The days felt longer now. Colder, too. Aric wasn't sure if it was the weather or just the weight of everything on his back.
He didn't speak much. Neither did Maelis.
They walked through a frostbitten forest, the sky grey, the trees bare. The Emberblade stayed at Aric's side, humming low like it was half-asleep. But even when it slept, it still burned—not in his hands, but inside him.
"You're quieter than usual," Maelis said one morning, as they sat near a half-dead fire. He didn't look up from the bread he was tearing.
Aric shrugged. "Trying to figure out how to live with a sword that nearly set half the woods on fire."
Maelis snorted a little. "You didn't burn that much."
Aric cracked a small smile, then sighed. "It's not the fire. It's what I felt when I used it. It wasn't just heat or rage—it was… something else. Something darker."
Maelis finally looked up. "You'll feel worse before you feel better. That's the truth of it."
"How encouraging."
"Didn't say it to cheer you up," Maelis said, tone dry. "Said it so you'd be ready."
They packed up slowly and kept moving. The trees began to thin, and the wind picked up. There was something in the air—restlessness, maybe. Like the forest itself was holding its breath.
Around midday, Aric stopped.
There were prints in the snow. Fresh. Too big for wolves. Too light for humans.
"Maelis."
"I see 'em."
They both crouched low. A hush fell over the woods. The prints led off the trail and vanished near a patch of rocks.
Suddenly, Aric's chest tightened. Not from fear. Not even danger. It was the flame. It surged without warning, like something had whispered its name.
And then—they came.
Figures stepped out from behind the trees. Tall. Hooded. Eyes glowing faint green like mist caught in moonlight.
Wraithborn. Again.
Aric's hand went to his sword, but Maelis grabbed his wrist.
"Not yet."
They waited.
One of the Wraithborn stepped forward. Its voice was like wind through dead leaves. "The fire calls louder. It burns too soon."
"Back off," Maelis warned. "He's not ready for you."
"No. He burns. And soon… he will burn everything."
Aric felt the fire inside twist. It wasn't screaming this time. It was waiting. Patient.
They came fast. Too fast.
Maelis moved like a shadow—graceful and sharp. He met them in the snow, blades clashing, breath fogging the air with each motion. Aric held back, but the flame—it didn't want to wait.
He drew the sword.
Flames poured out, red and gold, lighting up the forest. But it wasn't clean fire—it was wild. Angry. Maybe even hungry.
The Wraithborn screamed as they burned, twisting in the blaze. The snow sizzled. Trees hissed. The fire didn't just kill—it devoured.
And when it was over… silence.
Ash. Smoke. Heat still lingering in the cold.
Aric stood alone in the middle of it all, blade still glowing faintly. His hands shook. His breath came hard and fast.
Maelis limped back to him. Blood on his sleeve. Worry in his eyes.
"You felt it, didn't you?" he asked quietly.
Aric nodded. "It wasn't just power. It liked it."
"The sword wants to be used. But it doesn't care what it turns you into."
Aric looked at his reflection in the blade. For a second, he didn't recognize his own eyes.