Chapter 19 – Whisper of the Sick Flame
The morning sun had just begun to warm the mist over the back mountains when Zac struck the ground for the hundredth time.
Whump!
Dust rippled from his fists as he exhaled sharply, sweat glistening down his arms. The air hummed faintly each time he moved — the echo of the Stone Serpent Flow now responding naturally to his rhythm.
He no longer needed to think about each motion; his body remembered. Every breath drew in the world, every strike released it.
But his hands were a mess. The skin had split along the knuckles, blood crusted over like dark paint.
He flexed his fingers with a small hiss. "Still too stiff… need to loosen the wrists more next time."
A familiar voice drifted up the slope. "Zac!"
He turned. Lyra was climbing toward him, her hair tied back with a reed cord, a basket of herbs slung over her shoulder. Her brow furrowed the moment she saw his hands.
"Zac Terran! What did you do this time?" she scolded, grabbing his wrist before he could hide it. "These aren't small scratches! You've split the skin clear through!"
Zac laughed awkwardly. "It's nothing, Sister Lyra. Just… training."
"Training?" she repeated, eyes narrowing. "You can barely grip a spoon, and you call that nothing? Where did you even learn to move like that?"
He hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Honestly? I've been watching the warriors when they practice in the training grounds."
Her eyes widened. "Zac!" She lowered her voice, glancing around as if the trees themselves might be listening. "Secretly learning the tribe's martial arts is a crime. If they find out, they could cut off your hands—or worse."
"I know," he said quietly. "But I can't stop. I have to get stronger."
Lyra's voice softened. "You're still a child. Martial arts aren't easy. Even most grown men fail to master a single stance. You'll only hurt yourself."
Zac smiled faintly. "Then I'll hurt myself until I learn. You've done enough for me, Sister. You've carried me, fed me, fought for me. It's my turn to do the same."
Her breath caught. "Zac…"
He met her eyes, voice steady. "I swear I'll be careful. I'll never make you worry if I can help it. But I promise — one day, I'll give you a better life."
Lyra's expression wavered between exasperation and pride. She sighed, setting the basket down. "You're impossible."
"Maybe," he said, grinning. "But I'm your impossible little brother."
She tried to glare, but her lips curved into a smile despite herself. "Just promise me you'll clean those hands before they rot."
"Yes, ma'am."
The refinement of the Desolate Core had begun ten days ago.
The fires in the Patriarch's courtyard never went out; the cauldron blazed day and night. Thick smoke coiled upward like black vines, spreading an acrid smell across the entire tribe.
Every day, men and women took turns feeding fuel and grinding the shattered remnants of ore around the fire pits.
But lately, something strange had begun to spread among them.
It started quietly — a few coughs, fevers, and chills.
Then came weakness, rashes, and trembling hands.
By the tenth day, half the workers at the forge had fallen sick.
Their eyes grew hollow, their skin gray. Some muttered nonsense in their sleep, others wept or laughed without reason.
The Patriarch called it an ordinary sickness.
But Zac, who had watched from afar, wasn't convinced.
He crouched on a ridge overlooking the forge that night, frowning as the glow of the cauldron flickered through the mist.
"They're refining Desolate energy too close to their bodies," he murmured. "The essence must be leaking… poisoning them."
Even from this distance, he could feel the faint pressure in the air — a cold heaviness that clung to his skin. It reminded him of the same chill he'd sensed the night the cores were first dropped into the fire.
Desolate energy wasn't meant for ordinary people. It was pure, wild, and untamed — the residue of beasts that had devoured mountains and swallowed storms. To touch it without control was to invite corruption.
On the twelfth day, word spread that the Patriarch himself had distributed medicine to the sick.
Small, round pills the color of rust.
"Typhoid, they said," one miner whispered. "But after taking the Patriarch's pill, my fever vanished within an hour."
"Mine too," said another. "It's a miracle!"
Zac overheard them as he carried tools back to their hut. The villagers' faces glowed with hope for the first time in days.
But something in their eyes made his stomach twist — an odd brightness, feverish and restless.
That night, he asked Lyra quietly, "Sister, did you see the Patriarch's pills?"
She nodded. "Yes. They say he saved many lives."
Zac's gaze darkened. "No medicine works that fast. Not for something like this."
"You think they're dangerous?"
"I don't know," he admitted, "but anything that powerful must come with a price."
He remembered how his own amethyst drank energy — how the strength it gave him was never without cost.
"The pills might just be stimulating them," he said slowly. "Forcing their bodies to burn hotter, pushing the sickness down instead of out. It'll help for now, but later…"
Lyra bit her lip. "Later?"
He looked toward the direction of the forge, where the sky still flickered faintly blue-white from the cauldron's light.
"Later, the price will come due."
That night, the fires of the Desolate Core burned higher than ever. The air stank of metal and medicine.