Somewhere on a world called Earth, in a perfectly ordinary college classroom, Damien Cross sat slouched at his desk, lazily munching on a bag of chips as though the fate of the universe depended on it. His messy, medium-length black hair, tousled with a slight wave, fell over one golden-flecked brown eye. His posture screamed disinterest, and every loud crunch was a direct challenge to the teacher's authority.
The lecture droned on about economic theory, but Damien's mind was solely focused on the salty, savory glory in his hands. He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, savoring each bite with a level of attention the class assignment could never earn.
The teacher's voice cracked mid-sentence. "Mr. Cross!"
Damien didn't even look up. "Mm?"
"Put the snacks away and pay attention. This is important material for your midterm."
Damien popped another chip into his mouth, chewing slowly. "Yeah, see… that's gonna be a problem. I'm in the middle of something important right now. Give me five minutes."
A ripple of laughter moved through the room. One classmate whispered, "This guy's got a death wish." Another snorted, "Nah, he just doesn't care."
The teacher's eyes narrowed. "This is not a cafeteria, Mr. Cross. If you can't—"
Damien interrupted, holding up a finger. "Correction: it's a room, I'm eating in it, and I'm not bothering anyone except you." He tilted the bag toward his mouth, pouring in the last crumbs.
The class erupted into louder laughter, some mocking Damien in exaggerated tones. "Ooh, five more minutes, please, professor!" one mimicked.
Damien's lips quirked into a smirk. "You all are just jealous you don't have snacks."
The teacher's face turned a dangerous shade of red, ready to explode again—when the school bell rang.
The professor exhaled through clenched teeth. "Fine. Go home. We'll continue this tomorrow."
The room burst into motion, chairs scraping and conversations starting up about weekend plans. Damien rose slowly, tossing the empty bag into the trash. He ignored the chatter and laughter around him.
Outside, the cool air was a relief. Damien tore into a fresh bag of chips he'd had stashed in his backpack. "Perfect. Walking snack time." He chewed thoughtfully as he strolled through the streets. "Salt level's perfect today. They must've changed the batch."
He soon crossed the street to the corner store. The bell chimed as he entered, and the familiar face of the owner lit up.
"Damien! Back again?"
"Always," Damien grinned. "Still got my favorites?"
The owner chuckled. "Kid, I've been stocking those since you were ten. I swear you've taken more snacks from me than anyone in this city."
Damien smirked. "Yeah, well, you're still in business, so I must be doing something right."
They bantered for several minutes—about how Damien used to sneak in after school, about the time he tried to barter homework answers for candy, and how he once "accidentally" left with an armful of chips without paying.
Eventually, Damien grabbed several bags, paid, and headed out, munching immediately.
As he passed a park, kids' laughter caught his attention. They were playing catch, shouting at each other about who could throw the farthest. Damien smirked at their carefree energy.
Then it happened.
A ball rolled into the street, and one boy ran after it. A speeding truck rounded the corner.
Damien's instincts flared. No time to think.
He dropped his snacks and sprinted. Gotta get to him. Don't trip. Faster. Don't let him freeze.
His hand caught the boy's shoulder, shoving him hard toward the grass. Relief barely had time to register before the truck loomed.
Well… guess this is it.
Impact.
Blackness.
When Damien opened his eyes, he was lying on a black floor under a black ceiling that stretched forever. No sound. No warmth.
He sat up slowly. "Where the hell…?"
Flashes hit him—the truck, the kid, the push. Realization tightened his chest.
"I'm dead? Just like that?" His voice echoed endlessly. "HELLO?!"
Silence.
Then, a low, sultry voice: "Well, well… what do we have here?"
Damien turned sharply. "Who's there?!"
The ground began to shake beneath his feet. He fought to keep his balance as deep cracks tore through the black surface. Little streams of glowing red light seeped upward like veins of lava.
He squinted down. "Okay… glowing red light from the floor. Definitely not a good sign." The cracks widened, and the shaking grew more violent. "Yep, bad sign confirmed."
The light intensified until flames erupted all around him, racing toward the center where he stood. He threw his arms up, bracing for searing pain—
Nothing.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The void was gone.
He now stood in a realm of fire so beautiful it stole his breath. Rivers of molten lava cut through black volcanic stone. Flame-lit bridges arched gracefully across the rivers. The air shimmered, heavy with heat yet strangely comfortable, as if it recognized him.
Above, the sky burned a deep, majestic red, scattered with constellations and planets gliding slowly through the heavens. The stars themselves seemed to flicker with embers.
Damien turned in awe. "One second it's eternal darkness, now it's… paradise for someone who really likes fire."
A grand staircase of obsidian and flame rose ahead, leading to a throne that radiated power. And on that throne—
She was breathtaking. The kind of beauty that could melt continents. Her face was regal yet dangerously sensual, with high cheekbones and luscious lips curved into a knowing, dangerous smile. Her molten eyes flickered between affection and apocalyptic fury, worship when they landed on Damien, warning for anyone else.
Her hair was living flame, cascading in endless waves of glowing lava. It shifted with her mood—golden red in peace, volcanic crimson when possessive, star-white when enraged—flowing around her like a firestorm halo.
Her form was statuesque—six feet of divine curves and power. Sun-kissed skin glowed faintly like embers, her impossibly full chest supported by a flame-forged breastplate, waist narrowing to hips that promised both strength and seduction. Crimson silk battle robes with thigh-high slits flowed around her, held by golden flame-sashes, paired with golden toe-high heels that hovered just above the ground, sparking with each step.
Glowing ember tattoos spiraled across her arms, legs, and back, shifting like living art. A Crown of Cinders floated above her head, crackling with divine energy, while her Flameveil cape of living fire whispered behind her, and a Lavaheart Pendant at her chest glowed warmly.
Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low, sultry, and smoky—velvet wrapped in fire. "Welcome to my world, Damien Cross."
He swallowed. "Who… are you?"
She smiled like she could burn the world for fun. "I am Ignara Vermilion, Goddess of Fire."
Damien blinked, heat curling in his chest. "What the hell?!"
Damien stood frozen before the throne, shock grinding against confusion until both sparked into something close to anger. Heat licked the edges of his vision. The sky above was a living wound of red and gold, streaked with distant planets and constellations that burned like spears.
What the hell is this place?! This… burning sky? And why—why am I talking to a goddess of all things? Am I hallucinating? Did I actually get hit that hard?! What does she mean I wished for this?!
Ignara giggled—low, smokey, wickedly warm. "No, this is real, my little flame."
Damien snapped his gaze to her. She heard that?! What—how did she know—?! Out loud, he managed, "Why am I here? Are you really a—what—fire goddess?"
Ignara tilted her head, ember-bright hair cascading in molten ribbons. "Impressed. You threw yourself in front of a truck to save a child. A mortal with a death wish is still a mortal. But a mortal who spends his life protecting others—even when he insists he 'doesn't care'—that is interesting."
Damien's eyes narrowed. I did that because—
Her smile sharpened. "—because you couldn't watch that mother suffer the way you did. The way you watched your own mother die on a hospital bed years ago."
The words cut clean. Damien's chest tightened. "How… how did you know that?"
Ignara stepped down a single stair. The flames lining the risers bowed as if to her heartbeat. "I've been watching you for a long time. I've seen the thing that eats you from the inside. Since she died, you've been picking fights with the world, letting your temper be the blade. You can't forgive yourself for being powerless."
His fists clenched so hard his knuckles ached. His voice came out raw. "I couldn't do anything… I just stood there, while my mother… while she…" He shut his eyes, forcing air past the burn in his throat. "I was weak."
Ignara's aura flared—not scorching, but sheltering. "It's going to be alright."
He snapped, eyes flashing. "How?! I'm dead! She's gone! How the hell is any of this alright?!"
Ignara did not flinch. She descended another step, then another, every movement waking fire in the air. "Because this… is your second chance."
His thoughts crashed, fractured. A second life? Power? What does that mean? Why me? Why now?!
"Because," she said, close enough that her heat pressed against his skin like sunlight made solid, "I won't let you suffer powerlessly again. In the next world, you will have strength—enough to change fates… enough to stop others from dying the way she did. No more helplessness. Only fire."
He stared at her. She's serious. She's really giving me a new life. And power…?
Ignara closed the remaining distance—and now she was right there. The goddess of fire, towering slightly over him, the air shimmering from the heat radiating off her. Damien's breath caught for a different reason entirely.
Okay… wow. She's gorgeous. Like, burn-down-cities gorgeous. That face, those eyes… and—holy hell—her chest is… huge. How is that even fair? He swallowed, trying not to stare. She's carved like a goddess… which makes sense, because she is one, but still—focus, Damien. Focus.
She moved with the grace of an erupting volcano in slow motion, every step both elegant and dangerous. Her crimson silk battle robes swayed, and for a fleeting moment Damien was caught between awe, intimidation, and something warmer that he quickly tried to shove aside.
She's close. Too close. Is she going to—
She raised both hands and cupped his face.
His breath hitched again. Her hands… they're hot, but not burning. It's like… warmth I forgot I needed.
Their eyes locked. Hers held galaxies of flame. His trembled between pain and a thin, stubborn thread of hope.
"Damien Cross," Ignara murmured, voice low and warm, "I now send you to a new world. And with you, I give not fire… but the origin of it."
His eyes widened. "Origin…? Wait—what does that mean—?"
"It means you will be reborn," she said, smiling. "In a world not like this one—filled with monsters, magic, swords, and sorcery. A world that needs a spark."
Reborn…? Another world… a second life? Me—starting over? His gaze dropped, flickering with emotion. "To live again… without regrets? Without failure? Without that helplessness…?" He looked back up, voice smaller than he liked. "You're saying… I get to live again? Start from zero?"
"Yes," Ignara said simply. "And this time, you'll have the power to change things. To burn through fear, through loss. To protect. And to fight."
Damien held his breath. The power of fire… but not just normal fire. Something ancient. Something divine. Is this really happening?
Ignara lifted one hand. Between her fingers, a golden ember bloomed—no bigger than a bead, yet bright as a newborn sun. It pulsed.
"One beat… two," she whispered, and the little star answered her count. "You will become an overpowered fire mage. Even at Level One, your flame will be unmatched. Your magic will not run dry. And your temper?" A glint of humor. "It will fuel your strength."
Damien's breath hitched. An… Overpowered Fire Mage? At Level One?! Infinite fire magic? And my temper actually makes me stronger?! Aloud, he muttered, half laughing, half afraid, "This… this isn't magic. This is madness."
Ignara laughed softly, a sound like coals shifting. "So, Damien… what do you think? Will you like this new life—this overwhelming firepower?"
He went very quiet. The world narrowed to the small sun in her palm and the steady, patient heat radiating from her. Words. Promise. Choices.
Slowly, he nodded. His lips parted. Determination burned where grief had lived alone. "Yes," he said, steady. "I want it. I want to live again. I want to burn brighter than ever."
Her smile widened—not triumph, but approval. "Good. Then let me show you what it means to receive not fire… but the Origin of Fire."
Ignara's hair spilled like liquid magma, and the throne room pulsed to an ancient rhythm. She held both hands forward, cupping the air. The space between her palms shook, light and shadow wrestling in violent harmony.
Then—
BOOM!
The space between her hands exploded with light, fire, and something far older. A shockwave of heat rolled across the throne room. From her palms, a sphere began to form—no larger than an apple, yet burning like a baby sun. It pulsed.
One beat… two… three.
It wasn't just fire.
It was fire before fire existed. Not flame—but the idea of flame. The origin of combustion. Of anger. Of passion. Of life itself.
It glowed gold-red, with molten veins swirling inside like the slow breath of a sleeping giant. Tiny embers orbited it like planets locked in devotion, their arcs carving trails of light in the air. Every pulse carried a deep, thrumming sound—like a cosmic heart.
Damien could feel it staring at him. Not with eyes, but with intent.
"What… what is that?!" he breathed. "It's not a spell. It's alive. That thing— it's… looking at me."
Ignara's eyes shone brighter. "The Crimson Soul Core. The divine heart of fire itself. And it belongs to you now."
She didn't ask. She simply pressed the Core into his chest.
BOOOOOM!
The moment it touched him, a shockwave erupted from his body—pure fire aura bursting outward in concentric rings. Damien's body lifted from the ground, his eyes widening in agony and awe. His veins glowed, turning molten orange-red beneath his skin. Runes spiraled across his chest, arms, and shoulders, branding him Flameborn.
His mouth opened to scream, but no sound came—only light.
The power flooded in.
His spine arched. His hair flared upward, flickering like torchlight. The divine fire surged through him like molten electricity. His heartbeat slowed—then slammed once, so loud it echoed through the flame realm. Every emotion he'd ever buried—pain, rage, guilt, love—ignited all at once.
The Core pulsed: BOOM. BOOM. A rhythm in perfect sync with his breath.
Ignara smiled gently. "Now you carry it, Damien. The Crimson Soul Core. Your fire will never run dry. And when you rage… the world will remember your name."
The last pulse of divine fire echoed across the flame-soaked horizon.
Damien floated, suspended midair, his body glowing like a rising sun. The Crimson Soul Core fused completely into his chest, leaving a faint glow beneath his sternum—like a heartbeat forged from living magma. The firestorm that had erupted from him began to die down. The sky still burned, but the worst had passed.
Then—
The flames vanished.
Instantly, Damien dropped from the air, knees hitting the obsidian floor. He knelt there, panting, heart pounding like a war drum. The air around him was silent save for the hiss of cooling stone.
His chest no longer burned—but it glowed faintly from within. Thin, golden-red lines etched like living tattoos stretched down his arms, fading from white-hot to a gentle ember-orange.
"…It's inside me," he whispered. "I can feel it—still burning."
He looked down at his hands. They weren't the same. Not completely.
His hair had darkened, now a rich jet-black, short and tousled in defiant strands—with deep red tips that smoldered faintly when his heartbeat spiked. A few uneven locks curled naturally across his forehead, lending a rebellious charm that felt… earned.
His eyes—once dull—now shone molten amber-gold, glowing faintly at the edges, like banked embers always on the verge of reignition. Sharp. Observant. And burning with something between grief and new purpose.
His skin was lightly bronzed, the tone kissed by divine fire. A subtle scorch tint graced his cheekbones and nose, like someone who'd walked too close to an inferno… and survived.
He didn't just look different.
He looked forged.
This… this is me? he thought, stunned.
He took one breath—and heat swirled from his lips like mist.
He now stood at a lean 5'10", his posture balanced, not rigid but ready. His frame was toned, agile, a spell duelist's build—made for movement and precision. Every part of him hummed with magic, with will. He rolled his shoulders. Even that simple motion felt like coiled fire about to snap loose.
His arms—he saw now—were marked with runic tattoos, glowing softly with ember-orange firelight. They pulsed with the same rhythm as his heart, tracking down from his shoulders to his forearms, arcane veins of flame.
Ignara hadn't just remade him.
She had dressed him in destiny.
From head to toe, his outfit was a masterpiece of function and flare.
The Jacket. Woven by the Goddess Herself. It hung from his shoulders with both weight and purpose. Not heavy—never heavy—but present, like it belonged to him, like it had always waited for this moment. The outer layer was deep obsidian black, textured like liquid metal forged from the heart of a volcano. The longer he stared, the more he saw it shimmer faintly with movement—a flowing pulse just beneath the fabric, as if the coat itself breathed flame. A rich crimson inner lining, visible only in the sweeping folds, glowed subtly like cooled magma veins, alive but restrained. The jacket's hem and shoulders were laced in flame embroidery so finely threaded, the golden-orange arcs shifted and flickered like actual fire caught in a windless dance. At his back, just between the shoulder blades, the sigil of Ignara had been stitched in ember-thread—a radiant, spiraling flame crown wrapped around a blazing sunburst. Her divine seal. Her mark. The collar was high-cut, regal, with silver clasps at his throat and cuffs—each one engraved with celestial glyphs in a language he didn't understand, but somehow felt in his blood. Function met beauty, and the result was armor that could walk a battlefield or a throne room without shame.
Underlayers. Beneath the coat, his chest was hugged by a tight-fit sleeveless black undershirt, runed at the seams. The fabric wasn't just fire-resistant—it drank heat, redirecting it like a conduit. Running from both shoulders and spiraling down to his wrists were arcane fire sigils, glowing in perfect unison with the steady thump of his heart. They pulsed with the same rhythm—flame-veins, alive, fierce, and sacred. The first time he noticed them shift? Was when he clenched his fists.
The Pants. Matte-black combat weave, light and quiet, but sturdy. Twin crimson stripes ran down the sides—each one threaded with arcane piping, both stylish and functional. They were stitched to allow complete flexibility—he could sprint, flip, or strike without restriction. Utility straps lined his thighs, each one clipped with compact spell-scroll holsters and quick-access pockets. Fireproof. Enchanted.
The Boots. Sleek and reinforced, tucked just beneath—black leather hybridized with fire-resistant hide, reinforced by mana-reactive soles that hummed faintly with every step. They responded to his movements like they knew his intent.
The Gloves. Fingerless, tight, and crafted from black leather—etched with ruby-colored crystal nodes on each knuckle. When he flexed his hands, the gems flickered. When he tightened his fists, they sparked. Not a decoration. A threat. A weapon.
Accessories. Strapped to his waist was a slim red belt, enchanted and threaded with sealed flame tags, ready for on-the-fly casting or last-resort surges. Attached to his hip was a small, flameproof leather satchel—an unassuming pouch that held spell vials, rations, and a single worn photo. The photo of his mother. Faded around the edges. Smudged with ash. Still precious.
Ignara hadn't just remade him. She had dressed him in destiny.
From head to toe, his outfit was a masterpiece of function and flare—combat-ready, divine-coded, and aesthetically flawless. A fire mage's crown, carved into cloth.
He touched the edge of his jacket sleeve. It was warm—not burning, but pulsing. Like it recognized him. Like it was welcoming him home.
Ignara did not speak at first. She watched.
Her smile was the calm center of a wildfire, soft at the edges and blazing at the core. The aftershocks of Damien's awakening rolled through her domain in velvet waves: lavafalls steadied, star-embers slowed their spin, and the air itself seemed to inhale and hold. She felt every ripple of the Crimson Soul Core as it folded into him—the way his pulse learned its rhythm, the way his grief found shape instead of sharpness, the way rage ceased to be a storm and became a furnace.
He's beautiful when he burns, she thought, and the thought pleased her.
Damien pushed himself up from the obsidian floor, breath still ragged, eyes still star-bright. He looked down at his hands as if they were new instruments, then up—testing the weight of himself in this reforged body. Heat shimmered around him like a cloak he could shrug on at will.
Ignara stepped closer, the throne fire bending toward her ankles like tame serpents. "How do you feel, my little flame?"
Damien took a second before answering. He flexed his fingers; ember lines curled along his forearms in answer. "Like I've been asleep my whole life and someone just opened a window." He exhaled, a ribbon of warmth leaving his lips. "It's… loud in here." He tapped his chest lightly. "But it's a good kind of loud. Focused."
He lifted his right hand and, on instinct, clicked his fingers.
A spark leapt.
It hung there between thumb and forefinger—hesitant, curious—then bloomed into a coin-sized flame that hovered over his palm, purring like a cat that had discovered sunlight. Damien's eyebrows arched. "Okay. That's… that's actually kind of adorable."
He rolled his wrist. The flame rolled with it, stretching into a ribbon, then snapping back into a sphere. He clicked again. A second spark. Then a third. They orbited each other like playful comets.
Ignara laughed—rich, delighted, a sound like bells forged from bronze and dawn. "Look at you," she said, openly proud. "Already coaxing the origin to dance."
Damien grinned despite himself. "Coaxing? I'm pretty sure it's flirting." He guided one flame into the air and traced a lazy figure eight. The ember-tattoos on his arms pulsed in time. "Okay, let's try something bigger."
He brought both hands together as if cradling a bowl. Fire gathered between his palms—not a bonfire, not a torch, but a sculptor's clay made of heat. He breathed in, and the flames inhaled; he breathed out, and they exhaled. The mass stretched taller, thinner, then split like a cell dividing.
Two fiery koi formed—sleek, bright, their scales a lattice of runes. They circled his wrists, dove through each other, and burst into sparks that rained down, harmless and warm, onto the stone.
Ignara's eyes softened. "I wondered what your first shape would be."
"First shape?" Damien looked up.
"The origin listens to the heart before it listens to the mind," she said. "It remembers what the bearer longs for—even if he does not say it."
Damien watched a stray spark settle into his palm and wink out. "I don't remember ever wanting koi."
"No," Ignara agreed, amused. "But I remember a boy who wanted stillness. Water that moved without breaking. Peace that did not mean silence."
He went quiet at that, the grin fading to something gentler. "Huh." He clicked his fingers again—more tentative this time. A slim thread of fire unspooled like silk and wrapped his index finger, a ring that pulsed with his heartbeat. "It really won't run out?"
"Your well is deep as long as your will is steady," Ignara said. "And you, Damien Cross, have never lacked will."
He smirked, some of the chaos returning to his eyes. "Ask my teachers." He flicked his hand; the ring of fire spiraled off, became a tiny phoenix, then landed on his shoulder and tucked itself into a warm scarf of embers. "Okay, that's ridiculous. I love it."
Ignara's joy was bright and unguarded. "Good. Be ridiculous. Be alive." She stepped around him as if studying a newly forged blade, affectionate and exacting all at once. "How does it feel?"
Damien tested a punch in the empty air. The breath of the strike left a faint heat-shock that ruffled the edges of her robes. "Like my body's an instrument and someone finally tuned it." He rolled his shoulders; the runes along his arms brightened and dimmed with the motion. "Like I could run for days. Like I could fight a thunderstorm just to see which of us burns out first." He paused, honest. "Like I'm not afraid of myself anymore."
Ignara's smile deepened at that last line. "That is the one answer I hoped to hear."
He glanced at her—then away—then back again, every flick like a moth testing a lamp. "Thank you," he said, and the words landed heavier than they sounded. "For… this. For making it mean something."
She inclined her head, regal and warm. "You made it mean something when you stepped into the street."
He let the silence sit with them for a breath. Then he clapped once. "Alright. Before I turn into a sentimental campfire story—what's next?"
Ignara's eyes brightened, starlight stirred in magma. "Next is a world that needs a spark," she said. "Monsters. Magic. Cities that think themselves unburnable. People who will try to own you, fear you, worship you, or break you. Choose what you will be to them."
Damien arched a brow. "And you? Where will you be?"
"Everywhere there is flame," she said simply. "And in the quiet between your heartbeats." She lifted a hand, palm up. "Are you ready for the new world?"
He looked down at himself—the coat that breathed like a living promise, the ember lines that pulsed to his pulse, the small photograph tucked in his satchel like a compass. He drew a steadying breath; it came out warm. "Yeah," he said. Then firmer: "Yes."
Ignara's smile turned playful, then proud. "Good. I will see you around, my little flame."
He saluted with two fingers, grinning crooked. "See you around, Goddess."
Her aura gathered like a sunrise in her palm. A rune-star unfurled beneath Damien's boots, a magic circle inked in molten geometry. Sigils spun like gears; lines braided; light climbed his legs in rings.
"Make the world yours," Ignara whispered as the circle climbed to his chest. "And show them how bright you are, my little flame."
Light swallowed him whole.
The throne room exhaled.
—
The light became leaves.
Damien stood in the center of a clearing as the magic circle faded from gold to memory. The air was green and wet with life; sunlight filtered through a cathedral of branches, painted in emerald and honey. Birds called. Something big moved far off and decided—wisely—not to come closer.
Damien turned in a slow circle, drinking the place in. Moss cushioned the obsidian-dark boots. A small creek combed its fingers through polished stones nearby, chatting to itself in fluent water. The world smelled like rain that hadn't fallen yet.
He laughed—a short, stunned sound that curled into something freer. "Okay," he said to the trees, to the creek, to the warm pulse under his sternum. "Let's begin my new adventure."
He lifted his hand and snapped.
A thread of fire appeared, no louder than a whisper. It coiled into a compass arrow and pointed—north, or whatever this world called north. Damien cocked his head. "You sure?"
The arrow wobbled, then insisted.
"Alright then. Lead on." He started walking, the forest parting for him like a polite audience. Ferns brushed his coat; the coat brushed back, shedding a quiet heat that kept the shadows friendly.
"Ground rules," he said to himself—and to the unseen flame that now lived inside his ribs. "One: we help the kids, the broken, and the brave. Two: we eat well. Three: if anyone tries to take what's mine—" His grin sharpened. "—we teach them the difference between a candle and a sun."
A wind moved through the canopy, and he could have sworn it sounded like approval.
He paused at the creek, crouched, and cupped water in his hands. It was cold enough to sting his warmed skin. He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and studied the ripples. For a heartbeat, his reflection was someone he recognized and someone he didn't.
"Hi, Mom," he said softly to the water. "I'm going to do better this time."
The ripples carried the promise away, as if delivering it to a place that could hear.
He stood and clicked his fingers again. Fire gathered—a ribbon this time—twisting into a whip that he cracked lightly against an old tree stump. The whip dissolved into sparks that settled on the moss like a constellation deciding where to be born.
"Not bad for Level One," he mused, amused at the phrase.
From the shadows to his right, a distant roar rolled, followed by the rhythmic thump of something heavy moving through underbrush. Birds scattered. The forest held its breath.
Damien smiled without teeth. "And there's the welcome party." He flexed his fingers; the ruby nodes in his gloves flickered to life, and heat responded like a loyal hound. "Lesson one, new world—let's see what you've got."
He stepped off the creek stones and into the dappled light, embers idling around his shoulders like lazy fireflies.
Above, the last ghost of the magic circle dissolved into the blue.
To be continued…