Greyfall was still a day away, maybe two. The map Maelis carried was old and frayed, and the roads had changed—either by time or by war. Aric didn't ask. He didn't care.
All he could think about was the fire. How it felt when it roared out of him, like it had its own mind. Like it had its own hunger.
He walked ahead of Maelis now, boots crunching on the frost-covered path. Maelis said nothing. Just followed.
Around midday, the wind picked up. A storm was coming. Aric could feel it in his bones—an ache in his shoulders, a tightness behind his eyes. The kind of chill that wasn't just weather.
"Something's following us," Maelis said after a while.
Aric didn't turn. "You're sure?"
"Three sets of prints behind ours. Light, but fast."
Aric nodded once. "Not Wraithborn?"
"No," Maelis said. "Too clumsy."
They didn't slow down. Let the prints catch up, if they dared.
Eventually, the trees opened into a narrow gorge. Jagged rock walls on either side, a frozen stream running through the center. It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that didn't belong in nature.
They crossed halfway before Aric heard it.
A twig snapped.
Then another.
Then a voice: "You can stop running now."
Aric turned. Three figures stood on the ridge above—cloaked, but not Wraithborn. Human. One of them carried a crossbow. Another had two curved daggers. The third wore a mask made of bone.
"Lovely," Maelis muttered. "Bandits."
"We're not here to kill you," the one with the mask said. His voice was oddly calm. "We're here to offer a trade."
Aric raised an eyebrow. "What trade?"
"The sword. You give us the Emberblade, and we let you walk away."
Aric stared at him. Then laughed once, sharp and humorless.
"Wrong day, wrong boy," he said.
Mask-man tilted his head. "Are you sure? That fire of yours… it's noisy. You'll have more eyes on you soon. We're the nice ones."
Without warning, the man with the daggers lunged.
Maelis stepped in, caught him mid-leap, and slammed him to the ground with a speed that didn't match his age. The other two hesitated. Big mistake.
Aric didn't even touch the sword this time. The flame came anyway.
It wasn't an explosion. Not like before.
This was focused. Controlled. A thin line of fire curled around his hand like a whip—and with a flick of his wrist, it shot forward, catching the crossbow mid-fire. The weapon melted in seconds.
The masked man took a step back. "You've learned," he said. "That's… dangerous."
"Tell me something I don't know," Aric replied.
The man turned and disappeared over the ridge, dragging the dagger-wielder with him. The forest swallowed them whole.
Maelis stood up slowly, brushing dirt off his coat. "You didn't burn half the valley this time. That's progress."
Aric didn't answer. He was still staring at his hand, where the flame had curled. It had listened to him this time. Obeyed.
But it hadn't felt like his fire.
It felt like something else.
Something waiting.