Dawn came red and uncertain, bleeding along the horizon and casting the valley town in a haze of firelight and smoke. The river mist hung low, curling through the crooked streets like fingers reaching for secrets. Every roof, every shuttered window seemed heavy with watchful eyes. The square outside the tavern bore the scars of midnight's chaos, burned timbers half-collapsed, a market stall turned to blackened shards, and on the cobblestones, charred outlines where shadows had writhed like living things.
The townsfolk gathered early, drawn by rumor and unease. Women clutched baskets, frozen mid-step, eyes wide as they whispered among themselves. Old men muttered in corners, nodding toward the wagon line with hands gnarled like roots. Children stopped their games, fingers pressed to lips, pointing behind their mothers' skirts at the caravan as if it were a beast. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, sweat, and suspicion.
"They saw it," one guard hissed, leaning against the stable door, voice low and sharp. "He burned a man alive with no torch, no spell we know. Just, fire in his hand."
"Not a man," another said, eyes flicking toward the shadowed rafters. "Not anymore. A vessel. Something beyond the flesh."
Inside the stable, unease clung like cobwebs. Horses shifted nervously, nostrils flaring, ears swiveling toward sounds no human could hear. Sofia stood near the doorway, helm under her arm, speaking in hushed tones with two guards. Each word felt heavy, careful, but their gazes betrayed the same tension that knotted Leo's chest.
He sat on his bedroll, head bowed, staring at his hand. The skin was unmarked, no burns, no scars. Yet he felt the ember beneath, a heat that throbbed with its own heartbeat, unwilling to be quiet.
Owen crouched beside him, ink-stained hands shaking slightly as he sketched feverishly on parchment. Symbols and lines twisted across the page like flames caught in water. "It's… like resonance," he muttered. "The shard amplifies, but it isn't random. It responds to will, to intent. You didn't just release it, you directed it. That's… terrifying. But-" He cut himself off at the hard glance Sofia cast from the doorway.
"Enough," her voice rang, iron over straw and fear. "This is no trick of firelight. Last night, the Serpent came for him. And now the entire town knows we carry danger with us. Look outside if you doubt it."
Leo lifted his gaze. Through the slats of the stable wall, faces pressed against windows, peering, whispering. They were silent observers, and yet every pair of eyes felt like a thousand judgments.
The boy he had saved stirred, rubbing his eyes. "They said you were a hero," he murmured, voice small and trembling. "But heroes don't… burn people to bones."
The words struck deeper than any blade. Leo clenched his fists. Ash. That was all it felt like; gray, bitter, impossible to swallow.
Sofia stepped closer, scar catching the dim morning light. Her voice dropped, weight heavy as iron. "We cannot pass unnoticed anymore. The cult marked you, and now the town will whisper your name to every trader, every mercenary, every zealot with ears. Do you understand? You are not just a boy with bad luck anymore, Leo. You are a beacon."
A shiver ran through him, not from the chill.
Beacon.
The shard pulsed smugly beneath his skin. A beacon draws followers.
Let them come. All will kneel or burn.
Leo swallowed hard, fighting the urge to hurl the shard's words back into the night.
Owen straightened, ink smudged across his cheek. "Captain, you can't speak of him like he's cargo. He saved us. He saved me."
Sofia's eyes softened for just a heartbeat, a glimpse behind the iron mask. Then the weight returned. "And what will you say when the next town refuses us? When bounty seekers come for his head? When the Serpent sends a hundred more cloaks instead of three?"
Silence pressed in, thick as river fog.
A guard pushed the stable door open, face grim. "Captain. Rumor spreads already. Some say we should leave before nightfall. Others suggest handing the boy over to the Council. One merchant's muttering about a bounty."
Sofia's jaw tightened, her scar cutting a shadow across her face. She did not look away from Leo, and yet her eyes softened, tracing the boy's outline like a careful measure of danger. "Of course," she said, voice low but steel-sharp. "If you stay with us, boy, understand this: your fire will not burn only your enemies. It will scorch every path we walk. Decide if you have the strength for that, because the road ahead will not forgive weakness."
Leo's throat tightened. He wanted to tell her he hadn't asked for this, that he hadn't asked for the shard, or the whispers, or the cult's hungry eyes. But the words lodged in ash on his tongue, bitter and lifeless.
Outside, a bell rang for market opening. Its clear tone should have been cheerful, but through the mist, it sounded more like a knell, a toll for what had been burned and what was yet to come.
The shard pulsed again, whispering from the hollow of his chest, curling like smoke through his veins: Run, or burn. There is no middle path.
Leo clenched his fists, staring at the rising sun through the fog, and for the first time, he felt the weight of choice and fire pressing down with equal measure.