I walk through the ruins. The mist curls around my boots. The symbols on the walls have stopped pulsing, but I can still feel them watching.

Then I see him.

A figure stands ahead, half-hidden in the fog. A spear in one hand, a golden shield in the other. The shield catches the pale light of the moon, throwing it back in broken beams.

But he's not whole.

His armor is rusted through. His skin — what's left of it — is grey and peeling. One side of his face is bone. The other still holds a trace of what he was.

He doesn't attack.

He speaks.

"I am Arhat," he says. "King of a fallen kingdom. Before the dead came."

I stop.

"You're not dead?"

"I am what remains."

He lowers his shield. His eyes — one living, one hollow — fix on my arm.

"You're marked," he says. "I can see it. The symbols. They pulse, don't they?"

I don't answer.

"I had them too," he says. "Long ago."

He takes a step closer.

"You're in the early stage. It hasn't taken root yet. But it will."

"What are you talking about?"

"The curse. She gave you a task, didn't she? The red one. The one bound to the stone."

I stay silent.

"What did she ask you to find?"

I look at him. His eyes don't blink.

"What did she ask you to find?" he repeats.

I don't answer.

He tilts his head.

"Or maybe the better question — what did you promise her in return?"