The fire refused to catch. Rylan struggled repeatedly, trying to coax a spark into life. He struck his flint against dry twigs, added kindling carefully, but nothing happened. He went through the motions again — watching the small sparks die out before they could grow. The air around him was dry, crackling with heat, and the wind was still, as if holding its breath. Still, no flame took. It was as if the very air refused to cooperate, frustrating Rylan to the point of annoyance. And yet, he didn't stop. He kept trying, feeling the weight of each failed attempt pressing down on him. The fire just wouldn't light.
Then, suddenly — out of nowhere — the flames burst into life. It happened so fast it took Rylan a moment to realize what was happening. The fire didn't catch from the spark he struck. It started from within his hand. A sudden surge of heat shot through his fingers, and without warning, a flickering orange flame ignited right at his palm. Rylan jerked back, yelping in shock. His hand trembled as he stared at it, eyes wide with surprise. But there was no pain, no burn — only the faint glow that lingered on his fingertips, like a dying ember. The glow was soft, barely perceptible, fading slowly away as if it had been a dying spark in his own flesh.
Across the camp, Ash watched silently, his gaze fixed on Rylan. He tilted his head slightly, curious and cautious at the same time. He asked softly, "Is that normal?" His voice cut through the quiet night, sharp but unsure. Rylan looked at him, silent, confused. A part of him wanted to say yes, that this was how magic like theirs worked. But deep down, he knew it wasn't. He shook his head gently, voice quietly affirming, "No." Still, even as he spoke, an odd feeling tugged at him—perhaps a flicker of certainty that everything was different now. Not bad, not wrong, just different.
Then, unexpectedly, the fire in the center of their camp flared up brighter than before. It grew taller, spreading out in a brilliant rush of gold and amber, almost glowing with a strange, still energy. It shone like a beacon in the darkness, casting long, stretched shadows across the stone circle around it. Its brilliance was unnerving yet mesmerizing—flickering, yet perfectly still, as if frozen in time. And in the heart of those flames, Rylan saw something he could not ignore. It was a word—no symbols, no markings—just a single name. Clear, almost glowing in the fire's glow. Veyr.
He whispered it softly, almost involuntarily. The sound slipped from his lips without conscious thought, as if the name had already been inside him, waiting to come out. A shiver ran down his spine. The flames responded unexpectedly—a flicker, a brief dance of light that made everything around them pulse, as if the world itself was echoing that word. For an instant, the forest, the ruins, the silence—everything seemed to throb in rhythm with that whisper. It was like the fire was alive, breathing that name back into the night, calling to something deep inside him.
Later, Mira lifted her gaze from her sketchbook. Her hand moved swiftly, tracing lines in the air rather than on paper. She was drawing again, but not from what she saw directly. Instead, she drew from what she knew she would see, capturing a moment not from memory but from her intuition. This time, her drawing depicted a massive tree split in half, the gnarled trunk tearing down its middle, from which fire seemed to spring like deadly bloom. The flames in her sketch curled outward, not consuming but illuminating. At its base, five figures stood close together, each glowing faintly—marked by something unseen. All of them radiated light, as if they carried a quiet power. And at the center, she drew a sixth figure, enveloped in flames, head bowed. It wasn't a picture of destruction or victory. Instead, it showed sacrifice. The figure was not consumed by flame but was made of it—standing, quiet, solemn. She didn't remember starting the drawing, but she knew intuitively who this figure was, what story it told. She knew how this story would end, even if she didn't consciously realize it at the moment.
Meanwhile, Lina sat calmly by the edge of a small grove, her roots curling softly around her boots, anchoring her to the earth. Her eyes were half-closed, and she hummed a tune beneath her breath—an old song her grandmother used to sing long ago. It was a wordless melody, steady and deep, that seemed to resonate perfectly with the gentle rustle of leaves around her. The trees around her responded, their branches humming softly in reply. Lina had learned not to move quickly or panic. She was listening, truly listening, to the forest's ancient voice. It wasn't warning her of danger; it was calling her, whispering her name with reverence instead of fear. She listened, understanding that the forest was speaking in its own way. It wasn't trying to scare her but wanted her to know she belonged there—part of its quiet, eternal story.
Varyon moved along the perimeter of the ruined circle, every step precise, every breath steady. He had a knife in his hand, not clenched tightly, but ready. His eyes flicked around, scanning for threats or signs of trouble. Yet, he wasn't worried about what might appear. Instead, something else disturbed him more—his shadow. It was gone. Not twisted or warped, simply missing. He could see his legs, his feet, but behind him, there was no shadow to stretch out or follow. It wasn't out of fear or hesitation. It was a realization that something fundamental had changed. His shadow had left him. Left silently, without a trace, as if it had simply evaporated into the darkness. He could still see his body, clear as ever, but the absence of his shadow left an unsettling emptiness behind.
Ash stood nearby, resting against an ancient stone, jaw clenched tight, fists trembling slightly. He refused to speak about what he saw the night before—the faceless shape lurking in the trees, unseen but felt. His mind replayed the moment many times, but he kept his silence. Still, his gaze was sharper now, more watchful than ever. Every shadow—every flicker—he studied intently. Tests and jokes had once eased the tension, but now, he was starting to believe the jokes were over. Whatever was lurking in the woods, whatever shadows had once been harmless, might no longer be. He gritted his teeth, determined to stay alert.
Back at the camp, the steady glow of the central fire continued to burn brightly. It cast a warm, golden light over everything. In its glow, the name Veyr was spoken again—not aloud this time, but within the flames. The name floated on the air, carried by flickering tongues of fire. Rylan listened, voice silent, feeling the weight of those words pressing into him. This time, understanding dawned. Veyr wasn't just a name. It wasn't a random word. It was a role—something greater. A title that held power and significance. And as the flames danced, Rylan realized it was a role meant for him. The name belonged to him now. It had become part of who he was, something he couldn't ignore anymore. It was not just a word. It was a call—a responsibility—and somehow, he knew he could not turn away from it.