Pain.
It spread across my body like a wave—hot, pressing—before concentrating in my left wrist.
Then, as suddenly as it came, it faded.
In its place: a mark.
A simple hammer.
Etched into my skin, glowing faintly, just like the symbol I'd seen at the center of the Thing—the same one from the web of classes and sub-classes.
I stepped out of my shelter, flexing my hand as the last ache faded. The mark didn't hurt anymore, but it felt permanent. Like it belonged now.
I didn't get far before someone stopped me.
A girl, maybe a year or two older than me, stood near a crooked row of branches arranged like a fence. She clutched her wrist and glanced up.
A compass glowed beneath her skin.
"Did you get a mark too?" she asked quietly, uncertainty flickering in her voice.
"Yeah," I replied, raising my wrist so she could see. "Showed up after the pain hit me. Whole body, then the wrist."
She nodded slowly, then looked down again.
"Okay… thank you."
She hesitated, like she wanted to say something else, then turned and walked away.
As I continued toward the clearing, I noticed something strange.
Only three marks existed among us. No variations, no hybrids—just the same three as the symbols from the web in the tower:
• The short-sword for Fighters
• The compass for Pathfinders
• And the hammer for Builders
People whispered theories. Some tried to wash the marks off, others scrubbed at them with leaves or cloth. It didn't matter. The symbols wouldn't budge. The glow dimmed slightly, but never disappeared.
Eventually, everyone realized they weren't harmful.
Just final.
Most let it go. There were more immediate concerns than magical tattoos.
In the center of the clearing, a cluster of Pathfinders and Fighters had begun to gather. I leaned against a nearby pine, watching as I turned my chisel slowly between my fingers.
A short, broad man with a thick black beard and a voice like gravel cleared his throat.
"We need to scout the surrounding area," he said, arms crossed. "Figure out where we are. Find food. Water. Maybe even answers."
He had the short-sword mark, and judging by how everyone listened when he spoke, he was the leader of the Fighters. Late forties, maybe older.
His bald head reflected the soft light filtering through the trees. He looked seasoned. Like someone used to leading.
Another voice spoke up — this one sharper, more deliberate.
"Agreed," said a woman, shorter than him by a head but no less confident. She had the compass mark. A Pathfinder.
"We should send groups of two or three. At least one Pathfinder per team. Fighters for protection, Pathfinders for navigation, tracking, and resource spotting."
There were murmurs of approval. Teams started forming quickly after that — people gravitating toward familiarity, strength, or confidence.
I watched it unfold from the edge of the circle.
Then, curiosity got the better of me.
I approached the Pathfinder leader, who was adjusting a makeshift strap around her satchel.
"Hey," I said. "Can I join one of the groups? Help explore?"
She blinked, surprised.
"You're a Builder," she said, not unkindly. Just stating fact.
"Yeah," I replied, holding up my chisel. "But I know how to work with terrain. I might see something others miss."
She looked at me for a long second.
Then she nodded.
"Alright. Join Group Three. We leave in ten."
Group Three was already waiting near the edge of the clearing — just past the treeline where the morning fog still clung to the ground like breath.
The first to turn and wave me over was the red-haired girl — the Pathfinder who had asked about my mark earlier. She stood with her back straight, a rolled-up hide scroll tucked under one arm, and a faint blush on her cheeks when our eyes met.
"Didn't think you'd actually ask to come," she said.
"Didn't think you'd remember me," I replied with a small grin.
"Hard to forget someone who answers questions by flashing their wrist like a badge."
I chuckled. "Fair."
Before I could respond, a tall, broad-shouldered woman stepped out from behind a nearby pine — the Fighter who'd admired my carved handle the day before.
"So this is our third?" she asked, looking me over with an appraising eye. "Huh. Thought you'd be taller."
"Kairo," I said, offering my hand.
She took it with a strong, calloused grip. "Marra."
Marra had deep brown skin and her black hair was twisted into tight braids that fell across one shoulder. Her short-sword — heavier than most — rested against her back in a makeshift sling made from stitched leather and twine. Despite her size and presence, her voice was calm. Dry, even. The kind of tone that made people shut up and listen.
The Pathfinder cut in quickly.
"I'm Lyra, by the way. Since we're doing names now."
She looked between the two of us, then reached into her satchel and pulled out a roughly drawn map.
"Here's what we know so far: there's a river two hours north, mountains to the east, and beyond that, nothing but fog and forest. We're headed northwest. Try to spot edible plants, building materials, animal tracks — anything useful."
Marra grunted. "I'll take point. Kairo, you keep your eyes on trees and tools. Lyra maps."
"Sounds good," I said, feeling the weight of my chisel at my side. My hand rested there without thinking.
Group Three began moving out — not fast, but steady. There was no fanfare. No goodbyes.
We walked in silence, three strangers bound by something deeper than choice, heading northwest into the unknown.