Igor had studied astronomy, and on occasion taught it when his professors were ill, but these days he had no time for the fanciful rules of the ancients.
A patch of seven stars did not make a bear. Ten made neither lion nor archer, and Polaris wasn't true north.
And, of course, the stars were not concerned with his fate. They cared only for their own secrets, and what they knew they kept hidden.
And yet, when he looked up he could see only one symbol, so obvious. The same wherever he ran.
A skull. A snake.
The Mark.
Death.