The mountain had grown silent.
It wasn't the quiet of peace or altitude. This was a silence that felt carved into the air—permanent,
deliberate, and wrong. Not even Skarn's heavy footfalls broke it. They descended together, leaving
the shattered spire behind, following a narrow path along the eastern ridge. The world dropped
steeply beside them, into a valley cradled in fog.
Torian hadn't spoken in hours.
He didn't need to.
The ember in his chest was still, but not asleep. It felt… thoughtful. Watching him. Not guiding. Not
warning. Just listening. Since the blackened fire had pulled from his touch the night before, he'd
sensed something had shifted between them. The flame had always challenged him—demandedunderstanding. But now it seemed to be waiting. Not for proof of power. For proof of who he was.
Skarn's tail brushed his leg as they walked.
Ahead, mist lifted just enough to reveal something manmade.
A bridge. Ancient. Stained black. It arched over a deep ravine, the chasm below too dark to see the
bottom. The bridge's stones were covered in vines, but the structure held firm. Carved along the
side were sigils Torian didn't recognize—circles, downward-pointed triangles, and a cracked spiral.
And beyond it, hidden in the cradle of the cliffs, lay a village.
Torian stopped just before the bridge. "Skarn."
The beast sniffed the wind. Let out a low, rumbling growl. Not a warning. An instinct.
Something ahead wasn't right.
Still, they crossed.
The stones beneath them felt warm, but not from sun. From memory, maybe. Or something buried.
As they passed under the arch into the village, Torian saw the spiral again—above the gate.
But this one had been slashed through, violently, and over it someone had carved a new mark: a
broken circle pierced by a crooked line. The mark was rough, desperate. It looked like a symbol
meant to hold something back.
The village was intact.
Too intact.
Dozens of stone homes lined a circular street, each with carved shutters and ash-covered steps.
Nothing was broken. Nothing was overgrown. Time had passed here, but nothing had changed.
It was like the world had ended mid-breath.
"Where are the people?" Torian whispered.No answer. Just fog.
They walked the outer ring first, passing empty homes. Many bore the spiral flame symbol on their
doors or windows—but most had been crossed out. A few were scratched over with the same
broken-circle glyph. Others were smeared with soot in strange patterns.
A cluster of homes near the northern wall had locked doors, barred from the inside. Torian tried one.
The handle was still warm.
Too warm.
He pulled his hand away.
Skarn kept his head low, ears turning constantly.
They moved toward the center of the village.
The courtyard was circular, paved in obsidian and black granite, and ringed with benches. In the
center stood a well—choked with vines, its rope snapped. Children's toys lay scattered across the
stones. Dolls, carved from bonewood. Marbles. A half-burned wooden spinning wheel.
All untouched.
Then a marble rolled.
Just a few inches.
Torian froze.
There was no wind.
"Skarn," he said, slowly.
The beast's growl deepened, claws tapping the stone as he positioned himself between Torian and
the well.
Then came the sound.Laughter.
Distant. Echoed.
Not from any one direction.
Torian turned a full circle. The houses hadn't changed, but shadows now danced across their
interiors—quick shapes flitting behind windows and doorframes. He gripped the hilt of his sword but
didn't draw it.
The laughter changed.
Turned to weeping.
Low. Broken.
Not loud, but layered.
Hundreds of voices whispering beneath a thin veil of silence.
Skarn backed up beside him, muscles bunched.
"I don't think they're alive," Torian said. "But I don't think they're gone either."
The ember in his chest responded—not with warmth.
With discomfort.
Like it was being watched too.
He spotted the temple before he realized he was walking toward it.
Tucked into the far end of the village, half-swallowed by the cliff face, the temple was old—older
than the homes, older than the stone bridge. Its walls were jagged, dark, shaped like reaching
hands. The doorway was narrow, lined with faded carvings of figures kneeling in flame.
Above it, the spiral flame symbol had been completely scraped away.In its place: the broken circle.
Torian hesitated at the threshold.
The air inside felt colder, but not in temperature.
In presence.
Skarn stepped behind him, reluctant but ready.
They entered.
The temple's interior was wide but bare. No pews. No altar. Just smooth black floors, and walls
etched with fractured murals. Torian ran his hand across one: it showed a man with arms raised, a
spiral glowing on his chest.
Below him, figures bowed.
But the spiral had been broken.
At the center of the room stood a brazier.
Still burning.
The flame was wrong.
It wasn't orange or gold or white.
It was black-blue, flickering inward instead of up, sucking the air around it. It cast no heat, no
shadow. Only pull.
A stone plaque sat before it.
"He tried to keep us. Even as we left."
Torian stared at the flame.The ember in his chest flared—panicked. Not threatened. Repulsed.
Skarn growled softly.
"I need to know," Torian said.
He reached forward—
And touched the brazier.
⸻
He stood in the same village—but not ruined.
Alive.
Children ran laughing through the courtyard. Music floated through windows. Smoke
rose from hearths. The well gleamed with fresh water.
And at the center of it all stood a man.
Tall. Wrapped in deep robes of gray and gold. The spiral flame burned on his chest—
not carved, but real. Floating.
He stood before the well, surrounded by bodies.
Dozens.
Burned. Broken.
Old. Young. All dead.
His shoulders heaved with grief.
"No. No. I told them to stay. I told them it was safe…"
He turned to the well. Dropped to his knees."Please," he whispered. "Please, not them."
His hands caught fire.
Not red. Not gold.
Blue-black.
The same as the brazier.
He thrust them into the well.
"Take me. Bring them back. Take me instead."
The flame surged.
And the shadows moved.
From the bodies.
From the homes.
From the well.
They rose—twisted shapes, all eye and mouth and memory. Not souls. Not people.
Echoes.
They crawled toward him.
He screamed.
"No, no! This isn't what I asked for! I wanted them back! Not this!"
But the flame didn't stop.
It wanted to honor his request.Even as it tore him apart.
The shadows entered him.
He burned.
Not with fire.
With loss.
And then—
Silence.
⸻
Torian collapsed back in the temple.
Skarn caught him with one massive paw.
He gasped, chest heaving.
The brazier burned beside him, unchanged.
Still consuming.
Still offering.
He sat there for a long time.
Then said quietly, "He loved them too much."
He looked at Skarn.
"Too much to let them go. So he burned everything trying to bring them back."
Skarn lowered his head.And Torian realized—
The ember didn't just test strength. Or fury.
It tested grief.
Would you burn the world to undo one death?
He closed his eyes.
"I won't ask it to do that," he said. "No matter who I lose."
The ember pulsed softly.
Skarn nuzzled his shoulder, letting out a deep, weary breath.
They stayed there, silent, as the last of the village's shadows finally faded from the
walls and the laughter was lost to memory.
Outside, the sky darkened.
Rain began to fall.
But it didn't reach the brazier.
It never would.
⸻
That night, they made camp on the village's edge.
The wind returned—slow, hesitant, like it had been waiting for something to end.
Torian didn't build a fire.
He sat with his back against Skarn, staring at the fog that now drifted freely between
the homes."Do you think that's what I'll become?" he asked. "Desperate? Lost?"
Skarn said nothing.
But his warmth was enough.
The ember did not burn that night.
It only waited.