As they pushed into the crowd, Vivian led the way with surprising ease. Somehow, they made it to the front of the growing mass of onlookers. Arcose felt it immediately—the shift in the air. It was heavier here, almost suffocating. His legs trembled slightly, not from fear, but as if something unseen pressed down on him, coiling around his lungs, making each breath harder to take.
In the center stood a man in an ash-grey cloak, his skin dusted with soot, his black, glassy eyes vacant—like twin voids staring into something beyond human comprehension. He said nothing. Only held a flute in his hands, bleached and cracked, as if carved from scorched bone.
Arcose blinked, eyes narrowing. There was something off about this man. Something... wrong.
The crowd watched in tense anticipation. Arcose leaned in slightly, trying to catch murmurs drifting through the crowd.
"I heard... he's an Ash Seer," whispered a woman behind him.
"A what?" her companion asked, skeptical.
"Blind wanderers. They tell stories that sometimes come true... prophecies, or so the stories say."
"Pfft. Superstition. Don't tell me you believe that crap," the man muttered, waving his hand dismissively.
Then, the flute sounded.
It wasn't music.
It was haunting—a low, broken sound like wind screaming through the ruins of some forgotten land. Ash began to rise from the ground, gathering unnaturally, drawn into the space around the Seer like moths to a silent flame.
The ash began to move.
Shapes formed.
A boy, small and ragged, collapsed in the snow. A girl with violet hair knelt beside him, her hands cupping his face.
Arcose blinked, confused. His breath caught, but he didn't know why.
The ash shifted.
Another figure emerged—a tall silhouette with a crown of thorns and burning eyes. Blood dripped from his hands. The boy from before stood again, his face older, his expression hard. Cold. A king. A tyrant.
Gasps spread through the crowd.
Arcose didn't say anything. He watched, heart pounding. Something about the scene made his skin crawl, but he couldn't place it. Just illusions, he told himself. Just tricks.
The ash swirled one last time, crafting a final image—the crowned figure standing atop a mountain of corpses, flames curling at his feet. Behind him, another figure appeared. A girl, her face turned away, almost familiar. Almost.
That's when something went wrong.
The Seer faltered mid-play. The ash began to convulse. The crowned figure flared—real fire bursting to life inside the swirling ash. The flames snarled, wild and angry, not part of the performance.
The Seer's fingers slipped. His flute let out a jagged, cracked note. His body tensed as if something inside him was being pulled.
Then—
A fiery tendril snapped from the puppet, lashing out toward the crowd.
Arcose didn't think.
Something inside him tore loose.
Time fractured.
Heat surged behind his eyes, his vision dimmed—and then everything exploded into motion.
Threads—golden, nearly invisible—snapped into existence around his arms, writhing like veins of light. They looped and twisted, weaving a crude shield just in time. The fire struck it with a violent crash, sparks exploding outward. The sound—glass breaking under pressure.
Arcose moved without thought. The Weave lashed outward, wild and untrained, coiling around the fire like a predator wrapping its prey. The flame shuddered—then imploded into motes of light.
Screams echoed around him. The crowd scattered. The Seer collapsed to his knees, laughing softly, as if relieved.
"The fire remembers you…" the old man whispered, staring blindly at the space Arcose had stood in.
Arcose stood there, his breath ragged. Threads of golden light unraveled from his arms, vanishing into the air. Burns lined his forearms. Nothing fatal, but it stung. The power had protected him. And nearly consumed him.
He looked at his hands, confused, dazed—but said nothing.
Behind him, the whispers began.