The world tilted and fell away, smoke and screams dissolving into black. Ithan's body lay crumpled in the dirt, but his mind plunged elsewhere—down into fire.
He stood in a wasteland of ash, endless and gray, where the air shimmered with heat though no sun burned above. Columns of charred stone jutted skyward, crowned with chains that stretched into a darkness too vast to see. Each chain glowed faintly at its links, like molten brands, their weight humming with sorrow and defiance.
A figure loomed ahead, bound in those chains. Not a man, not wholly—a titan whose skin was seared bronze, his ribs scorched open as if fire itself had once burst from his chest. His eyes burned white, flames without pupils, gazing down at Ithan as though through ages of memory.
The ground trembled with his voice.
Child of ash. Blood of fire. The spark in you is mine, and mine is yours.
Ithan staggered, clutching his chest where the relic chain had burned him. His mouth was dry, yet words tore free. "Prometheus…?"
The titan strained against his bonds, and the chains shuddered, white fire sparking where they bit into his flesh.
Once, I bore the torch of defiance. Once I gave fire to mortals, and for it, I was bound. Ages have passed. Gods withdrew. Heroes fell to dust. Yet still, my flame lingers… waiting in the blood of those who endure.
The titan's head bent closer, vast and terrible, his breath like heat rolling from a forge.
You are not chosen by chance, boy. You are not cursed. You are the flame reborn, the torchbearer in the Iron Age. Through you, fire will rise again.
White fire spilled from the titan's eyes, streaming into Ithan's chest. He cried out, collapsing to his knees as the heat filled him, burning and yet not destroying. The ash-gray of his hair caught the glow, flashing like silver in the blaze.
When he looked up, the titan was already fading into smoke, the chains rattling back into silence. But one word lingered in his skull, seared as if carved into bone:
Endure.
The vision shattered.
Ithan gasped awake, drenched in sweat, the dawn light pale against the ruins of Ravenstone. The spear lay at his side, scorched but whole. And when he touched it, the faintest flicker of white flame answered him, like the heartbeat of something far greater waiting to be claimed.
His eyes blinked open to dim light—the soft flicker of candles dancing across rough wooden beams. The smell of smoke still lingered, but now it was laced with something sharp and clean: damp cloth and bitter herbs. He tried to sit, but his ribs screamed, and he fell back against a straw mattress with a ragged groan.
"Easy, boy."
The voice was gruff but familiar. Martha leaned over him, her face drawn and weary, streaked with soot that hadn't yet been scrubbed clean. She pressed him down with a broad, calloused hand from years of work. A wet cloth slipped from his forehead and landed against his cheek, cool against the heat radiating from his skin.
"You're burning up," she muttered, scooping the cloth and wringing it into a basin nearby before laying it back across his brow. "Could've cooked an egg on you when we found you. That's why we had to keep dousing you. Thought you'd melt the bed with the fever."
Ithan swallowed, throat raw. His voice cracked when he tried to speak. "How… long?"
"Since last night." Martha sighed, settling onto a stool beside the bed. Her eyes softened briefly, then sharpened again with the steel that never left her. "You're lucky to be alive. Lucky, or cursed—I've yet to decide."
Her gaze lingered on him, searching, as if she had seen more than she was saying. Ithan looked away, the chain's absence heavy against his chest, though the memory of white fire still throbbed in his veins like a second heartbeat.
He clenched the sheet beneath his hands, fighting the tremor in his arms. Garrick's face flickered in his mind—falling, bloodied, gone. The promise he'd made at the grave burned hotter now, heavier than the fever in his flesh.
"The Dionians…" Ithan's voice rasped, his throat raw from smoke.
"They're gone," Martha said at once. She pressed the cloth down firmer against his forehead, though her hand lingered as if to steady him more than to cool him.
His eyes, still hazy, searched hers. "The villagers?"
Martha exhaled through her nose, her broad shoulders sagging a fraction. "Most managed to hide. Cellars, caves along the riverbank. A few… a few weren't quick enough." Her voice faltered before she swallowed it down. "Most of the dead were mercenaries. Held the line so the rest could live."
Her words hung heavy in the dim room. The only sound was the drip of water from the rag into the basin.
Martha's gaze fell to the boy beneath her hand. His ash-gray hair clung damp to his face, his skin flushed with fever-heat, but behind his exhaustion, there was something different in his eyes. Something that hadn't been there the day before. A fire she did not understand—and feared to.
Emotion rose unbidden, tightening her throat. She had known this boy since he was swaddled in his mother's arms. Tessia—her Tessia, her closest friend—had laughed then, shy and secretive about the child's father. Never told her where she had met him, never gave a name. Only said, with a finality Martha couldn't argue with, that she was done with mercenary life. She wanted to raise her child far from steel and blood, even if it meant starting over in a place like Ravenstone.
And Tessia had done it. She had carried water, scrubbed tables in the mercenary hall, patched clothes with aching fingers—all so her boy could grow without the stink of war on him.
Now Tessia was gone, buried in the Ashen Field, and the boy lay before her, no longer just a boy. Something had awakened in him, something old and dangerous. The fever rolling off his skin wasn't just sickness—it was the gods' touch, burning through his blood.
Martha's jaw tightened. She wrung out the cloth, laid it gently across his brow again, and muttered, almost to herself: "Tessia, if you could see him now… your boy carries fire."
Martha's hand lingered on his brow, her thumb brushing damp strands of hair from his face. For a long while, she said nothing, only studying him as though trying to reconcile the boy she had helped raise with the figure she had seen in the square, wreathed in white fire.
Finally, she spoke, her voice low and rough. "Ithan… do you even understand what you've done out there?"
He blinked up at her, fever-bright eyes clouded with confusion. "I… fought. I tried—"
"No." She shook her head sharply, cutting him off. "Not fought. Not like any other man with a spear. I saw it with my own eyes. The flames. The chains. That was no trick of light, no dream. You've awakened a Mystery."
The word landed like a stone in his gut. His lips parted, but nothing came out.
Martha leaned closer, her voice taut with urgency. "Do you know what that means? To the villagers? To the Imperium? You're no longer just Tessia's boy. You're something they'll fear, or worse—something they'll want to use."
Her hand pressed flat against his chest, over the place where the chain had once burned into his flesh. "I've seen what happens to those touched by god-fragments. Some get dragged to the capital, paraded like prizes. Others vanish. A few… a few become monsters." Her eyes flicked away for a heartbeat, haunted. "The Imperium Arkanis does not forgive power it cannot leash."
Ithan swallowed hard, the white flame still echoing faintly in his veins. "So what am I supposed to do?"
Martha's mouth tightened into a grim line. "First? You survive. You endure. That's what your mother wanted for you more than anything. But listen to me, boy—don't go waving that fire unless you've no other choice. Not yet. Not until you know what it makes of you, and what others will do when they see it."
Her eyes softened then, the steel cracking just a little. She cupped his cheek in her calloused hand. "Tessia wanted you free. I'll not let the Imperium or the Dionians turn you into another chain on their belts. You hear me?"
Ithan nodded weakly, though inside, the word Mystery burned bright as the white flames that had risen from his spear.
"You should rest for now," Martha said, wringing out the cloth one last time before laying it across his forehead. Her voice had softened, though the steel never quite left it. "I'll come back and check on you. Let's see if that fever of yours cools before the sun sets again."
She lingered a moment longer, her hand brushing the edge of the blanket up to his shoulders, almost motherly despite the weariness etched into her face. Then she turned, the floorboards creaking under her weight as she crossed to the door. The latch clicked, and she was gone, leaving behind only the faint smell of herbs and the distant murmur of wounded mercenaries in the hall.
Silence pressed in.
Ithan stared at the ceiling beams, their dark grain swimming in and out of focus through fever-blurred eyes. His body felt heavy, every breath scraping through his chest, but his mind refused to settle. Images churned—white flames coiling from his hands, chains bursting from his spear, the Dionian leader's smile when he had named him torchbearer.
He tried to piece it together, but the more he thought, the more impossible it seemed. Power had bloomed inside him, not from steel or training, but from his very blood. It was as if the world itself had cracked open, revealing something vast just beyond his reach.
Garrick's face rose in his thoughts—his laughter, his sharp words, his lifeless body in the dirt. Ithan gripped the blanket with trembling hands, wishing he could have shown Garrick what he had become. Wishing he could believe it was enough.
The heat of his skin seemed to pulse with every heartbeat, the echo of that fire still alive beneath his ribs. He didn't know if it frightened him more than it thrilled him.
Exhaustion crept over him at last, dulling the edges of his thoughts, pulling his eyelids down no matter how hard he fought to keep them open. The world dimmed, blurred, and finally slipped into darkness—carrying him into uneasy dreams.
The boy finally drifted into fitful sleep, his breath shallow, the fever-heat still radiating off his skin. Martha stood for a while at the threshold, listening to him mutter half-formed words, then pulled the door shut behind her.
The mercenary hall beyond was dim, the air heavy with smoke, sweat, and the sharp tang of spilled blood. A few wounded men groaned from their pallets, their bandages dark with seeped crimson. Others, unhurt but weary, slumped against the walls with mugs in hand, their laughter brittle and hollow, every joke an attempt to stave off the memory of the Dionians' blades.
The front doors creaked open.
Villagers filtered in, their faces tight and pale, some smeared with ash from salvaging burned homes. They carried the stink of smoke with them, and their eyes darted quickly around the room before fastening on Martha.
One of the elders stepped forward, a thin man with a voice sharp as a crow's. "Martha," he said, spitting the name like an accusation. "We've heard what happened last night. The boy. That boy."
Martha crossed her arms, already bristling. "He's alive. More than can be said for some of your kin."
The elder's face pinched, but he pressed on. "Alive, yes—but at what cost? You saw it, same as we did. The fire. The chains. That was no human strength. That was… blasphemy." His words drew murmurs of agreement from the villagers behind him.
A woman wrung her hands, eyes red from crying. "It's a curse. I always said Tessia's child would bring ruin. The gods marked him, and now the Dionians come for us because of him!"
Others muttered in chorus:"Curseborn.""He's the reason Ravenstone burns.""Drive him out before worse comes."
The hall filled with the low, bitter growl of fear turned to anger. A few mercenaries looked up, some sneering, some silent, but none stepped in. It was Martha alone who held their gaze, her hands flexing into fists at her sides.
"You think he brought them here?" she snapped, her voice ringing through the rafters. "The Dionians don't need excuses to slaughter. They came because they could. Because you hide behind walls while men like Garrick died holding the line."
The crowd wavered but did not disperse. Fear had its claws deep in them, and Ithan's name had become their scapegoat.
Martha's jaw tightened. She planted herself in front of the stairs leading to Ithan's room. "You'll not lay a hand on him. Not while I breathe."
Her words hung heavy in the smoky hall, daring anyone to take a step closer.
The villagers pressed closer, their muttering swelling into curses.
"Blasphemer!" one spat."He'll bring more raids, you'll see," another snarled."Drive him out before he damns us all!"
Their voices ricocheted off the timbered walls, feeding on each other's fear until it grew bold. A man actually stepped forward, jabbing a finger toward the stairs. "If you won't do it, Martha, we will. Ravenstone won't harbor a devil's child."
The room went still.
Bootsteps thudded from the far corner, slow and heavy, each one measured like the ticking of an executioner's clock. The mercenaries fell silent, shifting in their seats as a broad figure pushed through the haze of smoke and torchlight.
The mercenary leader.
His presence filled the hall before he even spoke. His armor was dented and bloodstained from the raid, but he carried himself like iron—unbowed, unbroken. A jagged scar cut down one side of his face, his eyes sharp as drawn blades beneath his heavy brow.
He stopped just short of the villagers, looming over them like a storm. "Blasphemer?" His voice rolled low, dangerous, carrying easily through the hall. "That blasphemer killed Dionians while you cowered in your holes."
The man who had pointed faltered, stepping back despite himself. Others glanced away, but one woman muttered, trembling with rage, "The gods will curse us for sheltering him."
The leader's head tilted, his scar catching the firelight. He took a deliberate step forward. The floor groaned under his weight, and the woman shrank into the crowd.
"Curse you, more like," he said. "Curse your coward's tongues and your weak hearts. That boy bleeds, he fights, and Garrick died buying you another day. So long as this hall stands, no one touches him."
His hand dropped to the axe at his hip—not drawing it, only resting there, but the message was clear. The villagers stiffened, their anger folding back into fear.
They cursed as they retreated, spitting on the floorboards, hissing the word blasphemer like poison. One by one, they filed out into the night, their mutters carrying even after the doors slammed shut behind them.
The mercenary leader watched them go, his jaw tight. Then he spat into the firepit, muttering low enough only Martha could hear: "Ravenstone may not forgive him. But they'll damn well fear him now."
****
Ithan sat propped against the frame of the narrow window, the fever haze lifting just enough for him to notice the world outside. The sun sagged low, its orange glow bleeding across the rooftops, staining the sky the color of dying embers.
The village below was not the same one he had known. Doors were barred, shutters drawn. The streets, once filled with the sound of children and the bark of dogs, were silent but for the groan of timbers settling in the cooling air. Here and there, smoke curled from ruined thatch, drifting like funeral incense.
The bodies still lay where they had fallen. Men, women, mercenaries alike—stiffening in the dust, their faces turned skyward, mouths frozen mid-cry. The villagers had not come for them. No shovels scraped in the dirt, no prayers were whispered. They had chosen to hide instead, fearing the Dionians' return more than they honored the dead.
Ithan's fingers tightened on the sill, his knuckles white.
Martha had tried to shield him, bustling in with food, scolding him for straining against his bandages, pretending nothing had changed. But Ithan wasn't blind. He could feel the air in Ravenstone shift—heavy, brittle, filled with suspicion. Where once villagers had muttered behind his back, now they spoke it openly. Curseborn. Blasphemer.
His eyes drifted across the square. That was when he saw it.
His hut—or what was left of it. The roof had been caved in, beams smashed inward by rocks or fists. The door hung crooked, its frame blackened by fire. Scrawled across the wood in crude strokes of ash was a symbol he didn't recognize, but its meaning needed no translation: resentment carved into his home for all to see.
The breath left his lungs. His chest ached with more than broken ribs.
The white fire still whispered in his blood, smoldering at the memory of Garrick's death, the Dionian leader's words, the villagers' curses. He pressed his forehead against the window's cold frame, eyes burning as the last light of day dipped behind the ashen fields.
He was alive, but to Ravenstone, he no longer belonged.
Ithan's breath fogged the glass as the last shard of sunlight sank beneath the horizon. Shadows lengthened across the square, swallowing the broken huts, the unburied dead, the silent doors that would not open for him. His gaze lingered on the wreck of his home—the place where he and his mother had once laughed by a small fire, where Garrick had shared stolen bottles and crude advice. Now it was nothing but rubble and ash, marked as if the village itself had spat him out.
His hand drifted to his chest, to the place where the chain had burned and vanished. Beneath his skin, the white fire pulsed faintly, not with comfort but with a restless, hungry beat. Every time his anger spiked, it stirred—reminding him of Garrick's fall, of the Dionian leader's words, of the villagers calling him a blasphemer.
The thought dug in: he would never belong here again.
Martha's kindness could only hold back the tide so long. She could glare down the villagers, scold them into silence, but she could not change the fear in their eyes. And fear, Ithan knew now, was heavier than hate. It would crush him in time.
His fingers clenched the sill until his nails bit into the wood.
This place will not be my grave.
The fire in his veins seemed to answer, flaring hot enough that he pulled his hand back, shaking. His eyes caught the horizon where the Ashen Field stretched, endless and waiting. Beyond it lay the Iron Marches, the forests, the wide world the mercenaries had once spoken of in ale-soaked tales. Dangerous, yes—but alive, free.
"I can't stay," he whispered to the empty room. His voice sounded strange in his own ears—thin, but certain.
He turned from the window, wincing as his ribs protested. On the table by his bed lay the spear, scorched at the haft but whole. Its wood gave off the faintest heat when his fingers brushed it, as though it too wanted to leave, to burn, to move.
Tomorrow, or the next day, when his legs could carry him and his breath no longer rattled, he would go. Leave Ravenstone behind. Garrick was gone, his mother long buried. There was nothing here for him now but suspicion and ashes.
The boy who had belonged to this village was already dead. What rose in his place would walk another path.
****
In the end, the Dionians did not return. Days passed in uneasy quiet, the villagers still shuttered in their homes, venturing out only to draw water or scavenge what the flames had spared. The bodies remained in the square until the mercenaries themselves buried them, the villagers too fearful—or too bitter—to take part.
Ithan healed slowly. The fever broke, but the ache in his ribs lingered, every breath reminding him of how close he had come to death. He spent long hours at the window, watching the village shrink into itself, each door that stayed shut another nail sealing him out of the life he had once known. The broken husk of his hut stood like a warning, the ashes of his mother's memory stained by resentment.
At last, when the color had returned to his face and the pain dulled enough that he could stand without swaying, he found Martha in the hall. She was bent over a barrel of water, washing bloodstained cloths, her sleeves rolled up, her thick arms moving with the practiced rhythm of someone who had seen too many battles end the same way.
"Martha." His voice came out steadier than he felt.
She glanced up, narrowing her eyes. "You should be resting, boy."
"I've rested enough." He stood straighter, though his ribs complained. His hand brushed the spear leaning against the wall beside him. "I need to tell you something."
Her rag paused mid-wring. She studied him for a moment, then set it aside. "Well, out with it."
He drew a breath, tasting the iron in the air. "I can't stay in Ravenstone. Not anymore. You've seen it—their eyes, their whispers. They'll never forgive me. And I…" His grip tightened on the spear. "I don't belong here. Not after what happened."
Martha's jaw worked, but she said nothing, letting him continue.
"I'm going to leave," Ithan said, his voice firmer now. "I'll become a mercenary."
The words hung between them, heavy and final.
For a moment, Martha only looked at him. Then she let out a long breath, sitting heavily on the bench by the barrel. She rubbed her hands over her face, dragging the weariness down with them. "You sound just like her," she muttered. "Your mother. Always chasing freedom, even when it cost her everything."
Ithan swallowed, throat tight.
Martha's gaze sharpened, pinning him. "Do you even know what you're saying? Mercenary life is blood and steel and graves without names. Garrick knew it. I know it. And if you walk that road, you'd better be ready for it to eat you alive."
"I'm ready," Ithan said, though his voice cracked on the last word. "I have to be. Garrick… he taught me enough to start. And the fire—this Mystery—it won't let me stay in hiding. If I have to carry it, then I'll carry it on the road."
Martha's eyes glistened for a heartbeat, then hardened again. She rose, stepping close enough that her shadow fell over him. "If this is truly what you want, then I won't chain you here. But hear me, Ithan. Promise me you'll survive. That no matter what this fire makes of you, you'll remember you're more than it. You're Tessia's son."
He met her gaze, the weight of it pressing like Garrick's hand on his shoulder. Slowly, he nodded. "I promise."
Martha exhaled and gave a sharp nod. Then she shoved the spear into his hands, the wood still scorched from white fire. "Then you'd better start learning to hold this thing properly. You've a long road ahead, boy. And the world won't go easy on a Mystique."
Ithan held the weapon tight. For the first time since Ravenstone burned, he felt not only the fire's pull, but also a path opening before him.
The next morning dawned gray, the sky the color of cold iron. Ithan stood at the edge of the Ashen Field, the spear resting against his shoulder. The earth was still black with soot, the graves fresh mounds of turned soil. He walked between them slowly, boots crunching the brittle ash until he came to the one marked by a rough plank of wood—Garrick's grave.
For a long time, he simply stood there, staring at the mound. The air was still, no birdsong, only the faint crackle of wind through burned grass.
"I should've died with you," he whispered, voice catching. "But I didn't. You saved me again. And I don't know why, Garrick. I don't know why you thought I was worth it."
His fingers dug into the shaft of the spear. White flame flickered faintly at the edge of his vision, but he forced it down, breathing steady.
"You told me not to waste it. So I won't. I'll fight. I'll endure. I'll live the way you wanted me to." His throat tightened, and he pressed the spearpoint into the dirt before the grave. "I swear it, Garrick. I'll carry what you taught me… and I'll make it mean something."
He stayed there until the cold sank into his bones, until the silence of the Ashen Field felt like an answer. Then he turned, shouldered the spear, and walked back to Ravenstone for the last time.
At the village gate, Martha and the mercenary captain waited. The villagers did not gather to see him off; most stayed hidden behind shuttered windows. But Martha stood firm, arms crossed, her eyes fierce and red-rimmed. Beside her loomed the captain, broad and scarred, his expression unreadable but his presence alone enough to keep the mutters at bay.
And then, from the shadow of the hall, another figure stepped forward—Lason, Garrick's right hand, his dark hair tied back, his jaw set like carved stone. He carried his axe slung across his back, his gaze steady on Ithan.
"You're leaving as a boy," the captain rumbled, breaking the silence. "But the road will make you something else. Or it'll kill you. Either way, you're not Ravenstone's problem anymore."
Martha shot him a glare, but she said nothing. Instead, she stepped closer, placing both hands on Ithan's shoulders. Her touch was warm, grounding. "Survive, boy," she said. "That's all I ask. Survive, and don't let the fire eat you."
Ithan nodded, words caught in his throat.
Lason moved then, falling into step beside him. He didn't speak at first, but his presence was solid, a shadow at Ithan's side. When the gates groaned open and the path stretched before them, he finally muttered, "I'll teach you. Garrick would've wanted it that way. But don't think I'll go easy on you. A mercenary's life has no patience for weakness."
"I don't want easy," Ithan said, gripping the spear tighter.
Together they walked down the dirt road, the village shrinking behind them, the burned roofs of Ravenstone fading into the horizon. Martha stood at the gate until they disappeared from sight, her hands clenched, her lips moving in a silent prayer Tessia would never hear.
The boy was gone. The mercenary's road had begun.