The highlands did not forgive the living.
For three days, Elaric walked.
Sheep paths twisted beneath his feet, vanishing into peat bogs and reappearing along jagged tors that cut the mist like broken teeth. The fog clung to him—cold, wet, intimate—carrying with it the scent of smoke that refused to leave his lungs.
Every gust of wind whispered the same accusation:
You should have burned with them.
He was twelve. Slight. Wrapped in patched wool meant for a highland boy who should have died in a village called Emberfall. The boots on his feet were his father's—too large, stuffed with moss to keep them from slipping free.
Hunger gnawed constantly.
He did not stop to forage.
Stopping meant thinking.
Thinking meant remembering.
On the fourth night, he risked fire.
He chose his place carefully—a hollow beneath a granite overhang, screened by gorse and heather. The stone above blocked the wind. The brush swallowed light. With numb fingers, he gathered dead twigs, dry enough to burn quietly.
He cupped them in his palms.
Spark Ignition.
Fff—
A tiny tongue of crimson flame bloomed between his hands. No larger than a candle's wick. It gave off almost no smoke—and no heat beyond a handspan. It felt… obedient.
He fed it slivers of wood.
The fire grew small but steady.
For the first time since Emberfall, warmth touched his skin.
Elaric stared into the flames.
And the flames stared back.
Ashen Whispers stirred without invitation.
"…the sheep got out again, boy—fetch them before your da sees…"
"…praise the Goddess, another winter survived…"
"…that old stone in the square—gran said it drank blood once…"
His breath hitched.
He tore his hands away.
Pop.
The fire guttered, then steadied. The whispers faded, leaving only the soft crackle of resin.
Preserve dying embers.
The pathway's requirement echoed in his mind.
Not a command.
A plea.
Sleep came in broken fragments. Empty eye sockets glowed behind his dreams. When he woke before dawn, frost biting his fingers, the fire had burned low.
One last twig smoldered.
A dull red point.
Without thinking, Elaric cupped it in his bare palm.
The heat should have blistered skin.
It didn't.
It tingled.
He blew gently.
Ffff—
The ember brightened. The flame returned—small, alive.
Something inside his chest shifted.
The hollow ache eased, just a little.
Replenished, he realized.
By keeping it alive.
He scattered the fire until nothing remained but blackened soil—and moved on.
By the seventh day, the land sloped downward.
Mist thinned. Hills rolled gently into the distance. Stone walls appeared. And far off—
Church spires.
Civilization.
Which meant people.
Which meant danger.
He needed a plan.
The note had named Trier—capital of Intis. Heart of the new republic. Thousands of kilometers away. A child could not simply walk there.
Money.
Food.
Papers.
Information.
He needed all of them.
Dunhill lay ahead—a market town where highland wool met lowland grain. He had been there twice with his father. He knew its streets. Its habits.
He also knew the Church of the Lord of Storms kept watch here.
Blue-coated deacons. Sharp eyes. Sharper instincts.
Elaric approached at dusk, slipping in with a shift change at the gates. Hood low. Hands hidden in sleeves to conceal the faint calluses left by unnatural fire.
The guards barely glanced at him.
Runaways were common these days.
Inside the walls, the smells struck him like a blow—baking bread, horse dung, coal smoke from new steam works. Gas lamps flared to life along the main street, their yellow flames steady and mundane.
Nothing like the crimson ember in his chest.
His feet carried him toward the market square.
Habit.
Stalls were closing. A baker tipped day-old loaves into a basket marked Half Penny.
His stomach twisted.
He had no money.
For the first time, theft crossed his mind.
A snatch. An alley. Gone.
No.
Too risky.
And worse—
Wrong.
Instead, he drifted toward a fortune-teller's booth.
The woman was old, wrapped in faded shawls. A cheap crystal ball sat on the table. The sign read:
Madam Elira — Sees All Futures for a Copper
Servants and factory hands laughed as she promised handsome lovers and sudden fortunes.
Elaric watched her hands.
Tricks.
Cold reading.
Falsehood.
But he—
He had something real.
When the crowd thinned, he stepped forward.
"Madam," he said softly, drawing back his hood just enough. Dirt-streaked face. Eyes too old. "I have no coin. But I can pay in truth."
Her painted brows rose. "Truth is a rare currency, boy. Most folk prefer lies."
"Let me read for you," he said. "One reading. For a meal and a place to sleep."
She studied him, then shrugged. "Sit. Impress me."
Elaric rested his fingers on the crystal ball.
He didn't need it.
Fate Glimpse.
The vision came in fragments—
A grand house. Dancing. Jewels.
A man in uniform, kissing her goodbye.
A letter edged in black.
A child lost to fever.
Empty bottles.
The road.
And beneath it all—
A flickering hope.
A letter not yet arrived.
Sealed with the crest of the Intis Republic's pension office.
The ache in his chest sharpened.
Elaric opened his eyes.
"You wait for news of your son," he said quietly. "The one who marched south with the Seventeenth. You think him dead. He is not. Wounded. Missing a leg. Alive—in Cordu. The letter comes within the month."
Madam Elira went pale.
Her hand clamped around his wrist.
"You are no charlatan," she whispered. "What are you?"
"Someone who needs help," Elaric replied. "And who can help in return."
That night, he slept in her attic.
Stew. Bread. Warmth.
She asked no questions.
Among old costumes and yellowed playbills, Elaric practiced.
Sparks danced along his fingertips.
The house whispered—of lovers' quarrels, a suicide long past, a stash of coins beneath a loose floorboard.
Once—
Once—
He tried to glimpse his own fate.
Pain.
A city of revolution.
A table ringed with tarot cards.
A veiled woman in black.
And something vast behind a curtain.
Watching.
The ember dimmed sharply.
Elaric curled inward, gasping.
Too soon.
Three weeks passed.
He learned restraint.
Which embers to save.
Which flames to let die.
And when he finally boarded the steam train south, a tarot deck rested warm in his pocket.
The Fool was blank.
As it should be.
The whistle screamed.
WOOOO—!
The train plunged into the tunnel.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Then—
A tiny crimson spark flared in Elaric's palm.
He smiled faintly.
He was coming.
The ember burned on.