The tavern's stables reeked of damp straw and old sweat. The beams above sagged with age, their wood swollen from years of river mist. Horses shifted uneasily in their stalls, ears flicking, tails lashing at invisible pests. They smelled something the men did not. Their breaths came quick and steaming, hooves clattering on the planks as if warning of things yet unseen.
The guards rotated in pairs, armor dulled by travel and grief. Lanterns swayed on their hooks, spilling a tired glow that barely reached the rafters. Every creak of the timbers overhead seemed too loud in the brittle quiet.
Leo lay on a bed of straw, staring into the dark beams. Sleep would not come. The shard pulsed faintly in his palm, a second heartbeat that refused to quiet. Its voice curled through the marrow of his bones.
They circle you. They smell the ember beneath your skin.
He turned, restless. Owen lay curled nearby, clutching a scrap of parchment even in sleep, as though afraid someone might steal his thoughts. Across the room, the boy Leo had saved murmured in dreams, his small hands twitching as though grasping for something lost.
Then,
A board creaked outside.
Leo's eyes snapped open. He sat up, every muscle taut.
At the stable door, the watchman stirred. "Who's there?" His voice carried just beyond the lantern glow.
No answer. Only the constant rush of the river, hushed but relentless.
The horses went mad first. They snorted and screamed, stamping, eyes wide with rolling white. One reared high, striking against the stall. The lantern flame trembled, then thinned into a choking black smoke before vanishing entirely.
The shard shivered in Leo's grasp. They come.
From the yard, the darkness thickened. Shapes bled from it, three shadows moving as if cut loose from their owners. Cloaked figures, faces hidden, sliding across stone without sound.
The guard raised his spear. "Halt!"
One of the intruders lifted a hand, fingers crooked into a sign. Words hissed, low and serpentine. The spearhead brightened, not with fire but with sickly rust. In the guard's grip, the iron crumbled into flakes that scattered like sand.
He cried out, stumbling back, empty handed.
Leo's chest seized. "Sofia!"
The stable door slammed open before his voice could echo. Sofia entered like a drawn blade, steel already in hand, her scar catching silver in the moonlight. Behind her rushed two more guards, blades raised.
The cloaked intruders did not flee. Instead, one stepped forward and lowered his hood. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes pale as washed bone. Ink twisted across his throat, a serpent tattoo, twin heads knotted together, fangs poised toward his veins.
His lips peeled back in a smile that did not reach his eyes. "The ember walks with you. Hand him over, and your blood may stay in your bodies."
Sofia's sword lifted, steady as a mountain. "You'll find only steel here."
The man's laughter was thin, hungry. "Steel bends. Fire consumes. He belongs to the Serpent." His gaze slid past her, fastening on Leo. "The shard sings in you louder than any vessel we have seen. You will come to us, boy. The ember has chosen."
The shard inside Leo roared at the words, its pulse hammering against his skin. Heat licked his palm, searing through cloth, making his bones throb.
They are mine; it hissed. Pretenders. Thieves. I will show you, their ash.
Leo staggered, clutching his wrist. "No-"
The cultists struck like arrows loosed. One hurled a knife of blackened iron, its edge hissing as it split the air. Another whispered a curse, the words thick and broken, warping the lantern shadows like melted glass.
Sofia met the first blow with steel, her sword sparking as she drove the attacker back with a grunt. The guards clashed with the others, steel ringing, curses and shouts cracking the night wide open.
Leo fell against a stall wall, sweat slick across his brow. The shard clawed at him, pressing heat through his veins, demanding release. Every breath scalded his lungs.
Owen scrambled to his feet, parchment in hand, fumbling a quill already inked. He scrawled furiously, lines of script flaring faint blue. "Leo, hold it! Don't give in! If you let go now-"
But the shard surged, drowning him.
Release me. Burn them. Burn them all.
A cultist broke past the melee, dagger raised high, face twisted in hunger. He lunged straight for Leo.
Leo's body moved before thought. His palm flared, cloth turning to ash. A bolt of molten light burst outward, fire roaring with the voice of a furnace. The cultist screamed as flame devoured flesh, collapsing in a heap of char and smoke, bones blackened to brittle husks.
For a heartbeat, the world froze.
The clash of steel stopped. Horses whinnied in terror. Sofia, the guards, even the remaining cultists, all turned to stare. Fire still glowed in Leo's hand, licking his fingers like a crown of flame.
The leader's smile widened. He lowered his blade, not in defeat, but in reverence. "Yes. There it is. The shard sings truer in you than in any we've seen. You are marked. The Serpent waits."
He hissed words that made the very air sour, and the cultists unraveled into shadow. Their cloaks tore into wisps, dissolving into the night.
Silence crashed down like a falling stone. Only the panting of men, the restless stomping of horses, and Leo's ragged breath remained.
Sofia did not lower her blade. Her eyes burned across the distance, not with hatred, but with grim certainty, as though something she had long feared now stood plain before her.
"You've painted our trail in fire," she said, her voice low, iron-hard. "And the world will see it."
Leo's hand still glowed faintly, terrible and unclean. He swallowed against the ash in his throat. "They knew me."
The shard pulsed, smug, satisfied. And they will never stop.