As Ronan followed the trail out of the forest, his horse's gallop was so fast, and his excitement had grown so great that he seemed to forget the pain of his wounds and the worries that might afflict his head.

To the marked trickster, what might happen was ambiguous but also intriguing. On his way, he thought of the thousand possibilities it might mean if true or the thousand more that would open before him if false.

Just for a moment, he took his time. Then, he made his horse go at a steadier pace on the trail he had traveled over a month ago. Ronan leaned back in the saddle and, at a glance, saw the vast coniferous forest that surrounded him; as if he could see them, Ronan imagined Fynn and Yue running through the place. He saw them as dirty as he had found them and as confused by their presence in Aeton, just as he must have felt upon entering that world.

Entering the world was a term he had coined long ago when he had begun his investigations throughout Aeton and other continents.

Everything looked so far in his memory just now.

Ronan was a man who had become passionate about trying to answer an existentialist question that some humans, akajsis, durnirs, and orcs could quickly answer. However, what about the Marked Ones? Their presence didn't coincide with the plans of the gods. Nor did it coincide with the demons they had been accused of being part of so many times. That question motivated Ronan and led him to go to many places and find an answer.

As he trotted away from the woods on his horse, so did the children's voices; for a moment, he thought of them, what they must be doing and eating. The memory of that Akajsi girl eating meat brought a grimace to his face. However, as his horse moved on, his smile faded into concern for her and her welfare. Although Fynn was a high priority for his research, he was even capable of sacrificing his life for the sake of both safeties. If he died, his good friend Kyrus might continue his work, as would any other member of the league of scholars and archaeologists, The Keepers of the Forbidden.

As he made his way up the steep trail, the dry wind of those rocky hills whipped him and his horse, which began to grow colder as he made his way up the mountain on that path where the locals always mentioned demons lurked.

At least Ronan was sure there used to be at least one demon in that place, and now, there was another.

With a run-down and neglected path littered with rocks clogging part of it, it was clear that his journey would soon become one on foot. So with difficulty, the man climbed down from his horse and got into the hills on foot, where he was repeating that path he had made some time ago, which Fynn must have made a month ago.

Little had changed on that trek; some parts of the path seemed to have crumbled not so long ago, but there was the same large rock that Ronan had jumped over long ago, but now he had to climb with difficulty and drop down at the other end.

His body burned at times with pain, and he feared that his wounds would reopen, but the desire to reach his discovery was becoming more and more palpable.

Finally, the cave from which Fynn had emerged was in the middle of that unkempt path with ledges that seemed on the verge of falling away.

With tired eyes and a heavy breath, the man tied his long, blond hair out of his face and avoided further impediments. Then, quickly, he reached into his bag and pulled from it a thick book, as well as a small, reddish, ornate lantern which he waved, causing the candle to flare.

Cautiously, Ronan entered the cave; He went down and saw how the tunnel seemed much shorter than he remembered due to rockfalls. Still, once he opened his book and went to the last pages, he observed the map he had made of the place, and, illuminating the path, the man began to enter the area where he remembered having performed the ritual.

From one moment to the next, his only companions were his book and flashlight; not even a breeze ran through there, not even a bat was out of sight, or some keler with its six furry legs slithered up his legs and sank into the rock.

Finally, where he had performed the ritual was in front of him. Unfortunately, the place had suffered a minor collapse, and annoyed and blinded by his desire for answers, he began to remove stones with his gloved and hurt hands. Every movement he made caused great pain in his abdomen, but he told himself it was worth it.

When the hole was big enough for him to move forward, he slipped into the place.

Inside that spot, Ronan could stand up and, with his lantern, first illuminate the walls. On them were the symbols he had drawn, and with his notes, he checked again that everything was in order.

... The world's various cultures represent our lineage with the symbols we carry in our hands. Warriors carry a triangle, much like the point of a spear. Wizards carry a pyramid, something they sometimes attribute to a triad of powers that they say form what is called magic. Finally, tricksters wear a square or a rhombus. Many attribute various meanings, such as the "four senses of life" or the midpoint between magic and warriors. Within these symbols, magicians believe that the essence of our creation is found, and the purpose goes beyond just being a supernatural identification...

Ronan looked at the symbols he had carved into the wall for an entire day and then had to spread blood on them. That memory of him rubbing his bloody fingers over the dozens of marks made him rub his fingertips together for a moment as he continued to explore the place.

At his feet lay the circle he had drawn. The ring was worn but still visible was the pattern he had drawn with dragon charcoal, a type of charcoal that was only available in the mountains of Navargever and could only be purchased from the Rakke or dragon-people.

... The components of our supposed presence in this world are based more on speculation than certainty. For centuries, the Marked Ones were hunted and have been venerated. Some claim we were created by the abyss monsters, while others believe we are the children of some ancient god. Many more think we have been the fruit of a magician's experimentation and label us as "aberrations." The latter label may be accurate, but the other two may also be true. The Talhari people of Feinsia, the Yushams of Inuxua, or the Etarmes of Aeton tell stories about us and how we could appear when a "call" was made from this world...

Ronan observed the worn circle of summoning before his feet and how there must have been three spheres within it in three small, golden, circular stands.

The essence of each mark was there; each sphere contained the blood of a branded one and had been stored within a sphere of magic crystal that prevented it from drying out.

He had done the experiment dozens of times in different parts of the world; it wasn't the first time he went into a cave, a well, or any hole where a person could fit and perform that ritual that mixed elements of different cultures and magics.

This time, however, it was different. For the first time in a long time, something was different.

Ronan froze in place, standing static as a cold chill ran down his back to the nape of his neck. His muscles tensed at what lay before him.

Inside the circle, the spheres that held the essence of the three marks looked damaged. Under the lecterns, there was some black dust that Ronan soon bent down to touch with a trembling hand that framed his growing excitement. The dust was thick and rocky, like a stone pulverized to near fine shards.

Ronan took it in his hand and pressed it in his hand to see if it would break further; when he had placed the spheres, they were hollow, and now, they seemed to have solidified.

The sphere representing the warriors was the only one that wan't there, but from where he had placed it, it was where that dust was now. Ronan then gleamed a light on the other two spheres; although his emotion didn't allow him to reason properly, he noticed how the sphere representing the wizards was split down the middle diagonally. The cut was perfect, and in that way, he could see more clearly that the inside had solidified completely. He then turned the lantern toward the trickster's mark, where just a fraction of it appeared to have been affected.

Trembling, Ronan pulled out his journal from his bag so he could write, dropping things from it.

What the hell happened here?

Did I succeed?

The man took the spheres in hand; instead of being crystalline, they now weighed the same as the rocks around them. Ronan then carefully stored them in his traveler's bag and, with difficulty, slipped out of the hollow where he had performed the ritual and walked down the path to the exit.

The cave's exit was so bright he could barely see outside, and when he came out, his eyes must have readjusted to so much light with slight pain.

The man looked around him; his breathing started to get out of control as he saw the hills, the forests, and in the distance, the endless plains.

Shaken, Ronan fell to his knees, and with trembling hands, he covered his face until, from the depths of his lungs, he let out a scream that echoed in those hills.

Ronan had made an unprecedented, life-changing discovery for his kin.