Nox took off his brown gloves made of soft calfskin and looked at the back of his right hand. His Mark, which only three years ago had looked like a filled circle, now formed a thin crescent. 'What bad luck...', he thought.
Like every Marked person, Nox was born with a Mark in the shape of a full moon. And like everyone else, he knew that when the shape of it was reduced to a new moon, it would mean his end.
Completely exhausted, lying on the barren slope, Nox thought, 'So this is how it ends'.
He was calm; the fatigue was taking away the clarity of his mind.
Nearby, the fire was slowly dying out, everything was fading, just like the fire in his heart.
He had just wanted to walk a short distance to get more firewood, and yet he was failing to muster the strength to get back to his makeshift camp after collapsing on the way back.
He reminded himself that with only a few days left to live, he mustn't forget to untie his horse from the branch of the only tree in this cursed land. He hoped at least the horse would make it out alive. It would be disastrous if it got lost or returned here looking for its rider.
Most Marked lived long, ordinary lives. They used the Power of the Moon sparingly, keeping their vitality intact.
Not Nox.
He had no power to drain. Nothing but that ugly brown birthmark; more like a muddy blotch than a sign of destiny. And yet, over the past three years, it had faded faster than a dying star.
He smirked darkly. "What a joke," he muttered. "No power, but I still die like the rest."
Nox had always considered his Mark to be incredibly ugly, a brown circle the color of a muddy puddle.
It might have even seemed like a normal birthmark to someone who had never encountered the Marked.