Garrik had always trusted his instincts. They were forged not in comfort, but in fire and steel, in the roar of battles long past and the silence that always followed them. So when he knelt beside the charred corpse of the boar the children had slain, and felt the faintest trace of heat still lingering in the air—not from flame, but from something older, something forgotten—his gut tightened.
He stood slowly, fingers brushing the blackened fur.
"This wasn't normal," he muttered.
He told no one of his suspicions. Only that he needed to check the northern glade for signs of migration—a lie that raised no eyebrows. The villagers knew Garrik as a protector, always watching, always doing what needed to be done.
But as he stepped into the forest, his eyes sharpened, and his mind drifted to places he had long buried.
---
Back in Mirevale, the afternoon sun cast golden beams over the rooftops, where laughter and the clatter of tools filled the air. The village had settled back into its usual rhythm. Draven and his friends were clearing festival debris, tossing scraps into barrels, and exchanging quiet jokes.
"I thought that boar had you for sure when it slammed you into that tree," Jareth said, eyes still wide from the memory.
Draven rubbed his ribs, wincing slightly. "Yeah, it hit harder than anything I've faced before. Felt like getting kicked by Garrik."
"You've been kicked by Garrik?" Mara snorted.
"Once. By accident. Still counts."
Jareth grinned. "Still, don't forget you almost got flatlined by a boar. We were lucky to get out of that one."
"Especially when you broke your sword mid-swing," Mara added, bumping Jareth with her elbow.
"Blame Garrik," Jareth groaned. "He said it was 'training-grade steel.'"
Mara glanced at Draven. "Maybe next time you should use a sword."
Draven smirked. "Like I always say—the forge didn't just make steel, it made me."
Jareth laughed. "Arrogant fool."
"You're just jealous I don't need a blade to beat you."
"You sure about that?"
"I trust my body more than any weapon."
Mara rolled her eyes but smiled. "Yeah, well, it worked today. Barely."
They laughed together, the tension of the morning still lingering but dulled by the warmth of friendship and the fading sunlight.
---
Then the wind shifted.
A heavy stillness fell. Birds that had chirped cheerfully went silent. A child's giggle faded into hush. Draven looked up, eyes narrowing.
And then he felt it.
A pressure, low and thrumming, like a storm building under the skin.
Shouts broke out from the far side of the village.
Then screams.
The three teens dropped everything and ran.
---
Smoke curled above the rooftops. A small fire crackled near the merchant's hut, but no one dared approach it. Villagers huddled, pale and wide-eyed, backing away from the center path.
A man in black stood at the heart of it.
Cloaked. Hood drawn. Face hidden.
He wasn't moving. He didn't need to. Just standing there, the air around him seemed to ripple like heat over stone. Beside him, a guard lay crumpled, unmoving, his mouth frozen in a silent scream.
"Who is he?" Mara whispered.
Jareth gripped the hilt of his sword. "Doesn't matter. He's scaring people."
The man spoke.
"I seek the ember. The one whose blood burns. Come forward."
No one moved.
Draven felt his heart pounding in his chest. His hands ached, and he didn't know why. Heat crawled beneath his skin, slow at first—then faster. Something inside him twisted, coiling like a sleeping beast being stirred.
The man turned, slowly, scanning the crowd.
His gaze settled on Draven.
A voice, low and layered with something ancient:
"There you are."
---
Jareth stepped forward first. "You don't belong here."
The man tilted his head.
"Neither does he." His voice carried a rasp beneath the calm — something like a blade dragged along stone.
"You smell of old fire, boy. Forgotten fire. And yet…"
He stepped forward, slowly, like a predator tasting blood. "…still so unformed. Like a fruit plucked too early. I wonder what your scream will sound like when I tear the truth out of you."
"Back off," Mara growled, stepping into position beside Draven.
The man chuckled. Low. Unsettling.
"Do you think this is courage?" he asked softly. "Children standing in front of a storm?"
He raised a hand. "Then be swept away."
They attacked together.
Jareth lunged. Mara flanked.
The man moved like drifting smoke. One hand flicked, and a shadowy chain erupted from the ground, catching Jareth mid-strike and hurling him backward.
Mara leapt, blades flashing. She slashed his cloak, but found nothing beneath—only air and cold.
Draven roared and charged.
As he neared the cloaked man, his vision blurred, and suddenly pain tore through his chest. He stumbled mid-sprint, clutching his side.
"What... what is this?" he gasped.
His mark—dormant all his life—burned. Not with heat, but with pressure. With awakening. Something was being pulled out of him, drawn by the nearness of power.
A scream ripped from his throat as his body convulsed. And then—
Flames.
They burst from his arms in ragged arcs, wild and untamed. Darkish red, pulsing, hungry. His hair, once dark brown, now shifted subtly, deepening into pure black. The crowd cried out in shock.
The man caught Draven's arm mid-swing. His grin widened.
Then he laughed — not with amusement, but with ecstasy.
"So it lives!"
He leaned closer, his breath foul with glee.
"The blood of the old ones… I thought it was gone. But you… you are the ember. The last spark. My gods, I could drink you dry."
Draven's body shook. The flames scorched around him, lashing out at friend and foe alike.
The cloaked man threw him to the ground.
"Still an infant."
Chains shot out, binding them all.
He raised a hand to strike the final blow—
"That's enough."
A blur slammed into the cloaked man, sending him skidding backward.
Garrik stood, axe in hand, eyes burning.