The cave behind them still held the scent of burning sap and iron, but the mountain air washed it
away quickly. Torian's cloak fluttered behind him in the wind as he moved east, his boots crunching
against stone and frost. Skarn padded silently at his side, fur shifting with each motion like a low
wave of muscle and instinct. The bond between them felt stronger now—not just trust, but
something spoken without sound, like the ember had deepened what words never could.
Torian glanced at his palm.
The spiral no longer sat on the surface of his skin. It shone beneath it, like fire moving in a slow
circle just under his flesh. Every few steps, it pulsed once. Not hot. Not painful. Just aware.
"I think it's trying to tell me where to go," he said.
Skarn huffed low.
They didn't need maps anymore. The ember's pull—subtle, shifting—seemed to guide Torian around
broken paths and forgotten glades. It tugged not like a rope, but like gravity. As if something in the
east had begun pulling back.
The air grew drier as they walked. The trees thinner. The grass became brittle, flaking into ash when
touched. Skarn stopped once to sniff a bush of red flowers—but as he drew close, they collapsed
into cinders without flame.
Torian's spiral pulsed faster.
The first village came into view just after midday.
At first glance, it looked untouched—buildings still standing, roofs unbroken, fences intact. But as
they crested the final ridge, Torian's breath caught.
There were no sounds. No wind chimes. No animals. No movement.And not a single bird in the sky above it.
He and Skarn approached cautiously.
They reached the village gate.
Still no smell of fire. No fresh ash. Just… emptiness.
He stepped into the village square.
That was when he saw them.
Shadows. Dozens of them.
Burned into the walls.
Silhouettes of people mid-step, mid-reach, frozen in final motion—etched into wood and stone like
sunburnt ghosts.
Torian moved slowly past a home where the shape of a child's outline curled near the base of a wall.
He didn't speak.
Skarn's steps were soundless, tail rigid.
The spiral on Torian's palm began to burn—not from heat, but from sheer tension.
This wasn't ember fire.
It was something else.
Something that burned too fast to leave flame behind.
He turned a corner and saw the well.
At its base, the words had been etched in jagged, fire-blasted letters:
"The other fire came before you."Torian's jaw clenched.
"Not just destruction," he whispered. "A message."
He reached for his father's sword instinctively. Skarn stepped in front of him, ears
pinned, muscles coiled.
And then, the smoke shifted.
It didn't blow in from the east. It rose—from cracks in the ground, from gutters, from
between the buildings.
Then it formed.
A figure.
Human-shaped.
Tall. Cloaked in emberlight. Its form flickered like a flame seen through glass—fluid,
unstable, never still.
Torian stepped forward.
Skarn didn't growl.
He watched.
The phantom raised a hand.
Fire crackled between its fingers—black and gold.
It didn't speak.
But the spiral on Torian's hand flared.
"Are you a warning," Torian asked, "or a messenger?"The phantom tilted its head.
Then hurled the flame.
Torian threw his hand up—his palm glowed—and a barrier of curved fire spiraled
outward, catching the bolt mid-air and spinning it harmlessly into smoke.
It was instinct. He hadn't even thought.
The phantom charged.
Torian drew his sword, but held back. He didn't want to destroy it. He wanted to see
what it was.
The phantom struck fast—its arms like lances, fire licking its limbs—but Torian dodged,
rolled, and pushed a burst of flame downward, lifting himself into a short arc over the
enemy's swing.
He landed hard, spun, and slashed.
The sword cut through the phantom's chest.
It staggered, fire hissing from the wound.
But it didn't fall.
Instead, it split in two—two smaller phantoms, flickering with less intensity, now circling
him like wolves.
Torian's spiral flared again. This time, he focused.
Don't command. Invite.
He opened his hand—and flame answered.
A ring of fire burst out around him in a perfect spiral, licking the air and pushing the
phantoms back.They hissed but didn't scream.
Skarn stepped forward now, shoulder to shoulder with Torian.
One of the phantoms lunged—but Skarn slammed it into a wall with a thunderous roar,
crushing it into cinders.
The second hesitated.
Torian stepped forward.
"I know who sent you," he said.
The phantom flickered.
Then it whispered—quietly, like a breath in the ear:
"He sees you."
Then it collapsed into ash.
The wind returned.
The smoke faded.
Torian lowered his sword.
The spiral on his hand dimmed.
And the village returned to silence.
⸻
They camped at the village outskirts, near a collapsed barn where the boards were still
warm, even though they hadn't burned in days.
Skarn paced a wide circle around the camp while Torian sat, breathing slowly beside
the fire.He stared at the spiral.
He hadn't forced the flame.
He had invited it.
And it had responded.
That mattered.
It meant the bond was deepening.
But the phantom's whisper stayed in his ears.
"He sees you."
Torian looked eastward, past the ridge, where the sky burned faint orange even though
the sun had already fallen.
"He's testing me," Torian murmured. "He's not ready yet. But he wants to see how far
I'll go."
Skarn curled beside him, eyes open.
Torian closed his own, letting the fire reflect in his mind.
Not as power.
As memory.
As promise.