He awoke to silence.
A low ceiling and wooden beams. On stone walls Candlelights jolted left and right. It smelled of woodsmoke and damp wool. The rain dripping at the windows.
Reese rose to his knees with a spastic gasp. His hand shot out involuntarily and his fingers opened like he was reaching out in his memory to the fire without his mind being able to keep up with him.
The Visitor sat in a chair beside his bed. On the small table, he served a wooden tray which consisted of a bowl of soup, black bread, a canteen of water. His coat was wet with rain, a thin mist rose from his gloves, as though he had a plentitude of heat to issue, against the cold.
"You lived," the Visitor said.
Reese's face twisted. His lips trembled. And then he broke.
"You knew," he rasped, his voice burned by smoke and screams. "You knew what was going to happen."
"I knew possibilities. Not certainties."
"You left me there!" Reese shoved the tray. Soup sloshed over the edge, the bowl threatening to tip. "You stood by and watched while, while they—"
"I watched," the Visitor interrupted, "as you made a choice."
"I killed them." Reese's voice cracked. His eyes brimmed red.
"No," said the Visitor, quietly. "You saved four. The others were already dead."
"Why couldn't I save them all?"
There was a pause between them. The candle flame danced erratically casting shadows across The Visitor's face.
"Because you had to look," he said at last. "Because you had to fail. There is no lesson in mercy. Not for our kind."
Reese's anger shattered. Tears fell through the cracks.
"They were my family," he whispered. "I was going to save them."
"I believe you," the Visitor said.
That made it worse.
He didn't remember sleeping again. Time became heavy, shapeless. When he next moved, the food was gone, and the tray taken. He stood in the dim room, still trembling.
"Thank you," he said at last, voice brittle. "I have to at least give them a funeral."
The Visitor stood. "No."
Reese tensed. "What?"
"You can't, no one can know what happened there." His voice was low and measured. "Even the memory of infection is contagious. For unawakened minds, knowledge alone invites fear and madness. Some go mad from a whisper, others tear at their own flesh trying to get it out.'"
Reese's eyes widened. "So you're saying—"
"I erased them," the Visitor said. "Every trace. Names, faces, records. Everything that could make someone remember that place."
Reese clenched his fists. "And what if I don't want them to be forgotten?"
The Visitor regarded him a long while.
"Then remember them yourself," he said. "But do not make the world remember what it cannot bear."
They left the inn just as the rain turned to mist.
The town was quiet but not grieving. Nothing was whispered, nothing was said about tragedy. The merchants opened the shutters, a milk cart clattering along the street, and the children were running in puddles.
Reese gazed at them, at the town folks who were passing by with casual smiles.
"Don't they know?" he whispered.
"As I said, for their own good, they doesn't know more than they should," said Caspian.
A shiver ran down Reese as they turned off the last cobbled street and wilderness area. There should have been the dirt road to Saint Elara, winding between the trees, but now there was nothing. Just open grass, dew speckled and bright.
Reese stopped, heart pounding.
"This is wrong."
Caspian didn't answer.
Reese walked on, and his feet were wet in the grass. There should have been the crackle of cinders and smell of smoke, but there was only damp soil and the smell of rains. Not even a stone of the foundation was left.
He came to the place where the gate of the chapel should have been. There should have been the bench where he sat with Mira, the well where he carried water. There was nothing. Not a bone, not a scorch mark, there is nothing left.
It was as if Saint Elara's had never existed.
Reese's knees gave out. He dug into the soil with his hands until his fingernails broke and the mud caked his palms.
"I am sorry," he said hoarsely, to no one. "Its all my fault."
Behind him, Caspian stood silent.
Finally, Reese rose, mud streaked down his face, chest heaving.
"I don't know what to do now," he said softly.
"Then follow me," the Visitor replied. "There's more to see."
Reese turned, startled. "What?"
"There's a world beyond that pit, Reese. And other beasts." The Visitor's eyes gleamed. "You can stay here and grieve. Or you can learn what you are and how to make sure this never happens again."
He walked ahead. For a moment, Reese remained behind, boots sunk in wet soil.
Then he followed.
The rain faded to mist. They moved in silence, the Visitor's coat rippling like a shadow with its own mind. Mud sucked at their boots. The air was cold and clean.
The Visitor stopped and looked back. His expression held no warmth, no sympathy, but something like respect.
"My name is Caspian Everheart," he said. "A professor at the Academy of Armathane."
Reese blinked. "An academy?"
"For people like you."
"Like me?"
"You felt it," Caspian said. "The fire in your blood. The way it listened to you, before you even knew how to speak to it."
Reese's palm burned faintly, like a quiet heartbeat.
"What am I?"
Caspian considered. Then spoke, "You are an Arcana Mage. The most special and unique magic users ever known."
Reese furrowed his brow. "What does that mean?"
"It means your fire isn't just normal. It's a projection of self. Most mages pull from ley lines, spirits, elements. But the Arcana? Your magic comes from within. Its the very core of what makes you."
"And that's... special?"
Caspian's lips curled, not quite into a smile. "Special or cursed. Depends who you ask."
He turned, walking again. Reese followed, boots splashing through shallow puddles.
"The Arcana," Caspian said, "are the only mages the Draughnir truly hate. Because you're the only ones who can't be corrupted."
"Draughnir." The name tasted bitter. "The things from the orphanage?"
"The ones you saw were grubs. The real Draughnir are worse."
Reese's stomach twisted. "What are they?"
"Things from the end of things. Amalgams of every corruption. They wear black fluid that transforms whatever it touches. It spreads by contact, by fog sometimes by memory."
Reese remembered the orphanage. The fog creeping in like breath. Living. Watching.
"It drives people mad," Caspian continued. "Even survivors claw out their own eyes before they die."
His gloved fist tightened.
"And each Draughnir is immune to something. One cannot be harmed by any man who's known love. Another cannot be killed by flame unless cast by a child. One in the north cannot be slain by a blade wielded by human hand."
Reese stared at him. "That's... impossible."
"No," Caspian said. "It's Draughnir."
A cold tremor crawled up Reese's spine. "So how do you kill them?"
"First you identify their invulnelerability and after that you destroy them completely. All at once. Leave a single cell, and they return. Cnsuming stone, metal, even air to rebuild themselves."
"But I hurt them," Reese said. "My fire—"
"Burned them away," Caspian confirmed. "Your kind doesn't just fight corruption. You cleanse it."
The weight of that truth settled like ash.
He thought of his hands, blackened by flame only for the flesh to return, whole and unmarred. The fire had eaten everything unclean. Everything else had stayed.
He opened his mouth, but said nothing.
The forest loomed ahead. Dense and dark. Behind them, only the void.
He curled his fingers, feeling the ember's glow in his palm.
"This academy," he said. "Will they teach me to control it?"
"If you survive the training," Caspian replied.
"I've already survived worse."
For a flicker of a moment, something like approval crossed Caspian's face. Then he turned.
"Come on, Mage. The world's not waiting for your grief."
He vanished into the trees. Reese hesitated only a breath, then followed.