I couldn’t be sure, but instinct drove me forward.
The rewards were irrefutable.
Enhanced speed. Sharper hearing. Heightened sight. Greater strength and agility. The elixir alone could not account for such changes. The abilities multiplied once the markings settled into my flesh.
Tonight, the sigil I perfected—first on paper, and now destined for my forearm—grants balance.
I open the tattoo kit.
The process is slow and exacting. The needle bites into my skin with a steady, deliberate sting. Pain blooms, sharp and cleansing. I don’t rush it. A single crooked line would render the mark useless. Precision is everything.
Blood beads along the carved lines as the ink settles beneath the surface. I breathe through the burn, take breaks to clean the blood away, and refocus so my hand stays steady.
It’s a long and painful process. But necessary for my plan tonight.
Like the old rhyme I’d come across in a book once said: When the mouse is away, the cat will play. I may be remembering it wrong, but needless to say, to succeed, I must move with the balance and reflexes of a feline, and while the Serpent is stealing the hearts of the people, I will take something he values dearly.
This is my first true test—a measure of my readiness for what lies ahead. If I cannot accomplish this, then I have no business remaining near the city when the Red Horseman arrives.
The sigil’s power will not manifest immediately. It never does. Only through use does the ability awaken, slowly revealing whether the marking succeeds or fails.
It is a risk, but one I’ve had to accept.
When the work is complete, I return to the house and prepare a proper meal from what resources I have. Then, I gather supplies and arm myself with light, easy-to-carry weapons. The last thing I need for tonight's excursion into the city would be anything heavy that would hinder my ability to climb or get away rapidly if my plan goes south.
The journey to the city is long and arduous. I hope it will be the last I make on foot, though that depends entirely on tonight’s success.
I remain vigilant, choosing a different route each time I travel. Occasionally, I double back to ensure no one follows. It is another habit I have acquired—one of many safeguards to protect my refuge and provisions.
I am, after all, a creature of ritual.
My habits. My teachings. My discipline. I truly believe they will ultimately save or defeat me.
I enter the building through a high window in the stable.
After carefully easing it shut behind me, I lower myself and place my boot silently on the rafter below. The aged wood creaks faintly beneath my weight. I freeze, listening. When no alarm follows, I shift my balance and crouch low, surveying the interior.
Soft light spills from large glass-housed lanterns suspended from the beams, casting long shadows across the massive space. The heavy scent of animals—straw, leather, and manure—clogs the air, making my eyes sting. My nose prickles with the urge to sneeze, but I rub it fiercely and force the sensation down.
Below, the stable stretches wide into an immense L-shaped structure, half tack room, half livestock housing. Cows, lambs, hogs, chickens, and hounds occupy separate enclosures, their restless movements filling the air with low murmurs, snorts, and the occasional sharp cry.
And beyond them—the horses. Mankind’s only true means of transportation now.
Not merely common stock, but creatures unlike any I have encountered in all my years of study.
These are warhorses.
Born and bred for battle.
This is not the only building that houses them, either. At least four more stables like this exist within the guarded compound, each filled to capacity.
They stand no less than fifteen hands, all sleek with muscle. Their hides gleam like oiled velvet beneath the lantern light, coats ranging from midnight black to bloodred to blinding white. Their movements carry a disciplined intensity—each of them is alert, restless, and seemingly dangerous.
I discovered them months ago, but didn’t chance infiltrating this place until I had devised a failsafe plan with a reasonable chance of escape.
Because it’s not simply any horse I seek tonight.
Though any would do.
