Rain tapped softly on the thatched roof.
Alaric lay on his straw mattress, staring at the dark ceiling. Tomas's quiet snoring came from the other side of the room. Marla's breathing was slower, a steady rhythm.
He raised his right hand.
"Light," he whispered.
A tiny flame bloomed on his fingertip, just bright enough to paint faint shadows around the room: Marla's old wooden chest, the small table, Tomas's worn boots by the door.
He'd practiced every night since the Harvest Vigil. Harn had laughed and said he'd get bored.
He hadn't.
The warmth in his finger felt familiar now. Comforting.
Magic is real. I can really do it.
He turned his hand slowly, watching the little flame. If he moved his focus just a bit, it stretched, then shrank again.
If I can control this much… someday, maybe…
He didn't know how to finish the thought. His eyelids drooped. The flame flickered out as his concentration slipped.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly. He listened to it for a while, then let his eyes close.
Sleep didn't stay gentle for long.
Sirens screamed.
Red lights flashed off tall glass buildings. People ran down a cracked street, faces white in the glow of huge screens. A woman clutched a baby. A man shouted into a small device pressed to his ear.
"—they launched, they actually launched—"
A metal box on a pole blared a flat voice: "Please proceed to the nearest shelter. This is not a drill."
Shelter? Where?
The body he was in stumbled, slammed into a wall. His chest hurt. His legs wouldn't move fast enough.
The sky—
The sky was wrong.
A point of light hung there, brighter than the sun. Growing. Eating the blue.
His breath came in sharp, useless gasps.
We can't stop it. We did this. We—
White.
Light so bright it hurt in a way that didn't feel like anything in this world. Heat like a giant hand pressing down on everything. The street, the people, the buildings—all folding and tearing and—
Alaric jerked awake with a strangled gulp.
The room was dark, just a faint orange glow from dying embers in the hearth. The rain had stopped. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
He pressed a hand to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.
What… was that?
He'd had nightmares before. Wolves in the fields. Things in the woods. But those were fuzzy, easy to forget.
This had been sharp. Too clear. Full of things he didn't have names for.
Shelter. Siren. Launched.
He bit his lip.
That wasn't here. That wasn't Shuru. It felt like… somewhere else. Like he'd been someone else.
"Just a dream," he whispered. His voice shook. "Just a dream."
But his body didn't believe it. His skin still remembered the heat. His ears still rang.
He lay back down, staring into the dark.
If something that big falls from the sky… what can anyone do?
The feeling from the dream—being small and useless while the world ended—sat heavy in his chest.
I don't want that. I don't want to be like that. Ever.
He didn't know why the word "again" tried to sneak into that thought, so he pushed it away.
Slowly, he made a fist.
If heroes can defeat Demon Gods… if magic is real…
Then maybe one person really can matter.
I want to be someone who can do something.
Outside, somewhere in the village, a dog barked once. Distant thunder rolled over the hills.
Alaric closed his eyes, holding that wish tight like the tiny flame on his fingertip, and this time sleep took him without dreams.