A wall of brilliant blue flames raged before Talon, who stepped into it without hesitation. The world collapsed into a single, blinding hue of blue—not the warm, familiar glow of a hearth, but a heat so annihilating it shimmered in the air. Each breath felt like a miniature blade slicing through him before the fire even touched his skin. The first point of contact wasn't searing but a sensation beyond pain, a shock so total it fractured his mind. He had expected a burn, a familiar agony to brace against. Instead, the flames— the color of a winter sky—didn't just scorch his skin; they erased it. The fire devoured, leaving no charred flesh or angry blisters, only the sickly-sweet smell of vaporized tissue.
He screamed, but no sound escaped; the superheated air had stripped his throat bare. The flames danced over his arms and chest, moving faster than his mind could register pain. In a detached, nightmarish haze, he watched his muscles seize, his joints lock, and his body twist into a grotesque, defensive crouch. Then, for an unknown stretch of time, he felt nothing at all. Sensation returned slowly: first, the acrid smell of his own burning flesh, then the taste of ash on his tongue, followed by the sound of bones cracking and mending. Pain surged back, overwhelming his vision as he squeezed his eyes shut and screamed, "MAAAHM!"
Talon jolted awake, his breath shallow, his face slick with sweat, and his eyes brimming with tears.
Knock.
"You alright, boy?" Johnson's voice came from outside.
"I'm fine!" Talon replied, his voice unsteady.
"You didn't sound fine," Johnson said, concern lacing his tone.
To Johnson's annoyance, Talon didn't respond. Shrugging, Johnson headed downstairs. The inn had two floors: the upper for lodging, the ground floor for food and drink. Johnson sat at a table, ordering bread, porridge, and ale.
Talon descended before Johnson finished his breakfast. "Johnson, I want to talk about something," he said with an unsettling calmness.
"Did you grow overnight?" Johnson eyed Talon, who seemed slightly taller.
"Did I? No—that's not important. Tell me everything you know about the blue flames." Talon's voice rose, betraying his urgency.
"Not here, you damn idiot!" Johnson hissed, his words tinged with anger and something akin to fear.
An adult's anger would have scared Talon in the past, but now he felt no danger. "Then we'll talk on our way," he said, standing and motioning for Johnson to follow.
"You're not hungry? I am!" Johnson grumbled, finishing his meal before rising. Unlike Johnson, Talon felt no hunger, though he couldn't explain why.
The bald man and the boy set out on their horse. "Now tell me," Talon demanded, gripping Johnson from behind as they rode.
"The blue flames… I only know one man with that trait—or blessing, whatever you call it." Johnson's voice trembled slightly. When Talon stayed silent, he continued, "The lord of Valentine County, Ignis Valentine."
"Ignis Valentine," Talon repeated, etching the name into his mind.
"What really happened to you?" Johnson asked, his turn to probe.
"The blue flames burned my village and my family," Talon said, confirming Johnson's suspicions.
"But how did you survive?" Johnson asked, dreading the answer.
"My body grew back," Talon said simply, his words chilling Johnson to the core.
"Then you might become a saint one day," Johnson said, managing a smile.
"A saint? How?" Talon's curiosity piqued, softening his demeanor.
"What are you looking at?" Talon snapped, annoyed by Johnson's grin.
"Nothing!" Johnson replied, still smiling as they rode along the muddy road paralleling the Long River.
Elsewhere along the Long Road, a group of bandits lay in wait.
"Did you hear the news? Someone burned all the villagers on the west side," a bandit with a red headband said.
"And why should we care?" another asked, his scarred face making him look terrifying.
"I-I-I meant to say…" The red-headed bandit took a deep breath, speaking quickly. "Since the villagers are gone, fewer merchants will travel this road. Those who do will be rich merchants heading to Laketown, and they're harder to attack."
The scarred bandit nodded, then punched the red-headed one. "You're smart but naive! A new saint is about to be chosen. Villages are burning, an entire city in the north vanished overnight, and even the air feels rotten. Change is coming. When change comes, people move—good, bad, rich, poor, it doesn't matter. The ones who survive prepare in advance."
The bandit with red headband nodded, though he understood little.
In the capital of Ashborn County, Loren City, a priest named Cyrus arrived after riding nonstop for a day. He approached a majestic church adorned with a rising sun on its golden doors. A lower-ranking priest opened the door, saying, "May the glorious sun dispels the darkness of the night"
"Let there be a day after every night!" Cyrus replied, stepping inside.
He walked through a hall shaded in red and gold, where five other priests knelt before a golden crystal orb on a pedestal. Cyrus joined them, speaking with utmost respect. "Esteemed Pontifex, I, Cyrus Grey, bearer of the title Thronebearer, report that I have confirmed the existence of a living descendant of the fallen House of Heartwood. I have also uncovered evidence suggesting the imperial throne's involvement in the disappearance of the Heartwood lineage."
A voice, angelic yet trembling with power, emanated from the glowing orb, making the souls of all who heard it quake. "A river may be long, full of twists and turns, but in time, all rivers flow into the sea."