The day broke hot and restless. Clouds pressed low across the sky, thick as wool, sealing in the air until even the flies moved sluggishly, wings dragging as if burdened. Heat pressed down on the village square like an unseen hand.
Leo moved through it with a bundle of kindling balanced against his shoulder, sweat tracing down his spine. His head remained bowed, eyes fixed on the packed dirt beneath his feet. If he kept quiet, if he blended into the rhythm of ordinary work, maybe the shard's restless pulse would fade into the background.
Children played at the well, tossing stones that plunked into the water, sending echoes down into its unseen depths. One stone struck too close to a sleeping dog, and it barked sharply, then yelped as another pebble ricocheted. Their mother's voice lashed out, harsh and scolding, and the sound carved into Leo's skull like a blade.
Every noise was too sharp now, each clang from the smithy like a hammer against his temples, each shout like a strike against his ribs. His senses were stretched taut, strung on the shard's beat, which had grown uneven, no longer steady, but quickening, like a drum rolling toward battle.
"Leo!"
Mira's voice cut through the haze. She jogged toward him, breathless, her hair damp with sweat. "The ox broke its tether. Father can't calm it. Hurry!"
He followed her down a narrow lane, the stench of dung and wet hay thickening with each step. Shouts rang out ahead, loud and panicked. The pen's wooden posts shook as a massive ox strained against its fraying rope, eyes rolling white, foam flecking its muzzle.
"Stay back!" one man barked, raising a stick. He swung hard, the blow smacking across the beast's flank. The ox only bellowed louder, hooves tearing furrows into the mud, horns slashing dangerously close to the rope post.
Leo's chest constricted. His mind flashed back - last year, when another ox had broken free, goring a boy's leg so badly the screams had haunted the village for days.
The shard pulsed, hot and urgent.
You can stop this. Reach.
"No," Leo whispered, but his voice trembled.
They'll be hurt. They'll die. Do you want that?
The ox reared, rope snapping threads loose. Villagers stumbled back, shouting. Someone cried out for the children to run. Panic scattered like dry leaves in wind.
Leo's breath caught. He didn't think, he couldn't. His hand thrust forward of its own accord.
The mark flared. Serpents burned alive beneath his skin, light spilling out like molten threads unwinding through the air. A hum rose, low at first, then piercing, shaking the very posts of the pen.
The ox froze mid-lunge. Its eyes widened, body trembling as though caught in invisible chains. For a long, unbearable second it strained, then with a shudder it buckled, collapsing into the mud with a dull thud. Its flanks heaved, breath shallow, but it did not rise.
Silence crashed over the pen. The shouts died. Even the flies seemed to hesitate mid-flight.
Every gaze turned on Leo.
Mira stood frozen, lips parted, eyes wide with disbelief. The man with the stick let it slip from his fingers, crossing himself with trembling hands.
"What… what did you do?" someone breathed.
Leo stared at his own palm, horror clawing up his throat. The light faded, but the serpents still glowed faintly, their coils etched in fire beneath his flesh. Impossible to hide.
"I, I didn't…" His voice cracked, useless.
You saved them, the shard purred, warm and triumphant. They should thank you. They should kneel.
"Stay away from him!" An old woman by the gate shrieked, clutching her grandson tight against her chest. Her voice rang with terror. "That's no gift, he's cursed!"
The words spread like kindling catching flame.
"The shrine…"
"The omens…"
"It's him."
Murmurs swelled into a hum of fear, sharp as a swarm of bees ready to sting. Some stepped back, others edged forward, suspicion darkening their faces.
Leo's pulse pounded in his ears. He backed away, stumbling. "I didn't mean-"
Mira moved then, a step forward, torn between fear and something else he couldn't name. Her hand lifted halfway toward him before faltering in the air. "Leo…"
But the crowd was shifting, their fear bending toward anger. No one dared go near the fallen ox. Their eyes clung only to him, the glow in his flesh.
Panic surged. He turned and ran.
The lane blurred, huts flashing by. His lungs burned, his legs carried him up the ridge above the fields, where the air at last grew sharp with the scent of pine. He collapsed against a boulder, chest heaving, sweat streaking his face.
His hand still glowed faintly, fire smoldering beneath skin that no longer felt like his own.
Do you see? The whisper curled warmly through his mind. Power obeys you. They will learn, in time. Or they will fall away. It doesn't matter.
Leo pressed his fist to his forehead, shaking. "You're going to get me killed."
No. I am going to make you remembered.
Far below, the village bell began to toll. Slow, deliberate. Each strike heavy, echoing up the ridge like a warning.
They would not forget what they had seen.