Morning crept pale and cold through the infirmary window. The rain had softened into a whisper, and the mist outside hung low like smoke that had forgotten its fire.
Kaal sat cross-legged on the cot, the two leather-bound tomes laid before him. His fingers hovered over the brighter one—the Book of the Phoenix—but something deeper drew him to the darker volume. Its cover was cracked and ash-gray, embossed with the faint outline of a bird folding its wings.
He opened it carefully. The first page greeted him with elegant script written in faded gold:
> If you are reading this, then flame has already left your world.
The Book of Ashes is not the end, but the stillness before rebirth.
Every ember carries its own shadow—one cannot live without the other.
To move with the rhythm of ash is to awaken what sleeps within.
Breathe. Move. And remember: from the dark comes light.
There was no name. Only the faint imprint of a burned hand pressed into the page like a silent vow.
Kaal frowned. "From the dark comes light?"
He turned the page and found an illustration: a woman bowing low, two slim sticks in her hands, her body flowing in a spiral motion—half her silhouette drawn in bright ink, the other half in shadow. Below her feet were the first steps:
> Lesson One — The Breath of Ember.
In stillness, there is warmth. In movement, life.
Next to the book, resting on the cot, lay two small wooden sticks wrapped carefully in cloth—the ones his mother had tucked alongside the books. Kaal picked them up, feeling the smooth weight in his small hands, his pulse quickening.
He rose quietly, sticks trembling in his grip, and mimicked the figure's pose, clumsy and unsure.
He inhaled. His chest filled until his ribs ached. He exhaled—slowly, carefully—just as the script instructed.
At first, nothing happened. Then, a strange rush swept through him—like the world itself had taken a breath with him. The air hummed faintly; his heart raced. For a heartbeat, it felt as if something inside him had opened—warm, heavy, and alive.
His skin prickled. His head felt light, almost dizzy. And yet… It felt good.
He exhaled again, deeper this time, and the sensation returned stronger—a pulse that filled him with something he couldn't name. It wasn't fire, not yet, but it felt like standing near one: dangerous, bright, alive.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. The room fell still again.
Kaal blinked, dazed, his breath shaky. "That was… weird."
He pressed the book to his chest. Maybe this was what she wanted him to find.
Outside, a horn sounded. Voices shouted through the rain.
> "Prepare yourselves! The Chief Commander has arrived!"
The shout thundered through the outpost. The air seemed to shift—heavier, colder.
Kaal looked down at the book and sticks in his hands. Though the ink on the page was still, it almost seemed to burn faintly red beneath his touch.
---
The barracks doors burst open with a crash. Soldiers froze as the Chief Commander strode in, water dripping from his armor, his boots striking the stone floor like hammers. Even the torches flickered uneasily under the weight of his presence. Silence fell instantly.
The commander stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Chief, the report—"
"I already know," the Chief said, voice low, colder than the stone walls. "I came to handle some things for the Duke." His words carried a weight that pressed against every soldier in the room.
"We're going to wipe out the remaining tribes," he continued, eyes glinting. "I expect you know where they are situated."
Startled, the commander answered, composed but formal. "Yes, sir. Scouts have already located them."
"Good. Get your men ready. We march at dawn. Plans will be finalized tonight. If your troops are not prepared, we will have… difficulties."
His eyes gleamed with a sharp intensity, then returned to their unyielding mask.
"Oh, and there was a single survivor?"
"Yes, sir," the commander replied shortly.
"And where is he?"
"He is in the infirmary."
"Lead me there. I want to see this boy."
---
The infirmary door swung open, and the Chief Commander entered, his presence filling the room like a shadow stretching across the walls. Kaal instinctively recoiled, clutching the leather-wrapped books and the wooden sticks to his chest. There was something about the man—an aura of power that pressed against him, making his small body tremble.
The Chief's sharp eyes immediately fell on the boy, then lingered on the books in his hands. Something about them caught his attention, though he said nothing aloud.
"I hear you're the only survivor of the tribe's attack," the Chief said, voice calm but laced with authority. "Well, you look quite healthy. I'll be taking you for a ride tomorrow."
Kaal's eyes shot wide. A ride? He hadn't left the infirmary in what felt like ages. Part of him wanted to sneak out and practice the dances in the books—to chase that strange, exhilarating surge he had felt when moving with the rhythm of fire and shadow.
"Where… where are we going?" he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
The Chief's lips curved faintly. "We're going to where the tribes are situated. Let's just say… we're doing some cleaning up. Something that should have been done a long time ago, if I do say so myself. Get some good clothes—we leave in the morning."
With that, he turned and left the infirmary with the commander, the heavy weight of his presence lingering.
Kaal sat frozen, mouth agape, mind racing. What… where are the tribes? How? What does he mean by cleaning up?
The leather-wrapped books and wooden sticks felt heavier than ever in his hands, as if they carried not only the weight of his mother's legacy but also the burden of what was about to come.
To be continued_