ears. The man with the blue mark cracked open his eyes slightly to see the arrow in Silver’s steady but nervous hands.

Do it, the strange man said, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes once more.

Silver sighed. He knew what he had to do. Using the sharpened point of the arrow, he cut a thick strip of cloth from the bottom of his own tunic. I’m sorry this is so cold and wet. It’s really the best I can do. He hoped the grime on the cloth would not infect the injury further. He tore it in two and wrapped one piece around the wound in the man’s side. The man flinched as the gauze touched him, then started with surprise as Silver applied treatment rather than harm.

Silver was no expert at first aid, but it looked like the man had been cut with a broadsword or some other heavy weapon. Maresde was the only village for hundreds of miles and Silver knew nobody in Maresde possessing any tools for warfare. His hunting bow was anomalous in and of itself. The gash on the man’s side was swollen, turning a shade of pale blue. The wound oozed green pus around the edges. Silver wondered if the weapon that slit him had been covered in poison.

Searin’s footsteps crunched loudly in the snow behind Silver just as he broke and removed the arrow from the man’s leg. After assaying the situation calmly for a moment, Searin turned to Silver. What’s the full extent of the damage? he asked. His voice betrayed no worry, although Silver could tell just by the pessimist’s uncommonly considerate question that he did care.

Silver shook his head, glancing only briefly over at Searin as he continued to work. I shot him through the leg and something else cut him pretty badly to begin with. He’s lost a lot of blood. I’m worried he’s not going to make it. He had never seen a person in so much agony before and had certainly never seen one die.

He sobbed slightly but held his strong chin up high. I’m not going to lie: This is my fault. That’s why I have to help him. Silver tied the makeshift tourniquet tighter around the man’s side. The cloth immediately became soaked in blood and pus. Silver gritted his teeth. I can’t stop the bleeding! The man drifted in and out of consciousness, too dazed to respond.

Searin stood motionless as Silver tied another makeshift gauze around the man’s leg, Searin stated pragmatically, I can see smoke from the village. I’ll stay here with him. If you go fast, you can bring help before sunset.

Silver frowned and shook his head. I’m not leaving. He could not think of anything more to say.

Searin groaned audibly and clenched his fists several times. Silver, you don’t have as much medical experience as I do. Let me stay here. You go and get help. We both know you’re faster. You’d get help here before I would. The man’s chance would improve.

Silver’s eyes filled with anger. I’m not going to be responsible for another man’s death, Searin! His left hand subconsciously balled up into a fist. Either you go or we both stay, but I’m doing everything I can to save this man’s life!

Silver, think rationally. What can you honestly hope to accomplish? We both know his chances will be far better if I stay here and help him while you go back to fetch help. His voice bore no aggravation, but his low, mellow tone cut Silver to the core.

Silver looked back at the dying man. The stranger’s eyes were dim, but his pale face was full of fear. He would shakily glance at Searin and then back at Silver. Whenever his gaze met Searin’s, his delirious eyes would widen and his breathing, already shallow, would nearly stop, as if staring into the seemingly endless void of the shorter man’s dark eyes was causing his whole body to tremble.

Silver turned back to Searin with more determination. Searin, he said, trying to choke back tears, "I am being rational. I won’t have innocent blood on my hands without doing something about it. I know what I need to do and you can’t convince me otherwise."

Searin looked Silver in the eye and nodded slowly and pensively. Silver knew he was frustrated at losing the argument. Silver could not be persuaded when he set his mind on something. Searin, of all people, should know that. Searin turned around. If you’re going to be pigheaded about this, it’s no skin off my back, he muttered. Even with my help, he probably wouldn’t make it, but you can at least cauterize the wound so maybe he’ll have a chance at living. He rolled his eyes then ran into the woods at a brisk jog.

Silver’s attention went back to the man. He had fainted again, so Silver set about lighting a fire to keep him warm. He was planning to use the fire to seal up the wound when the man awoke. What are you doing? the stranger asked groggily, stirring from slumber. He spoke in a lilting accent dissimilar to any Silver had heard.

Silver hushed him. Don’t talk. Rest now. Your injuries are pretty severe. He stuck an arrowhead into the small fire he had kindled and stood, waiting for it to heat up. When the tip turned red, he took it from the fire and blew on it to cool it just a little.

He turned to the injured man. This is going to be painful, he said quietly. He touched the metal tip against the edge of the wound. The man screamed in pain as his skin began to blister and swell over itself. He slowly ran the edge of the heated arrow over the man’s wound in the hopes it would cauterize.

As he sealed off the injury, the blistered skin along the edge of the man’s wound began to turn a dull green. Silver’s eyes widened as the green globs began to spread along the man’s side. He writhed as the oblong ring of oddly colored flesh began to expand over him.

Silver started to panic. He had not meant for this to happen. He began to