Ithan stood over the scorched floorboards, staring at the blackened outline where Anastomus had crumbled into ash. The smell of char still clung to the air, acrid and heavy, but it was the silence that pressed hardest on him. Killing should have weighed more—should have lodged like a stone in his chest. But it didn't. Not anymore.
He had burned a man alive, and his mind was quiet. Numb. Too numb.
The thought unsettled him, but only faintly, as if even guilt had grown tired of its work.
Then a scream cut through the night.
Ithan's head snapped toward the window, muscles already coiling. Another scream followed, sharper, then muffled, like a voice drowned in water.
He bolted. His boots hammered against the floor, splinters crunching beneath him as he shouldered through the door into the street.
And froze.
A haze drifted between the buildings, curling around eaves and fences like grasping fingers. Purple mist, thick and restless, rolling low to the ground but rising higher with every breath of wind. It glimmered faintly in the moonlight, too vivid, too alive.
Ithan inhaled before he could stop himself.
It was like swallowing honeyed poison. A sweetness so cloying it gagged him, coating his tongue in nectar, flooding his lungs with warmth that was wrong, far too inviting. His throat tightened, his vision blurred at the edges. His body swayed, legs betraying him as if he'd drunk a skin of wine too fast.
"Damn it…" He pressed a hand to his temple, staggering. The mist clung, crawled into his pores, each breath pulling him deeper into a haze where the world tilted and balance became a suggestion.
But he knew. His instincts screamed through the dizziness. This is no poison. This is power. Influence.
His teeth ground together. He forced his focus inward, to the only weapon that never failed him.
Flame.
White fire erupted across his arms in a violent surge, bursting from his skin in jagged flares. His blood answered the call instantly, rushing hot through his veins, burning as though someone had poured molten iron into his marrow. The pain hit like a hammer, raw and consuming. His heart clenched, his body trembling.
He hadn't recovered from the fight with Anastomus—his limbs still heavy, his lungs still ragged. And yet he was drawing on his Mystery again, deeper, harsher. Every pulse of fire came with agony, like his blood was boiling in its veins, steam rising beneath his skin.
But the mist recoiled.
Where the white flames burned, the haze peeled back, curling away from his skin, unable to touch him. He stood in a small circle of searing light, his body shaking, his teeth bared against the pain.
Through the purple veil, more screams rang out. Volos was drowning, swallowed alive by the mist.
Ithan straightened, the fire licking along his arms and shoulders, his eyes glowing like coals in the night. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, but his stance was steady. Whatever this was—whoever had unleashed it—it wasn't finished. And neither was he.
The haze throbbed around him, curling and twisting like it had a will of its own. Ithan pushed through, his white fire biting back the mist in jagged flares, his spear dripping sparks as if it hungered for more blood.
The sounds reached him first—steel ringing against steel, shouts, the thrum of bowstrings. A clash, close. Too close.
He rounded a corner, flames spilling ahead of him, and his chest tightened.
The courtyard outside their tavern had become a battlefield. Figures in black surged through the purple haze, blades flashing. Some of Lason's mercenaries lay already on the stones, their bodies twisted and still. The air was thick with blood and smoke.
But not all had fallen.
At the far side, Lyra stood atop the tavern's stoop, bowstring drawn to her ear. Her auburn hair clung to her sweat-slick face, her eyes cold and steady as she loosed arrow after arrow. Each shot sang through the haze, striking with lethal precision—one shaft sank into a throat, another pinned a mercenary's arm before Ithan's flames finished the job. Her quiver was half-empty, but her rhythm never faltered.
Doran was at the center, a mountain of muscle wreathed in fury. His greatsword rose and fell like an executioner's axe, cleaving through armor and bone alike. Blood spattered his beard, his roar echoing as he swung in wide arcs that tore gaps in the enemy line. But for every man he cut down, two more pressed in, the purple mist feeding their madness.
Ithan's gut twisted at the sight of the fallen—men who had laughed with him, shared drink with him—now lying cold in their own blood. The rage in him roared higher, his flames answering with savage hunger.
"Lyra! Doran!" His voice cut through the chaos like a clarion.
Their heads turned—just for a heartbeat—but in their eyes he saw it: relief. Hope.
White chains erupted from his spear, lashing into the mist, coiling around the nearest black-armored killers. They shrieked as the fire ate through them, dragged into heaps of ash. The blaze carved a path open, searing away the haze until Lyra and Doran could see him clearly, his figure blazing in the smoke, spear lifted like a banner of war.
The battlefield shifted in that moment.
The Ashborn had come.
Ithan surged forward, white fire wreathing his every step. The black-armored killers turned toward him, their blades raised, but his spear moved faster—thrusts like lightning, each one ending in a blossom of chains that wrapped and seared. Bodies fell smoking in his wake, armor hissing as it cracked apart under the purity of his Mystery.
The mist recoiled from him, pushed back in a widening circle of scorched stone. Every swing, every strike was a storm—his rage driving the flames hotter, brighter, until his silhouette was almost blinding against the haze.
He cut a path straight to the tavern stoop where Lyra and Doran fought.
Lyra loosed another arrow, her breath sharp, the string biting her fingers raw. She dropped two more attackers before stumbling back against the door, quiver nearly spent. Doran, drenched in sweat and blood, swung his greatsword in a brutal arc, cleaving a man from shoulder to hip, then turned to cover her flank.
"Ithan!" Lyra's voice broke with both relief and urgency.
He drove his spear through another chest, chains bursting out of the man's back to drag two more into their death. Flames hissed as he yanked the weapon free. "Where's Lason?" he barked, eyes burning through the haze.
Doran opened his mouth to answer—but the world exploded.
A thunderous crash split the night as the upper window of the tavern shattered outward. Splinters and shards rained down in a storm of fire and dust. From the wreckage, two figures blasted into the open air, colliding with such force the timbers shook.
One of them was Lason, his blade wreathed in searing arcs of power, his cloak torn, his face set in grim defiance. The other was broader, armored, his movements heavy with authority. Even before Ithan's eyes fixed fully on him, he knew.
Anipather.
Captain of the Blue Orcas.
The two men clashed in midair, their Mysteries flaring like colliding storms, before they crashed down into the courtyard below with the weight of thunder. Stone shattered beneath them, shockwaves rippling through the mist.
Ithan froze for a single heartbeat, spear raised, breath sharp in his throat.
The fight wasn't just Volos against nameless killers anymore. This was larger. Much larger.
Before Ithan could move to join the clash, Lason's voice tore through the chaos.
"Get the kids out of here!"
Ithan's eyes snapped up. "Lason—"
"Do it, boy!" the Captain roared again, his blade locking against Anipather's twin sabers. Sparks erupted between them, their Mysteries colliding in a storm of light and pressure. Lason didn't look back, didn't dare, but his voice was iron.
Ithan's hand tightened around his spear until his knuckles whitened. He turned, scanning the smoke-streaked courtyard. Lyra stood near the doorway, bow in hand, eyes wide. Doran planted himself in front of her, sword raised, chest heaving from the effort of keeping their attackers back. They looked like fighters—but to Ithan's eyes, they were still kids.
Doran's beard was a poor disguise, unable to mask the youth in his face. Sixteen—seventeen in a few months. Three years younger than Ithan, and far too young to be drenched in blood like this. Lyra was younger still, fifteen, her bow trembling slightly even as she forced another arrow to string.
Lason's order was clear. It had always been clear. Keep them alive. At all costs.
"Let's move," Ithan said, voice steady but low, the fire burning in his amber eyes.
Lyra hesitated, her gaze darting toward the upper window where their captain fought like a storm unleashed. "But what about—"
"Lyra," Doran cut in, grabbing her arm, voice hard despite the fear in his eyes. "He gave the order."
Her jaw trembled, but she nodded.
They turned—only for a massive figure to step into their path.
The man loomed like a wall of iron, armored head to toe, a greatsword clutched in his fists that dwarfed even Doran's weapon. The steel caught the firelight in a brutal gleam.
"Move," Ithan said, planting his spear, his tone flat with promise.
The mercenary sneered. "Make me."
The giant swung, the blade cutting a savage arc. Ithan's spear darted to meet it, but the impact rattled his bones, shivering down the length of the shaft. The air shook with the force, and Ithan staggered a half-step, nearly losing his grip.
The man pressed forward, his strength monstrous. Every swing came like an avalanche, grinding through the air with bone-cracking weight. It was strength that reminded Ithan too much of Daimons—the unnatural, the inhuman.
But he had faced worse. He had faced Lason himself in training, when his captain's Mystery let him wield strength beyond mortal limits. He had learned what it meant to fight giants with nothing but precision, speed, and will.
I can't waste time. I don't need him dead. Just broken.
Ithan's flames flared along his spear, white fire snapping to life in blinding arcs. He shifted his stance, every muscle focused, every thought bent toward one goal: put this wall of a man down—fast.
The greatsword came down again, a brutal arc that split the air. Ithan slid sideways, his boots grinding against the stone, the weight of the swing grazing past him with a hiss of displaced air. His arms burned from the earlier clash, but his mind was sharp—clear in the way only battle could make it.
"Stay down," he hissed through clenched teeth.
The words carried more than fury—they carried will. His white fire surged as if answering his voice. Chains burst from his spearhead, wrapping around the mercenary's weapon mid-swing. The fire raced along the steel, hissing, forcing the man to release his grip or be burned alive.
The enemy snarled, jerking free just in time, but Ithan pressed in. His spear whirled, white flames crawling down its shaft like veins of lightning. He shifted his stance low, weight coiled in his legs, and thrust with brutal precision—aiming not to kill, but to end the fight.
"Sleep."
The single word slipped out before he realized it, unthinking, raw. His flames bent to it, shaping themselves to his command. The spear's point struck the man's chestplate, the impact reverberating like thunder. Instead of piercing through, the white fire cascaded outward in a concussive wave.
The mercenary's eyes widened. The glow wrapped around him, swallowing his strength. His knees buckled, his greatsword clattering to the stones. In seconds, the man crumpled, body limp, collapsing into unconsciousness.
Ithan stared down at him, chest heaving, the echo of his own voice still ringing in his ears. He hadn't meant to shape the flames like that. But they had listened.
He pulled his spear back, the white fire simmering low now, curling along the weapon like a living breath. His amber eyes flicked to Lyra and Doran, who stared at him in wide-eyed silence.
"Move," Ithan said again, this time to them. His voice was steady, commanding. "We don't have long."
Behind them, the clash of Mysteries between Lason and Anipather shook the tavern's frame, fire and steel hammering through the night.
Ithan didn't waste another breath. He gestured sharply, white flames coiling tighter around his spear, the light carving a narrow corridor through the purple haze.
"Stay close," he told Lyra and Doran.
They obeyed without question. Doran kept one hand on Lyra's shoulder, his other clutching his sword, though his eyes darted nervously into the shifting fog. Lyra stumbled once, coughing, but steadied herself when she caught the steady burn of Ithan's flames ahead of her.
The streets of Volos were unrecognizable. The mist thickened in every alley, rolling over doorframes, smothering the familiar. Shapes moved inside it—dark silhouettes, staggering like the villagers, but when the firelight touched them, some dissolved, others lunged before being cut down by Ithan's spear. Each thrust was swift and merciless, chains snapping from the spearhead to drag enemies down and scatter them into smoking ruin.
But through the chaos, another sound cut sharper than screams or steel.
The duel.
Above the roar of the flames and the choking silence of the mist, Ithan heard it—metal ringing against metal, the crack of Mysteries colliding. It came from the tavern, where shattered windows still spewed dust and firelight into the haze. Lason and Anipather were still locked in battle, their struggle shaking the ground itself.
Ithan's chest tightened. His pace faltered.
He's losing.
He didn't see it—he didn't need to. His instincts screamed it, the same way they always had in battle when death drew near. The pulse of Lason's Mystery wavered, flickering like a candle guttering in wind. Anipather's presence swelled in turn, hard, crushing, drowning out everything else.
Lyra stumbled into him, her voice trembling. "Ithan—what is it?"
He didn't answer. His grip on the spear trembled, his amber eyes fixed back toward the tavern, flames hissing louder as his blood boiled. He could feel it—death circling, sharp and inevitable, already leaning toward Lason's shadow.
For the first time that night, Ithan froze.
The mist rolled thicker around them, swallowing the street. Behind him, Lyra's frightened breathing filled the silence, Doran's hand tightening on his sword as if bracing for something they couldn't yet see.
And then—through the haze—a thunderous crash split the night. A final clash, so heavy it shook the stones beneath their feet.
Ithan's heart lurched. He knew that sound. It was the sound of an ending. The crash still reverberated through the stones when Ithan spun, dragging Lyra and Doran with him. His flames flared in the mist, cutting a jagged window back toward the tavern. Through the haze, he saw them.
Lason and Anipather.
The two men stood in the wreckage of the courtyard, their clash ended in brutal silence. Lason was on one knee, his body trembling, his face pale under the lamplight spilling from the shattered tavern. Both of Anipather's sabers had pierced clean through him—driven into his shoulders, the tips jutting bloody from his chest.
Blood streamed down the front of his tunic, pooling dark against the broken stones.
"Captain!" Lyra's voice cracked into a scream, but Doran pulled her back, his grip iron though his own eyes burned with terror.
Ithan's breath caught in his throat. He had felt death circling—and now he saw it. It wasn't an omen. It was here.
Anipather loomed over Lason, his armor dark with smoke and blood, his eyes cold, merciless. He wrenched one saber, twisting the blade deeper, and Lason's teeth clenched against a groan that escaped anyway.
Yet even through the pain, Lason's gaze found Ithan.
Amber eyes met the captain's weary ones—tired, yes, but not broken. Lason's lips moved, his voice too weak for the mercenaries around them, but Ithan heard it as clear as a strike of steel.
"Survive."
The word cracked something in him.
Ithan's flames surged, his spear trembling in his grip, but his body locked between instinct and command. His blood screamed for vengeance, his fire roared for slaughter, but Lason's whisper chained him in place.
The captain's head dipped, his eyes closing, his body sagging against the sabers still pinning him upright.
Ithan stood in the mist, Lyra's sobs muffled against Doran's chest, the fire raging around him—and felt the world tilt.
Memories cut through Ithan like jagged glass.
Garrick's gruff voice echoing across the training yard, the old man's calloused hands correcting the way a boy too small for his spear gripped the shaft. The smell of sweat and pine smoke after long days of drills. Garrick standing between him and the villagers' hate, his presence alone enough to silence their scorn. Garrick hauling him from the mud the night the Dionians raided, his spear flashing brighter than any torch.
And then Lason. Garrick's student, his kin in all but blood. The brother Ithan had found in place of the one he never had. Lason, who had shown him not just how to fight but how to survive as a mercenary, how to walk the road without losing himself entirely. The man who had made the wilderness feel less empty.
All taken from him—just as his mother had been, too early, by the cruelty of nature itself.
The weight of it ignited something raw.
Rage.
It wasn't a spark but a torrent, a river of fire bursting loose in his chest. It scoured away thought, smothered instinct, drowned every whisper of restraint. His white flames exploded outward, spilling like a storm that set the mist itself trembling. The air quaked with heat as he lunged forward, every muscle coiled into a single intent.
Kill.
His eyes locked on Anipather, sabers still buried in Lason's body. The captain's silhouette blurred as Ithan drove toward him, fire wrapping his spear in chains that screamed to be unleashed.
But then—
The world shifted.
A ripple passed through the air, subtle but undeniable. Ithan froze mid-stride, his instincts snapping back like a trap. He turned just in time to see a blur—a shape slicing across the haze faster than thought.
Pain.
Something slammed through his ribs, not a blade, not a fist, but something worse. His flesh shuddered, veins crawling with a strange light—violet and gray, crawling outward like rot. His skin blistered where it touched, edges of his body flickering as though they were unraveling.
The rage that had driven him crumpled under the agony. His flames sputtered, his knees gave out, and he hit the ground hard. The stones scraped his skin as he rolled, the world spinning, until he collapsed flat, chest heaving, blood bubbling in his throat.
Bootsteps. Slow. Confident.
Laughter followed them, jagged and cold, cutting through the mist like broken glass.
Ithan lifted his head. Through the haze stepped a figure he had already consigned to ash. His silver eyes gleamed in the firelight, warped with madness, his smile stretched too wide.
Anastomus.
Alive. Whole. Walking past Ithan's prone form as though nothing had touched him.
"Did you really think," he crooned between fits of manic laughter, "that fire could erase me?"
The glow of his eyes caught the mist, and for the first time that night, Ithan felt the cold claw of dread thread itself through his fury.
Ithan's hands clawed at the cobblestones as he tried to push himself up. His arms trembled violently, his muscles refusing to obey. The corruption ate through his ribs in jagged waves, the sensation like molten glass grinding through bone. Every breath was fire and ash in his lungs.
The strange light crawled across his skin, veins bulging black and violet, his flesh blistering as if his body was being peeled away from the inside out. His vision blurred, the edges of the world breaking apart into static. For a moment, he thought he felt his hand fading, the fingers thinning into smoke before snapping back again.
A hiss tore from his teeth.
Not yet.
His amber eyes flared, burning white.
The flames erupted—not in calm arcs but in violent bursts, raw and jagged, as though they too fought for survival. They poured across his ribs, searing the crawling corruption, devouring the rot with a sound like burning meat. The stench filled the air, foul and choking, but Ithan refused to yield.
His whole body convulsed, veins glowing, fire and corruption locked in a vicious tug-of-war. The mist around him writhed under the heat, peeling back in frantic swirls. His skin split, blood sizzling under the blaze, but he forced the fire hotter still, willing it into every inch of his body.
"Not… enough," Ithan spat, blood and fire dripping from his lips. "Not… nearly enough."
The white flames blazed higher, wrapping him like armor, even as the pain tore at his insides.
Anastomus tilted his head, silver eyes gleaming with distorted joy. His grin widened, manic laughter bubbling again as he spread his arms.
"Oh, Ashborn," he crooned, his voice both mocking and reverent. "Let's see how long you can burn before you break."
"Don't kill them, Atticus."
The words froze Ithan where he lay on the scorched ground.
He turned, and his chest tightened. The greatsword-wielder—the one he'd dropped with his flames, the one who should have been sprawled unconscious—was back on his feet. Aeneas loomed behind Lyra and Doran, both of them slumped at his feet, their bodies limp, their breaths shallow. His blade rested lazily across his shoulder, as if daring Ithan to make a move.
For the first time that night, fear cut through Ithan's fire. A prickling cold spread down his spine, not from the mist, but from the truth pressing against him.
He had disobeyed. He had ignored Lason's command, letting his anger and pride outweigh his captain's order. And now—Lyra and Doran lay helpless because of him.
Regret bit sharper than the wounds in his side.
"You must be the Ashborn," Anipather's voice rang out.
Ithan's gaze snapped toward him. The Captain of the Blue Orcas stood amidst the smoke and rubble, sabers dripping crimson, his face as calm as a judge at a trial.
"I've heard the stories," Anipather went on, stepping closer. "The Curseborn who kills Daimons. The gray-haired boy who carries fire in his veins." He gestured with one saber toward the bodies littering the courtyard. "And this company… it even took your name, didn't it? Ashborn."
His lips curled into a mocking smile.
"Impressive—built by a weak man. A man who could have gone further, had he only bent the knee and accepted the Imperium's request. But he didn't. He refused." Anipather raised his saber, its point glinting as it swung toward Ithan. "And now, his failure is yours. Ashborn—your legacy ends here."
"I'll be taking my prize," Anipather said at last, his voice calm, assured. His gaze flicked toward Lyra and Doran lying unconscious at Aeneas's feet. "The girl. The boy. They'll serve the Imperium better than this backwater ever could." He turned his attention back to Ithan, who still knelt in the haze, white fire guttering across his body as it struggled against the crawling rot.
"I don't know if your flames can truly outlast Anastomus' decay," Anipather went on, each word deliberate, like a blade twisting deeper. "But I doubt you have much time left in this world. Think on the path that led you here, Ashborn. Think deeply on your defiance. Perhaps in your next life, you'll make better choices."
He turned, lifting one saber to signal his men. "Finish the work. Leave nothing standing."
Anastomus moved in closer, the mist curling around him as he crouched to meet Ithan's gaze. His silver eyes glowed like cold stars, his grin a fractured thing.
"Thank you, Ashborn," he said softly, almost reverently. "If it weren't for you, I would never have understood. Your fire showed me how to tear open the veil—how to advance." His grin widened, teeth bared. "So thank you, my fellow Curseborn. You've given me more than you know."
He rose, laughter bubbling from his chest, distorted and cruel. But before he left, he paused, looking down at the ground next to Ithan. There was a bundle of cloth wrapped around something, which Anastomus could sense. He picked it up and unwrapped it, peering at what was inside. A grin, wide and delirious with madness, fell on his face as he sealed it again. He waved at Ithan and left.
Behind him, Atticus hefted Lyra and Doran over his shoulders as though they were sacks of grain. Their heads lolled against his armor, breaths faint but steady. He spared Ithan one last look, his greatsword slung casually across his back. He wanted more—wanted to finish what they'd started—but the fight was no longer his to take.
And Ithan—
Ithan lay in the rubble, blood spilling hot and thick from his ribs where the decay had chewed his flesh to ruin. Every breath was shallow fire in his lungs, every heartbeat a hammer of pain. His white flame still burned, stubborn, defiant, wrapping his wounds in searing light—but it flickered like a candle drowning in wind.
The mist pressed closer again. His vision blurred. The sound of laughter and marching boots grew fainter, like the world was already moving on without him.
And still his fire fought—burning, choking, refusing to die, even as the boy beneath it bled into the stones.