Marcus Stone's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Marcus Stone woke on the ice with no name of his own and no memory of how he got there. He only knew one thing, burned into him like a brand: he had to win the tournament. The frozen abyss crowned its strongest warrior king. The elders had chosen him for the fight. But a king needs a body that still lives, and his body was freezing to death. He pushed up onto his knees. The cold bit through his skin. His fingers had gone white and stiff. His breath came out in hard clouds. He was tall and strong, built for the gauntlet, but muscle meant nothing against this killing air. If he stayed here, he would not last the night. He would never reach the arena. He forced himself up and walked. The wind cut at him. His legs shook. Then he saw a shape ahead, half buried in snow. A small hut, built from weathered wood, with fishing nets hung across its walls and rope coiled on its porch. Marcus staggered to the door and shoved it open. Inside, the wind stopped. He fell against the wall and breathed. A crate sat in the corner, packed tight with food and supplies. Bread. Dried meat. Jars sealed against the cold. Whoever built this place had stocked it well and then left it. But food could not warm him fast enough. His hands still would not close. He searched the hut and found a stone knife and skinning tools, left on a bench by some old hunter. The blade was chipped but sharp enough. Then he heard it. Scratching outside. A heavy shape moved past the small window. Marcus gripped the knife and waited by the door. When the beast came, he struck. It was close, brutal work. He drove the blade in twice. The animal thrashed and went still. Marcus dragged the carcass inside. His arms burned. He remembered the hunter's tools and knew what to do, though he could not say how he knew. He worked the stone knife along the hide and peeled the thick fur free. He wrapped it around his shoulders. Warmth crept back into him. His fingers bent again. He ate from the crate until his strength returned. Outside, the storm howled on, but it could not reach him now. He had beaten the cold. He would live to fight. Then his eyes fell on a mark burned into the far wall. The same mark was on his own forearm. He pushed back his sleeve and stared. He did not remember the brand. He did not remember this hut. Yet someone had left it waiting, stocked and ready, as if they knew he would come. Marcus stood, fur heavy on his back, and understood one hard thing. Someone had placed him here on purpose. Before he could win the throne, he had to learn who, and why they wanted him alive.