The road had long since disappeared beneath thickets of root and stone. The sky, though clear, held a weight—like something was pressing down just beyond sight.
Darius Flintstone trudged forward, his pace steady but not aimless. He walked like one accustomed to carrying burdens: not just the ones across his shoulders, but those deeper, older—the kind that sit behind the eyes.
He stood tall, broad-shouldered, a mountain in motion. His skin bore the hue of sun-warmed clay, cracked in places along his forearms where glowing scars pulsed faintly beneath the surface. Moss-green eyes, heavy with memory, scanned the land ahead with the grim patience of someone who expected no easy answers.
Strapped to his back was a hammer—Stonehowl. It was an ancient thing, forged of stone and something older still. Its head was jagged, as though shaped by the world itself rather than by tools, and faint runes danced along its flanks, pulsing only when the wielder's heart stirred. Darius did not know its name. He did not know its nature. He simply called it his.
His stomach growled. He ignored it.
He had come in search of a man—a tyrant they called a Duke, whispered to be tied to the Shaded Kingdom. This man, Darius had been told, had taken someone. A girl with white hair and wind in her blood. A girl Darius had not seen in years but never once forgotten.
Now he found himself standing in the ruins of a forgotten checkpoint. The ground was scorched, but not with fire. There was no chaos, no broken spells lingering in the air—only clean, surgical marks where lightning had met earth. The scent of ozone clung faintly to the stones.
Darius lowered his hand to the ground, brushing a fingertip across a shallow burn mark. It was fresh.
A cough broke the silence. He rose, turning toward the source—a half-collapsed hut.
Someone was alive.
Darius pushed through splintered beams and pulled a broken man from the wreckage. The bandit's face was bloodied, his eyes sunken with exhaustion and fear.
Darius said nothing. He simply lifted him by the collar and waited.
The man coughed. "Duke's gone," he muttered. "Didn't even see how. One moment he was barking orders, the next… down. Quiet. Quick."
Darius' grip tightened.
"Who did it?"
"Some kid," the bandit said. "Young. Red hair, I think. Sparks coming off him. Didn't chant. Didn't posture. Just… struck. And then he left."
Darius blinked slowly. "He was alone?"
"No," the bandit said. "Girl with him. White hair. Bow on her back. Looked like she was walking beside him. Like they'd been together a while."
The hammer on Darius' back pulsed faintly, as if sensing the shift inside him.
He leaned closer. "Was she enchanted?"
The bandit frowned, confused. "She looked calm. Spoke to him, I think. Not like a prisoner."
Darius stared into the man's face, searching for a lie. He found none.
A moment later, he dropped the man. The bandit groaned as he slumped into the dirt.
Darius turned toward the open path—what little remained of it.
"So… he's taken her."
The wind stirred his cloak.
"I'll bring her back."
Then, quietly, as if to himself:
"I'll break whatever spell he's cast."
He set off again, boots pressing deep into the earth with every step. Each footfall left small cracks in the soil behind him.
Stonehowl whispered. But Darius did not listen.
---
The path ahead wound like a memory—uncertain at the edges, but leading forward all the same. The sky above had softened into quiet hues of blue and ash-grey. Wind stirred gently across the hills, moving through the tall grass like a whisper spoken between two old friends.
Neil walked in silence, his hands tucked loosely into his belt. Sparks of residual lightning flickered now and then between his fingertips, fading almost before they could be seen. His steps were measured, but not cautious—he moved like someone who had been taught to listen more than he spoke.
Beside him, Zephyra walked with a gait born of instinct, her white hair caught in the wind, her bow slung comfortably across her back. She had asked few questions since the encounter with the Tribute Collector, but the silence between them was no longer one of discomfort—it was the silence of thought shared, but unspoken.
Finally, she broke it.
"You never really told me how you beat him."
Neil glanced at her, but said nothing at first.
She clarified, "The Tribute Collector."
He looked ahead again. "He had the advantage. More aura. More control over his casting."
Zephyra tilted her head. "Then how?"
"I stopped trying to meet him head on," Neil said. "I let him press forward. I let him think I was scrambling. Then I stepped out of rhythm, found the moment when his aura shifted from caution to confidence—and struck."
Zephyra's gaze narrowed, thoughtful. "That's not how I imagined a Lightning Caster would fight."
Neil arched a brow. "How's that?"
"Lightning's supposed to be bold," she replied. "Fast. Direct. I always thought Lightning Casters were like the storms themselves—untamed and loud. But you…" She shook her head. "You fight like a Wind Caster. You adapt. You redirect. You wait for the exact moment when the air shifts—then you strike."
Neil didn't speak for a while.
Finally, he said, "My master didn't teach me to move like lightning. He taught me to understand the flow of aura—not just mine, but my opponent's. To feel it. To respect its rhythm. And to shape my casting around it."
Zephyra blinked. "You don't just use your element. You respond to others."
Neil nodded faintly. "The art he passed down wasn't meant to dominate. It was meant to reveal. When your aura listens, the world shows its path."
She was quiet at that.
Then, after a moment, she said, "The Divine Master of Wind called you an old friend."
Neil looked over, his expression unreadable. "I don't remember that life. But maybe… wind and lightning have always known each other. Distant kin who speak in silence."
Neil was quiet for a long moment. The wind stirred gently around them, brushing his hair aside.
"I remember standing before him," he said at last, his voice low. "I remember the power… like the sky was breathing."
He glanced sideways, not quite meeting her eyes.
"But I don't understand why he knew me. Or why part of me felt like I knew him back."
Zephyra didn't press him. Some truths, she knew, had to unfold in silence.
They walked on, following the path back toward the ruins, where stone and memory waited for them both.
And far behind, a presence was drawing near—unshakable, relentless, and born of earth.
---
The throne room of the Burning Kingdom was unlike any other hall in the realm. Carved from obsidian, its walls shimmered faintly in the glow of the Eternal Pyre, a flame said to have burned since the first ember of the kingdom was born. It was not warmth that filled the hall, but weight—an ancient heat that pressed into the bones and reminded all who entered that fire did not comfort, it consumed.
Ralik stood before that flame now, cloaked in crimson silk stitched with gold thread. The firelight danced across his sharp features, catching in his eyes like flickers of something deeper—something neither sorrow nor pride could fully explain.
Before him stood the court: nobles, generals, scholars. All dressed in ceremonial attire, faces masked in practiced stoicism. The Fire Elder, draped in his ceremonial mantle, held out a scepter of scorched bronze.
His voice, low and resolute, echoed through the hall.
"With the Princess absent, and the kingdom in need of voice and rule, we name Ralik, Prince of Flame, as Lord Regent of the Burning Kingdom."
There was no cheer. Only silence, followed by measured applause.
Ralik bowed his head, eyes closed for the length of a single breath.
When he spoke, his tone was solemn—measured and humble, as though the weight of the mantle burdened him already.
"Until my sister returns, I vow to serve the flame—not as its master, but as its guardian."
The words were perfect. Too perfect.
The Fire Elder watched him carefully, his expression unreadable.
---
Later, when the torches burned lower and the nobles had retreated, Ralik walked alone through the inner halls of the palace. Here, the shadows moved differently—tighter, heavier, less forgiving.
Wolfkhan waited in one such corridor, his towering form cloaked in a traveler's mantle, the torchlight flickering along the lines of his wolfen jaw.
He did not bow.
"And so, the boy becomes the voice of the kingdom," he said, his voice thick and amused.
Ralik didn't stop walking. "The flame needed a voice. Now it has one."
Wolfkhan's eyes followed him. "Will it be your voice, or mine?"
Ralik paused at the end of the hall. His face was half-shadowed, but his eyes were clear.
"It will be ours… until I no longer need yours."
Wolfkhan grinned slowly. "Good. I'd have been disappointed if you stayed obedient for long."
Ralik turned away without another word, disappearing into the deeper halls of the Flame.
Behind him, the Eternal Pyre flickered—as if something within it stirred uneasily.