Chapter 160: The Scapegoat Who Wasn't Asleep
Ignivar had been in the Hellfire Territory when the letter arrived.
The skies above the territory burned in their usual shades of molten gold and ember-red, clouds drifting lazily like smoldering ash. Rivers of lava carved glowing veins through the blackened land, illuminating towering obsidian structures that rose like jagged crowns from the ground. It was loud there—alive, always crackling, always breathing fire—and yet Ignivar found a strange peace in it.
He had been seated on the edge of a basalt terrace, one leg crossed over the other, his coat discarded nearby, sleeves rolled up as he listened to the small voice beside him.
"No, no," his son said seriously, pointing at a flame sprite—they were known as fireflies—it was hovering too close to the railing. "That one bites."
Ignivar huffed a quiet laugh. "It nips," he corrected, reaching out to flick the sprite away with a lazy snap of fire. "And only if provoked."
