“A touch brings trust?” Oren asked, but he forgot his question the second he laid down his palm. Searing pain shout up his arm, momentarily stopping the beat of his heart. He was being branded; the air smelled as it did when they marked the wild horses in the spring. 

            “Gibbor?” he cried out.

            The Gibbor met his eyes but only just. “It’s necessary, Oren, for those chosen by Jah. Otherwise, I wouldn’t subject you to this peculiar pain. I hope you don’t—”

            Whatever he meant to say was cut off by the sound of tearing flesh. The rock, now cold, forcefully repelled Oren. The Hunter staggered back. 

            Oren opened his palm. 

            There, branded in his flesh, was an outline of the Outer Flower, five petaled bloom of the Tree of Life. A perfect replica but for this: its rounded petals were sharp like swords. 

            “I leave at first light,” Oren said, once the pain allowed him to breath.