The last embers were suffocated in a whisper of steam, snuffed out beneath a dozen hands weaving water spells like quiet prayers. The forest smoldered. Smoke curled into the sky, but no one found the boy who had set it all ablaze.
Icariel returned to the inn unnoticed. No guards. No questions. No eyes lingered long enough to remember his shape.
He slipped through the crooked wooden door like a ghost in soaked velvet, cloak heavy with ash and stolen breath. His boots creaked against the old floorboards as he moved to the barrels in the corner, far from the drunken laughter and flickering oil lamps. There, in the quietest shadow, he sat and leaned back against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling like it was the sky of a world that would never be kind.
"…Everything I do becomes a curse to carry," Icariel whispered. "Voice… isn't it unfair? Why does everything keep spiraling?"
A moment passed, as if even the air hesitated—then the answer came, old and heavy like it had lived a thousand lives:
"That is how life is for people like you. It will never go as planned. You must always wait for the unexpected, and bleed when it arrives."
Icariel let out a breath that smelled like scorched moss and fear.
"…You're right," he muttered.
"We needed a way to hide your mana body. And we found it—not through logic, but through accident. That's what survival is: cutting your fingers until one bleeds gold."
Icariel cracked a crooked smile. "Now I can hide my mana… No one can trace me. Not even the mages' spirit zone or elven sight. That's a blessing."
"It's more than a blessing. That door opened for you because your mana is pure. And with pure mana, paths will always open."
"Is it really that special?" he asked.
"Yes. Pure mana is a rarity. Especially in humans. Most are born limited—caged in skin that refuses to expand. Only the rare few break that shell."
"Like me?" he asked, voice barely more than breath.
"…No. You are something else entirely."
A silence. Soft. Personal.
Then Icariel smiled. "Because I have you."
The voice paused. That ancient echo in his head grew still—just for a breath. As if remembering something old. Then:
"…Ask, then."
"The Abyss Gates… what did she mean by them?" Icariel leaned forward, eyes dimmed like smoke. "You know what they are, don't you?"
"I do. But I will only tell you if you choose to enter them. They are not part of your path yet."
Another silence.
Then the voice asked, low and strange:
"…Do you truly plan on rescuing that girl? And killing that whatever she was guarding?"
Icariel's hands clenched. His eyes darkened like a storm-pool as he spoke slowly, words like stones dropped into water.
"Immortality. That artifact—the one that grants five minutes of undying flesh. That's what I need. With it, I'll do it. I'll tear her from that Abyss seal. I'll burn that monster down with my white lightning. Since my life isn't in danger if I get that artifact I've got nothing to lose… and everything to gain."
"…And what if you don't find it?"
"Then nothing," Icariel said, his voice firm. "It won't be easy to find—she knew that too. But I made my promise clear: if I ever come across the artifact, I'll keep my word. I'll come back and slay that monster. After all... I want a life worth bragging about. A life written in chapters. And saving her? That'd be one hell of a chapter."
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling again, lips curling with something bitter and hopeful all at once.
"I'm going to sleep. Tomorrow… let's hope no new trouble stirs."
But trouble had already bloomed.
Even as the boy slept beneath the wooden beams and forgotten dreams, the city awoke to murmurs and myths—of fire, of water, of a nameless figure slipping through a dungeon's teeth and escaping unseen.
The world was whispering.
And Icariel… had no idea.
The morning broke not with light, but with a pulse.
A thrum of awareness stirred Icariel from his sleep. Not sound, not touch, but the silent signal of his White Sense—Alna had entered the inn.
He was already up. The inn, swept and silent, bore no trace of the storm he had unleashed the night before. Not a whisper of fire, nor blood, nor the scent of burnt bark lingered. Only the calm hum of a new day dared speak.
Alna, ever steady, brought two cups of steaming tea. Her hands, calloused and sure, slid one toward him across the table. "Come," she said softly, voice threaded with years of quiet strength. "Let us sit. You know mornings bring no crowd."
Icariel nodded, the mask of calm sculpted across his face, though the coils of tension still curled beneath his skin.
They sat.
And then came the weight.
"I heard something strange on the way here," Alna said quietly, eyes narrowing just slightly.
Icariel didn't react too much. He sipped the tea first, then asked, "What happened?"
"There was a dungeon last night," she began. "It got closed. Fast. Too fast."
His heartbeat didn't change. His face stayed neutral.
"It wasn't the Guild that closed it either—it was one person. A single individual. The Dungeon Recovery Guild had been watching that dungeon for days, but they missed the moment. They said… the person lit the forest on fire to escape after closing it."
"Really?" Icariel asked, mild curiosity in his tone, nothing more.
Alna nodded. "A few Guild scouts chased him. But he vanished. One of them said the voice—it sounded like a boy. But they couldn't see his face. It was dark, and he wore a cloak."
"They think he's from one of the Great Mage. Maybe someone powerful sent here for a reason. But it makes no sense. If he was from the cities, why hide his face? Why run? Why burn the forest?"
"A Mage wouldn't need to burn trees to escape nobodies. They think he was hiding something."
Alna took another sip and exhaled. "Still… they're fools."
"Fools?" Icariel echoed.
"Yes," she said, firmly now. "Because I'm grateful."
Icariel tilted his head. "Grateful?"
"That dungeon was cracking. It would've split wide open by nightfall. Monsters would've poured out into the streets. Just like last time. That boy… whoever he was, he saved us."
Icariel listened in silence.
"You know how it is," she went on. "For some reason, the dungeons appear more here. Only in that forest. No one knows why. But when they crack… they ruin everything. That's why this city is half-abandoned. We don't get help from the other cities. Not really. They think we're cursed."
She set her tea down with a small sigh. "Instead of chasing that boy, they should be begging him to help them."
The Voice stirred inside Icariel's mind.
"She speaks with more wisdom than her years suggest."
Icariel nodded solemnly. "I'm with you. If monsters came, it would be bad."
Alna smiled faintly. "Nothing will happen to you. You're persistent. Like the weeds in my garden."
He chuckled, standing up. "Back to work then."
He walked into the kitchen, footsteps light but mind churning.
"Voice," he whispered inwardly, the silent thread connecting his thoughts. "Why do dungeons appear more often here? Why just in that forest?"
The ancient presence stirred.
"I do not know. We need to return. Trace the roots. Smell the mana, feel the soil. If you plan to, Icariel—"
"Why not?" he interrupted, a flicker of flame behind his voice. "We close them, grow stronger—and maybe do some good along the way. Two birds, one stone. Another story carved into the spine of my fate."
The voice was silent for a moment.
Then: "You really have changed...and that does not sound bad."
A breath passed. The scent of tea lingered. The city buzzed beyond the walls. And deep beneath it all, something ancient still watched from the roots of the forest.
"But for now," the voice added, almost amused, "we have onions to cut."
Icariel smiled.
"Yes," he whispered aloud, picking up the knife. "Time to work."
And by the time night fell, it would not be the fire they remembered. It would be the boy who walked from it.