Torian's feet sank into the cold earth with every step.
Ash clung to his skin like second flesh, working into the creases of his palms, his mouth, the corners of his eyes. He didn't wipe it away. He didn't move to brush off the soot crusted along his arms. He barely noticed his own breath fogging in the morning air.
The sun had risen, but it felt wrong — dim, shrouded in smoke, casting pale light through the wreckage like it feared what it might reveal.
He had slept—if it could be called sleep—under the burned cart. Curled in the dirt, blanketed by ash, he had dreamed of nothing. Not fire. Not voices. Not even names.
When he finally stood, the silence was so absolute it roared.
Torian's village—once a place of birdsong, bread, and whispers—was now only blackened beams and bone-white ruin. The wind had died. The fire had burned itself out. But the smoke lingered like a memory.
He took a step. Then another.
He walked without aim. Around him, the square was unrecognizable. The water barrels were cracked and dry. The well was caved in. The baker's home was no longer standing—only a scorched oven and the twisted remains of a roof beam.
A ribbon flapped from a nail in the ash. Eysa's.
Torian swallowed hard. He bent to pick it up, but his fingers hovered above it, frozen. Touching it felt final.
He let it lie.
Instead, he walked toward what had once been his home.
The crater where the flaming boulder had struck was still warm. The air shimmered slightly above the splintered ruin, but no heat reached his skin. He stood at the edge of the wreckage and stared down into it.
There was nothing left.
No bodies. No sword. No doorway. No comfort.
He opened his mouth to say something—but there were no words left in him.
Only the wind answered, rising now, curling through the dead trees and stoking the ashes like breath over an ember.
Then, in the distance—hoofbeats.
Not like yesterday. These were different.
Closer.
He turned slowly. His limbs felt heavy, like they belonged to someone else.
At the far end of the village, past the broken gates, three riders approached. Black armor. Red Spiral brands across their chests. No banners. No insignias.
Only fire and steel.
Torian backed away, barely aware of his own legs moving. He ducked behind what remained of the blacksmith's wall and crouched low. His pulse pounded in his ears, deafening.
The riders slowed as they entered the village center. One dismounted. Another stayed atop his horse, scanning the ruins from behind a metal visor.
The third spoke, voice muffled but cruel: "Check the bodies. The boy wasn't confirmed."
The others nodded.
Torian's blood ran cold.
They were looking for him.
He crawled backward along the broken alleyway, careful not to step on bone or stone. His breath caught as his foot kicked a scorched doll—he hadn't seen it. His sister's. Or another child's. It didn't matter.
The rider turned. Heard something.
"Over there," he barked.
Torian bolted.
He sprinted toward the treeline, leaping over collapsed fences and dragging his legs through thick soot. The riders shouted. One mounted again. Hooves thundered behind him.
He dove through the back of the weaver's tent—half-burned—and tore through a line of drying cloth. A lance struck the ground inches from his heel. He didn't look back.
The village edge was close.
Then a second rider appeared from the side—cutting him off.
Torian screamed and changed direction, ducking into a root cellar he'd played in once as a child. He slammed the door shut behind him and dropped down the ladder, panting.
It was dark. Cold. Damp.
He huddled against the back wall, covering his mouth, trying not to sob.
Above him, boots hit the ground.
One rider walked directly over the trapdoor but didn't open it.
Instead, he spoke in a voice that chilled the marrow.
"Run all you want, boy. Your fire's in you, even if you don't know it yet. And our master smells it."
They waited for several minutes. Then they left.
The hooves faded.
Torian stayed there, shaking, pressed against stone and rot. His fists were clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. Something inside him twisted — not fear this time, not completely.
Something darker.
Something sharp.
He stood.
He climbed the ladder.
And he stepped into a world that would never love him again.
The moment his feet touched open ground again, Torian ran.
Not with the wonder of a boy playing knight through the fields, but with the frantic, staggering stride of someone escaping death. The village behind him was just smoldering ruin now. Nothing left to save. Nothing left to bury.
He didn't look back.
The forest pressed in fast—tall pine trunks blackened with soot, leaves wilting under the ash. Fire had kissed the edges of everything, curling bark and smoking roots. But the trail that led west, toward the outer glens, was mostly intact.
Mostly.
His lungs burned. His breath came in wet, rattling pulls. Somewhere behind him, hooves still echoed—sometimes louder, sometimes fading. He couldn't tell if they were close or if it was memory playing tricks.
The sky above was no longer blue. It had turned a bruised, dull red, as if ashamed to witness what the earth had become. Birds were gone. The only sound was wind through the branches and the churn of his feet through thick, scorched mud.
He stumbled once—just outside the old fern path. Hit a tree root and scraped his knee, but he didn't stop. His body was numb. He could taste blood in his mouth.
Ahead, the trail forked.
One path curved up toward the southern ridgeline—longer, but open. The other dipped down into a moss-choked hollow.
He hesitated for a heartbeat, remembering what his mother had said once while gathering roots:
"If you're ever being followed, don't go where it's easy. Go where it's forgotten."
He chose the hollow.
The air changed the moment he slipped between the trees. Cooler. Wet. The scent of rot and rain-soaked stone filled his lungs. Old Spiral ruins jutted like broken teeth from the earth—just faint outlines now, nearly hidden by vines. Moss coated everything, softening each step.
He paused beneath the hanging roots of a collapsed tree and pressed his back against the trunk. His chest rose and fell. His whole body ached.
But there were no hoofbeats here.
No voices.
Just breathing.
His own.
And then—another.
He turned.
A figure moved through the trees to his left. No armor. No horse. Just pale cloth, gliding like mist.
Torian froze.
But when he blinked, the shape was gone.
He stared for a long time, heart pounding in his throat. But the woods had returned to stillness.
Was it real? Was it just smoke and exhaustion? He didn't know. He didn't wait to find out.
He kept moving.
The forest thickened. Light faded. His feet slipped on wet stone more than once. Somewhere far behind him, a tree cracked and fell. The fire was spreading even now—chasing the last of the oxygen from the world he knew.
After what felt like hours, Torian reached a small clearing.
He collapsed against a rock, arms shaking, throat raw. His tunic was torn. His boots soaked. His legs burned.
And in that silence, under the black branches of the forgotten glen, he wept.
Not loud. Not wild.
Just the slow, breathless release of someone who had held too much for too long.
His shoulders shook.
He clutched his knees to his chest and closed his eyes.
All he saw was his father's hand, reaching.
All he heard was Eysa laughing, somewhere far beyond the smoke.
All he felt was the sword on his back—still wrapped, untouched—too heavy now to mean anything.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that.
But when he finally opened his eyes again, the sun had vanished.
The forest had gone black.
And something was watching him from the trees.
Torian did not move.
The forest around him had gone utterly still. No birds. No breeze. No distant groan of fire in the hills. Only silence—and the slow rising of dread in his chest.
The feeling of being watched sharpened.
He turned his head, inch by inch, toward the trees behind him.
Nothing there.
He scanned the shadows, every knot in the bark, every twist of root and moss, looking for what his instincts screamed was near. But there was no sound, no shape.
Still… he knew.
He stood slowly, every joint stiff. He backed away from the clearing, step by cautious step, until the rock that had supported him was at his back and the glen began to narrow.
A branch cracked.
Not behind. Above.
Torian dove to the side as a shadow dropped from the trees—massive, all limbs and teeth, a long pale mask stretched over its face like stretched bone.
It snarled.
He scrambled to his feet and ran.
Branches slapped his face. Roots caught his feet. The creature bounded behind him, its movements faster than anything that size should be. It didn't roar. It hunted in silence. Cold. Intent.
Torian didn't dare scream. It would only help the thing find him faster.
He leapt over a stream, ducked under a fallen log, and tore down an animal path barely wide enough for his shoulders. Behind him, claws raked stone. Breath hissed through fangs.
The trail ended in a drop.
Too steep. A pit of stone and slick moss.
He hesitated—
The beast lunged.
Torian jumped.
He hit the slope hard, rolling and sliding, mud tearing at his clothes, bark slicing his arms. He slammed into the bottom in a heap, coughing.
Above, the beast stared down—snarling but unwilling to follow into the tight, wet stone.
Torian didn't wait.
He crawled through the narrow passage at the bottom of the slope, half-tunnel, half-crevice, until the sound of the creature faded behind him.
Only then did he stop.
Only then did he collapse again, curling into himself beneath a wide stone arch, the air damp and ancient-smelling, like forgotten things buried deep in the world.
His hands trembled.
The sword on his back was still untouched.
He had no flame. No power. No protection. Just a name, a dead family, and a wooden blade left behind days ago.
His heart pounded in his ears.
He wasn't sure what time it was. Night had fallen somewhere between the burning and the chase. The stars were hidden behind ash and cloud. The forest had sealed itself behind him.
There was no path forward.
Only darkness.
And the deep.