Fire was always the hardest to master.
Not because it was complex—plenty of magic was more intricate.
But fire?
Fire had anger. Destruction baked into its bones.
They said only fools rushed to tame it.
Most got burned.
But what is magic, really, if not perspective?
"Fire is love," the young mage once said.
"The warmth of life. The comfort of a mother's embrace. But like love… it can hurt."
"Be gentle. Care for it, and fire will care for you."
Words spoken by the greatest fire prodigy to ever live—
Solimar Ashveil, The Ember Sage of Babel.
Philosopher. Arsonist.
Student of the magic tower of Babel.
The warmth spread across Desan's sleeping body—comforting, almost too comforting.
He didn't know the fire was eating everything behind him.
Every secret.
Every trace of his birth.
Gone. Burned.
"Pttsh…" Velcrith murmured, low and sharp in his skull.
"Wake up. Slowly. He's watching you."
Desan slowly opened his eyes.
The heat was stronger now. Too strong.
Across the fire, Mire sat. Silent. Watching.
Not a word. Not a twitch. Just those eyes—cold, patient, like a man waiting for a kettle to boil.
Desan blinked and looked past him.
A wall of smoke.
The mansion was burning. Roaring flames eating it alive. Ash spiraled into the sky like a funeral pyre for a god no one prayed to anymore.
'How long has it been burning?' Desan asked, the words not leaving his mouth, just pulsing inside his head.
Velcrith responded, tone dry.
"Long enough to make you wonder if you're the reason."
A pause.
"Either way, you were asleep for the cremation of your past."
Desan's eyes narrowed as he looked past the fire.
Mire still sat there. Quiet. Still. But something was… off.
Desan scanned again. No sign of the other priest. That smug one trailing behind him earlier. Gone.
He muttered under his breath, mostly to himself.
"The other guy. He's missing… Did he go somewhere?"
Velcrith stirred in his head, tone flat with a hint of mockery.
"I never saw him come back. Maybe he wandered off. Maybe he died in there."
Desan's brow furrowed.
"Dying near someone like him? That shouldn't be possible."
A beat of silence.
Then Velcrith chuckled, low and sharp.
"Unless he made it possible."
Desan didn't respond. Just stared across the fire at Mire. Watching the flames dance in his eyes, wondering how much blood it took to make a man that calm.
"You must've been through quite a few things," Mire said, voice calm—too calm—as he stirred whatever the hell was bubbling in the pot over the fire.
Soup? Maybe. It smelled like metal and herbs. Could've been anything. Could've been anyone.
Desan didn't answer right away. Just watched the pot move. Watched Mire's hand. Watched the firelight dance off that unnaturally black armor.
"Do you remember anything?" Mire asked, voice steady as he poured the soup into a crude metal bowl. He held it out toward Desan, an offering—more gesture than kindness.
Desan hesitated, staring at the bowl like it might bite him.
"Like what?" he asked, not meeting Mire's eyes.
The steam rose. Mire didn't answer right away.
"Anything before you woke up."
Just that.
No pressure in his tone, but Desan felt it anyway.
His fingers tightened around the bowl. The warmth seeped into his palms. Not comforting—reminding.
Why would he ask that now?
Was I the reason he came here?
That thought hit like a gut punch. If he was… then what? What was he carrying that made a man like Mire walk into this hell?
Velcrith stirred, like a whisper behind his ribs.
"Told you. Creepy bastard's too interested. Should've run away when you had the chance."
Desan ignored him. Eyes still on the soup.
"...No," he finally said. A lie. Maybe. Truth was, he didn't even know anymore.
Just knew something inside him didn't feel like it belonged.
Mire looked at the bowl in Desan's hand.
"Relax. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't need to poison soup."
The flames popped between them. That low crackle was the only sound.
"You're not special enough to be worth that much effort."
No sarcasm. No threat. Just words—blunt and surgical. Like he was reading it off a report.
Desan didn't respond right away.
He just stared into the bowl, jaw clenched.
Velcrith muttered, low and dry.
"Well damn. That's one way to say 'you matter just enough to not be worth the trouble."
Desan didn't want to drink it.
Not in front of Mire.
Removing the helmet meant showing his face—the rot, the stitched flesh, the half-healed seams crawling across his jaw.
It felt like stripping himself naked in front of a knife.
A death sentence.
Desan stood up and was about to leave when mire asked
Desan stood up, bowl still in hand, and turned to leave when Mire's voice cut through the crackling fire.
"Where are you going?"Flat. Unbothered. Like he was asking the time.
"I just feel... uncomfortable eating in front of someone," Desan muttered without looking back.
A pause.
"Suit yourself. I'll be leaving early, so don't take forever."
"Sure," Desan said, eyes on the ground. He didn't like lying—didn't like being watched either.
Something about eating around Mire felt... wrong. Too vulnerable.
He walked just far enough that Mire couldn't see him directly. Found a crumbled bit of wall to crouch behind.
Rot. Scars. Flesh pulled too tight in some places and missing entirely in others. A face that looked like it lost a fight with God's carving knife.
He stared at the bowl. Still warm. Still untouched.
"You think he came for me?" Desan whispered.
Velcrith's voice was immediate, dry and sharp.
"Maybe. But even inside the mansion, your 'birth' wasn't common knowledge. Doubt anyone leaked it."
"What if it's not about me?" Desan muttered. "What if it's something they used to make me… and he's just interested in that? Completely unrelated?"
"You mean he's interested in you because of what's in your body?" Velcrith replied. "Maybe both. Hell, I don't see any other reason he'd go out of his way to stop others from seeing you absorb will."
Desan paused, bowl still warm in his hands."…He might have killed that priest because the bastard found something out about me."
"True," Velcrith said. No sarcasm this time. Just fact.
Desan brought the bowl to his lips and sipped.
The warmth hit his tongue like acid. His body jolted. Muscles twitched. He gagged, coughed, and vomited a bit behind a tree.
But still—he forced it down. Bite after bite. The soup was bland, but it was real. It was food. And his body, after everything, still remembered what hunger felt like.
That only made it worse.
His hands shook, but he gritted his teeth and drank the rest in one go, nearly choking on the last gulp.
"Come on," Velcrith drawled. "You don't have to eat like a cave-dweller. Food's not gonna sprint off into the woods. "
Desan wiped his mouth and breathed deep, trying not to hurl again.
He filed it all away.
The way Mire spoke. The way he acted. The way he didn't act. The mask he wore that might not be a mask at all. Cold. Detached. Calculating.
Desan would remember.
Not just because he had to.
But because a part of him—deep down—was curious in the worst way.
Then came the voice, slicing clean through the quiet:
"Desan. Hurry up. I'm leaving." Mire.
Desan didn't answer. He just slid the helmet back over his ruined face, clamped it tight, and walked toward the campfire.
Toward whatever the hell came next.