The horn echoed again, closer this time.
Lucas scrambled to his feet, his legs wobbling as if the forest floor wanted to toss him back down. The fissure behind him hissed with steam, the air still thick with the scent of scorched earth. He didn't know who was blowing that horn — soldiers? Hunters? Something worse? — but every instinct screamed to move.
He stumbled through the underbrush, branches whipping his face, boots squelching in mud. His breath came in sharp bursts, not from exhaustion, but from the strange heat now simmering under his skin. It was like the air around him was thinner, sharper. Colors seemed brighter. Every sound felt magnified — the rustle of leaves, the drip of rain from branches, even the faint metallic click of armor in the distance.
They're coming for the orb.
Except… the orb was gone. Inside him.
The realization made his stomach twist. Would they kill him to get it out? Or carve him open? He'd seen how the kingdoms treated people who found things they weren't supposed to — and the Affinityless had no rights.
A shape moved between the trees. Then another. Shadowed figures fanning out, their armor glinting faintly in what little moonlight pierced the clouds. Spears and crossbows in hand. Masks covering their faces.
Lucas dropped low, heart pounding. His foot landed on a branch — snap!
"Over there!" a voice barked.
No time to think. He ran.
Arrows whistled past him, one striking a tree trunk just inches from his head. Another clipped his sleeve. Panic surged, but so did something else — a pressure in his chest, building, building, until it felt like it was clawing to get out.
A spear struck the ground near his foot, missing him by sheer luck. He turned, instinctively raising his hand — and fire exploded from his palm.
Not a flicker, not a candle's flame — a roaring arc of orange and gold that blasted forward, swallowing the nearest attacker. The man screamed as his armor glowed red-hot, dropping his weapon and rolling in the mud.
Lucas stared at his hand. Smoke curled from his fingertips.
The others hesitated for a heartbeat — just long enough for him to realize the fire hadn't burned him. The heat in his chest pulsed again, stronger, different this time — colder.
When the next attacker lunged with a sword, Lucas flung his other hand forward. A spear of ice formed mid-air and shot straight through the man's weapon, freezing the blade solid.
The soldiers fell back, shouting to each other.
Lucas didn't wait for them to regroup. He bolted toward the thicker part of the forest, his breath visible in the sudden chill. His thoughts spun — fire, ice, both in seconds — this wasn't possible. No one had two affinities, let alone… all of them?
Behind him, the ground shook. A deep rumble rolled through the forest, and one of the masked men shouted in a language Lucas didn't understand. Roots burst from the soil, twisting like snakes, trying to wrap around his legs.
Instinct again. He didn't think — he reached inside the strange, swirling storm in his chest and pulled.
The roots turned to ash before they could touch him.
The masked men stopped. Even from a distance, Lucas could see them exchange uneasy glances. Then their leader, taller than the rest, pointed at him and shouted:
"Alive! Bring him alive!"
Lucas didn't know who they were or why they wanted him breathing, but he knew one thing — running wasn't enough anymore.
Somewhere deep inside, the storm of colors was still spinning, waiting for him to open the floodgates.
And part of him… wanted to.