The wind smelled different now.
It wasn't the scent of smoke or ash—not like the ruined cities or haunted glades they had passed
through. This was something more subtle. Like metal left in the rain. Like the moment before a
lightning strike. The air tingled across Torian's skin as he and Skarn made their way down the slope
beneath the trial stones, the thorn-ringed spiral still warm and etched into the palm of his hand.Nothing about the forest below looked dangerous. The trees swayed gently. Sunlight filtered
through the canopy in soft ribbons. Birds flitted between branches, chirping in fragmented
melodies.
But none of it felt right.
Skarn moved ahead with low, cautious steps, his massive paws silent against the forest floor. He
stopped often to sniff at the bark of trees or paw at the dirt, ears swiveling. He didn't growl—not
yet. But Torian could see it in his eyes.
The world was watching them.
And something had changed.
It started subtly. A squirrel froze on a branch as they passed, its eyes locked on Torian—not with
fear, but with absolute stillness, as if it were carved from wood. A flock of birds took off in unison,
not startled, but in a spiral pattern that mimicked the mark on Torian's palm.
They came upon a stream where the water flowed uphill.
Only for a moment.
Then it resumed its natural course, as if correcting itself in shame.
The spiral burned faintly against Torian's hand.
They made camp that night beneath a slanted ridge covered in moss and lichen. Torian started a fire
the traditional way—tinder and spark, no ember needed—and watched as it caught quickly,
unnaturally so. The flames coiled upward in a perfect spiral before dispersing into normal tongues
of orange and gold.
Skarn laid down close, but not his usual relaxed sprawl. He rested with his head up, ears high.
Neither of them slept easily.
⸻They were two days away from the circle when they saw the first sign.
A staff, driven into the ground beside the road.
It was made of braided blackwood and stone, shaped in the spiral motif but inlaid with copper and
ash-char. Burn marks ringed its base like a protective ward. Something had been left there—charred
herbs, dried blood, and a tiny carving of a man with no face.
Torian approached cautiously.
The spiral in his palm warmed slightly.
"Someone's watching," he said softly.
They continued on, now slower.
That evening, the watchers revealed themselves.
They emerged from the forest in silence—four figures in heavy cloaks of gray and ember-dyed
thread. Their faces were covered by masks shaped like flame-spires, narrow eye slits etched into
the copper surface. Each carried a staff like the one they had seen earlier, and their movements
were ritualistic—slow, deliberate, purposeful.
Skarn moved between them and Torian instantly, growling low.
The tallest raised a hand—not in threat, but in reverence.
"He carries the mark," the figure said. The voice was calm, aged, but not weak. "And
the fire did not consume him."
Torian didn't lower his hand. "Who are you?"
"We are the Flame-Walkers. The quiet ones. Those who listen while others burn."
Another stepped forward and held up a small, rune-etched stone.
"We've waited for a bearer to rise again. But the signs were too early."Torian narrowed his eyes. "What signs?"
"Ash falling from a cloudless sky. Trees that bleed amber. A child born with a spiral
burned into her tongue."
He felt the ember in his chest stir.
"We do not mean you harm," the leader continued. "We came only to see if the mark
was real."
Torian glanced at Skarn, then slowly showed his palm.
The Flame-Walkers dropped to their knees.
"It walks again," whispered one. "The fire walks in flesh again."
Torian stepped back. "Don't kneel to me."
The leader lifted his head. "You misunderstand. We do not kneel to you. We kneel in
grief. The fire walking again means the old warnings may yet return."
"What warnings?"
The third figure spoke now, voice trembling.
"There was one who bore the flame long ago—strong, defiant, unbroken. But he turned.
He refused the ember's silence. He took from it what was not his."
Torian's chest grew heavy.
"He lives still, beneath the deep stone. We call him the Hollow Flame. And he has
begun to stir."
Skarn snarled. The forest darkened.
"Why tell me this?" Torian asked.
"Because the Hollow Flame does not seek the ember. He seeks you. To rip it from yoursoul, and to reclaim what he believes was stolen."
Torian clenched his fist. "Then I'll be ready."
The leader's voice dropped.
"You cannot kill what is already forgotten. Only burn brighter than it."
Without another word, the Flame-Walkers turned and left.
Their staves dragged lines of fire across the grass that extinguished as quickly as they
burned.
By morning, no trace remained.
⸻
The next day, the air felt wrong.
Torian and Skarn pushed through a dense thicket into a clearing that smelled of iron
and sap. The trees here were blackened, but not burned—wilted as if from heat that
had no source.
And then they saw them.
Four creatures hunched at the edge of the clearing—canine in shape, but skeletal and
dripping with emberlight. Their hides were cracked stone, their eyes burning with
coals. Their mouths leaked smoke. And when they saw Torian, they didn't bark or snarl.
They howled.
Long and low.
Skarn leapt forward instantly, intercepting the first one with a roar. His claws met their
stone hide with a crack of force, sending one of them sprawling into a tree.
Torian didn't hesitate.He ducked behind a boulder, drew his sword, and circled around the edge of the
clearing. Skarn was in full combat—two hounds lunging, one latched onto his shoulder.
The fourth turned toward Torian and charged.
Its feet didn't touch the ground.
It glided.
Fast.
He threw himself into a roll, came up swinging. His blade scraped across its flank,
leaving sparks but not blood. The creature wheeled around, emberlight trailing from its
maw, and lunged again.
Torian raised his hand instinctively.
The spiral flared.
The hound shrieked.
For a moment, it froze—paralyzed mid-leap.
Skarn saw it and struck from the side, smashing it to the ground with a paw as big as
its skull. Stone cracked. Fire sputtered. The creature stopped moving.
The others saw.
And fled.
They didn't whimper. Didn't hesitate. Just turned and vanished into the woods.
Skarn panted heavily, blood running from a shallow cut above his leg.
Torian collapsed beside him, heart pounding.
"What… were those?"
Skarn growled low.Torian looked at his hand.
The spiral still glowed faintly.
"They weren't fire," he whispered. "They were hollow. Like something made in fire's
image."
He felt the ember in his chest respond—uneasily.
It had seen those creatures before.
And it feared what they were becoming.
⸻
They rested that night in a narrow hollow beneath a ledge. Skarn kept watch, wounded
but alert. Torian sat beside the fire, his hand open to the flame.
The spiral drank the light.
But it did not speak.
It pulsed with each heartbeat.
It was no longer just a mark.
It was a warning system.
A symbol of legitimacy.
And a beacon.
He had passed the trial, but that didn't mean he was safe.
It meant the world was no longer uncertain of what he carried.
Now it was preparing to test him again.He looked up at the stars.
The sky was full of them tonight—brilliant, endless, cold.
"Come then," he said to the darkness. "If the Hollow Flame walks, let him walk toward
me."
Skarn huffed beside him, curling closer.
Torian didn't feel strong.
He didn't feel ready.
But the fire had chosen to burn beside him.
And that would have to be enough.