The world was still burning when Auren dropped to one knee. Heat shimmered off the wreckage of men and steel, and the stench of cooked blood filled his lungs like smoke. His axes—once twin crescents of iron and anger—hung loose in his grip, their edges glowing dull orange. Every breath scraped his throat raw. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer striking the inside of his ribs.
He'd run out of Drakesbane two nights ago. He could still taste the last smoke on his tongue, bitter and grounding, now only a ghost of relief. Without it, Iraxen's fire crawled through him unrestrained, whispering its ancient hunger from somewhere beneath his skin.
More. Burn it clean.
The field around him was glassed black where his fire had touched it. He couldn't remember how long he'd been fighting—minutes, hours, maybe days. Only that every time he stopped swinging, someone else screamed. His body was failing now, too heavy with heat, too hollow to stand. One of his axes slipped from his hand and hissed as it sank into wet soil.
He laughed once, breath hitching into a groan. "Guess this is it, then."
The voice in his head purred approval.
Finally.
The laughter broke into coughing, sparks dancing from his lips. He collapsed forward, palms sinking into mud that steamed beneath his touch. His pulse became thunder. The flame roared inside him, demanding release. There was no strength left to fight it. The world narrowed to orange haze and the sound of his own heart burning.
Then—a sound that didn't belong.
Soft footsteps through soot. No armor, no panic. Just the slow tread of someone who had nowhere to be. Through the haze, a figure took shape: short, cloaked, barefoot. The ground around him stirred with life as he walked. Burnt soil softened. Ash turned to moss.
Auren thought it was a hallucination until the figure knelt beside him and slipped a smoking pipe between his cracked lips.
"Still trying to burn yourself out, huh?"
The voice was older but unmistakable.
He didn't have breath to answer. He inhaled instead. The smoke was sharp—herbal, earthy, and alive. Drakesbane. Real. The fire inside him flinched, recoiled, and dimmed to an ember. He exhaled steam and the taste of ash.
His axes cooled beside him, their glow fading to black.
"Rowan," he rasped.
Rowan's mouth quirked into something like a smile. "You always did run out faster than you should."
He worked quietly, hands steady despite the faint tremor in them, grinding herbs into a poultice and pressing it to Auren's burns. The air around him smelled of wet soil after rain. Wherever he knelt, small green shoots pushed through the cracks. He looked different—older, sun-browned, streaked with fatigue—but his eyes were still calm, still anchored. The only thing that betrayed him were the small spasms rippling through his arms, his fingers flexing as if every nerve in his body was alive and screaming.
Auren noticed, but said nothing. He knew what pain looked like.
When he could stand again, they moved to the edge of the ruined field. The dawn came gray and quiet. Mist clung to the soil, turning the scorched land into a mirror. Rowan crouched near the embers of a campfire, coaxing life from the earth as if it were nothing. Auren sat opposite, scraping soot off his axes, the sound rough but steady.
They didn't speak for a while. Words felt too fragile for what the years had done to them.
"Why do you still smoke it- We both know it tastes like shit that way." Rowen finally muttered.
Auren glanced up, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You still dig around in the dirt looking for 'hidden gold?'"
That earned the faintest laugh. It came out hoarse but real.
The fire between them burned low and patient, its light flickering over steel and skin. The scent of smoke mingled with the faint sweetness of growing things. For the first time in years, the air around Auren didn't hurt to breathe.
Rowan winced as another tremor ran through him, subtle but sharp. Auren saw it. He didn't ask. He just reached over and tossed his cloak across Rowan's shoulders.
"You always hated the cold," he said, grabbing the pot of water. He threw in some drakesbane, blue raspberries, and mint before putting it into his lap.
Auren's hands began to glow with a subtle gold color, heat radiating off and beginning to boil the water for Rowen's tea.
"And you always were the reason for it."
Their laughter blended with the quiet hiss of the fire. Above them, the night faded toward dawn—green and gold and just a little red.