Kale stood at the edge of his shack as snow began to fall. Fat, slow flakes drifted from the sky, landing on his jacket and melting against his skin. He pulled his sleeves tighter around his wrists, exhaling sharply.
"Cold's gettin' worse," he muttered under his breath. "Better get this done before I lose my fingers to frostbite."
He sat down cross-legged on the leaf-covered floor, closed his eyes, and reached inward. Not for warmth. Not for food. But for fire.
A familiar pull tugged at his soul. Threads of gold flickered at the edges of his mind. Inhale. Exhale. And then—
The Ocean welcomed him like an old friend.
Golden streams stretched endlessly beneath his feet, glowing softly under the dim light above. Swirls of dust danced lazily through the air, forming fleeting patterns that dissolved just as quickly as they appeared. This was the Shallows—where he always came before. But Kale didn't stop here today.
He willed himself deeper.
With a soft tug, the world around him shifted. The golden glow dimmed slightly, growing heavier, more refined. The threads tightened, coiling closer around him like strands of memory. The currents pulsed beneath his feet, carrying knowledge older than language itself.
This was the Deep Currents.
And it was beautiful.
Massive ruins floated in the distance, half-submerged in liquid gold, their black stone structures etched with runes that still pulsed faintly with life. Strange creatures drifted between them—some like whales made of pure light, others like birds woven from fire and ink. One passed close by, its form shifting between deer and flame, antlers glowing like embers caught in wind. It blinked at him once before vanishing into the currents.
Kale wandered freely, floating or walking—it wasn't clear which. His body felt lighter here, untethered from pain and cold. He took in everything around him. If the first Seekers had come here, what did they think? Did they see this place as home—or something too vast to understand?
He shook off the thought. He wasn't here to explore. Not this time.
He was here for the flame.
Kale stilled himself in the middle of the current, focusing all his willpower on the knowledge he needed. Fire. Control. Power.
Then, movement.
From behind a crumbling ruin, a small figure emerged—a blob-like creature, vaguely humanoid, formed entirely of golden flames. It flickered gently, not burning, just being. Like it belonged to the Ocean as much as the water did.
Kale blinked. "Well… ain't that somethin' new."
The spirit tilted its head—or at least, it looked like it did—and turned toward him. Then, without warning, it darted away, slipping between broken pillars and sunken halls.
Kale followed.
They moved together like old companions, weaving through the Deep Currents. The spirit stopped near a ruined archway, hovering in place. Its tiny hand extended toward him—not in attack, but offering.
Curious and cautious, Kale reached out.
The moment his fingers met the spirit's flame, darkness swallowed him whole.
•---•
He was somewhere else now.
Not the Ocean. A vision. A memory that wasn't his—but somehow, it was.
He stood inside a temple carved from black stone, its walls etched with glowing runes that pulsed in rhythm with the chants echoing through the chamber. Around him, people dressed in long robes meditated in perfect silence, their hands resting over open flames that danced without fuel.
At the center of it all stood an old man, his face lined with age and wisdom. He wore no gloves, no tools—just his bare hands. With slow, deliberate movements, he raised one palm and summoned fire from nothing. The flame curled between his fingers like a living thing, obedient yet wild. He whispered something Kale couldn't understand, his voice deep and reverent, speaking a language lost to time.
But Kale's borrowed body—the boy he now inhabited—understood.
He watched as years passed in flashes. The boy grew into a man. Sat beside the same fire, again and again. Learned how to shape the flame, how to bend it to his will. How to summon it without kindling. How to wield it without fear.
Time meant nothing here. Only knowledge did.
In one final scene, the man stood alone atop a mountain peak, fire swirling around him like a second skin. Wind howled, snow fell, but the flames held strong. His last words echoed in Kale's borrowed mind—words Kale didn't know, but felt deeply.
Then the vision shattered.
•---•
Back in the Ocean, Kale gasped, his chest rising fast. The spirit was gone. In its place, knowledge surged into him like a tidal wave—burning, bright, alive.
His hands trembled. The information embedded itself deep into his being, rewriting something fundamental within him. It wasn't just knowledge. It was instinct. Muscle memory. Like learning how to walk all over again—but with fire in his palms.
He clenched his fists. Opened them.
Nothing happened yet. Just empty air.
But he knew.
He knew how to call it. How to guide it. All he needed now was practice.
Kale exhaled slowly, watching his breath turn to mist even in the Ocean's embrace.
"Guess I ain't just a beggar anymore," he murmured to himself, a quiet grin tugging at his lips. "I'm a seeker who can burn right back."
And with that, he pulled himself free from the Ocean, returning to his shack with the weight of fire waiting in his veins.