The cottage door creaked shut behind them, and inside, every corner brimmed with curious treasures: shelves lined with glass bottles that shimmered green, gold, and blue; bundles of feathers tied in careful cords; and heavy old books stacked high like sleeping beasts. A kettle hissed softly on the fireplace, filling the room with steam, but no one bothered to move it.

The man stepped forward, his gray cloak trailing across the wooden floor. He stood with his back slightly bent, but he carried himself with quiet strength. The fire flickered, illuminating the lines of his face, showing a jagged scar on his cheek in the shape of a lightning bolt. He did not scowl or frown, but looked weary, as if his eyes had seen too many seasons come and go without forgetting a single one.

Bjorn stepped closer to Rowan. “Alright then, who are you exactly?”

The man glanced back at the two boys. “Thorne. A Gatekeeper of Althoria. Or at least what remains of it.”

Bjorn looked at Thorne and shrugged. “What’s a Gatekeeper?”

Thorne walked to the fireplace and sat down on a wooden chair. He rested his elbows on his knees. The fire popped and crackled, shadows stretching across the shelves until the herbs and bottles seemed to sway with his words.

“Long ago,” Thorne began, “the Gatekeepers were a hidden order, created by the King of Althoria. We studied the Shadowlands, a place that mirrors our own world yet never truly matches it. Everything there feels familiar, but nothing is ever the same. Between the two lies the Shimmer, a fragile gate so thin the air ripples like water. Touch it, and you’ll feel both worlds pressing against each other.”

Thorne turned from the fire to the boys, his scar catching the glow. His eyes burned with the weight of someone who had seen too much. “One day, you might see the Shimmer near the northern cliffs. The next day, in a quiet village. Or over a lake. Or within a storm. Sometimes it drifts through the forest, like a curtain of air trembling in the wind.” His voice grew quieter. “But most people never notice until it’s too late.”

His attention sank to Rowan’s wrist. The spirals there twisted in the dim light, and he studied them with a look that seemed to carry a memory. “A Hazbin has marked you.”

The spirals on Rowan’s wrist burned the moment Thorne mentioned the Hazbin. Cold seeped into his skin; it was sharp as ice, but it stung like fire, and was strong enough to make him grimace. “Th-that thing in the forest? The one with the mask?”

Thorne nodded slowly. “A Hazbin’s mark isn’t just a wound or a scar. It’s a poison trying to take root and devour you from within, until you lose yourself completely and drift into the Shadowlands.” His eyes met Rowan’s. “But it hasn’t taken hold. Not yet. That’s why it burns. It’s fighting for a place inside you.”

Bjorn’s grip tightened on his axe. “What do you mean, lose yourself completely?”

Thorne didn’t answer right away, his gaze sinking into the fire. The flames danced across his face, shadows bending with every flicker, until the scar on his cheek began to glow. When he finally spoke, the words came almost as a growl. “Then Rowan won’t be Rowan anymore, he’ll become a Hazbin.”

Thorne stirred the embers with a poker. Sparks leapt up the chimney like fireflies breaking free into the night. The untouched kettle still hissed quietly, filling the silence. Thorne leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning softly beneath him. His finger tapped the rim of his mug in a steady rhythm, the sound filling the pause like a ticking clock. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he added, “I’ve seen this twice before.”

“What happened to them? Did they survive?” Rowan’s words tumbled out before he could stop himself.

But Thorne didn’t answer. He crossed the room slowly, as if the question pressed on his shoulders. His hand drifted along the shelves, hovering over empty jars that shivered when he passed, and others filled with things too strange to name. The fire cracked, breaking the silence. At last, he selected a jar the color of smoke and set it down with a soft clink. A bundle of dried herbs followed, scattered across the table. As he ground them beneath his palm, golden dust curled upward into the air.

“Luckily, the mark hasn’t spread too far,” Thorne said at last.

Rowan looked down at his arm. The spirals had already climbed past his elbow, glowing faintly in the dim light. “But, how do we stop it?

Thorne didn’t answer right away as he poured several drops of liquid into the crushed herbs. The mixture hissed, releasing a curl of white smoke that stung their noses and shimmered strangely in the firelight. “We need three ingredients. But together, they can stop the poison from spreading.”

Bjorn stood up. “What are they?”

“First, ghostroot. It only glows beneath the moon. Second, wild apple bark. Hollow and rough, but difficult to find. And third…” Thorne’s gaze lingered on the flames. “…water from the Spring of Echoes. Bring them before sunrise. After that, I can’t promise we’ll be able to stop it from spreading.”

Rowan tried to push himself up, but the room spun. He dropped back onto the chair.

“Not you,” Thorne said gently. He put a comforting hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “Save your strength.”

Thorne turned to Bjorn and placed a worn leather satchel in his hands. The straps frayed, the shape weathered by long miles and older journeys. “This belonged to a friend and carries what refuses to be carried. You’ll need it.”

Bjorn slung the satchel across his shoulder as Thorne spread a wrinkled map across the table. Its edges were burned and stained, the parchment crowded with faded lines and strange symbols. With a stick of charcoal, Thorne circled three places. Each one sparkled faintly in the firelight, as though the map remembered.

“You’ll know you’re close when the forest tests you,” Thorne said firmly. “The forest protects what it does not want found.” He looked at Bjorn. “Go now, and whatever you hear, do not answer.”