The night was heavy with rain, the kind that seemed to linger without falling. Clouds pressed low over Grey Town, smothering the stars, muting the moon. Torchlight guttered along the streets, fighting the mist that coiled like a living thing.
The town was silent, but not asleep. Doors were barred, shutters nailed shut, and eyes peeked out through cracks in the wood. The people knew. Word had spread like wildfire: the boy who fought the captain was still alive, and tonight he would return.
Draven felt it too—the collective breath of a city waiting to see if a spark could defy the storm.
He moved across the rooftops, cloak plastered to his back with sweat and rain. Beneath the cloth, his body ached from days of merciless training. Bruises painted his ribs, his arms screamed with strain, and every bone carried the memory of old beatings.
But the fire… the fire no longer burned wild. It pulsed steady, disciplined, like a heartbeat. His mentor's cruel lessons still rang in his ears:
> "A wildfire consumes itself. A controlled flame consumes others."
Draven clenched his fists. Tonight, he would test it.
---
The Waiting Wolf
He found Elric in the plaza before the barracks. The captain stood alone in the mist, armored head to toe, his greatsword resting against his shoulder as though it weighed nothing.
The torchlight revealed the scar Draven had given him—a blackened brand across his cheekbone. The wound had not healed, and Elric wore it openly, almost proudly, like a badge.
"So the rat crawls back," Elric said, voice carrying through the empty square. His grin cut through the fog, sharp as a wolf's. "I thought you'd learned fear."
Draven stepped into the torchlight. His boots scraped against the wet stones, fire flickering faintly at his heels.
"Fear teaches nothing," he said, his voice steady despite the thunder in his chest. "Only fire does."
Elric's eyes gleamed. "Good. Then burn for me."
---
First Clash
The greatsword swung down with a roar that split the night. The impact shattered cobblestones, sparks and shards of stone exploding upward.
Draven didn't scatter this time. He slid aside, his movements sharper, leaner than before. Shadowfire coiled in his palms, compressed into a spear of flame. He thrust it forward with a shout.
The bolt struck Elric's pauldron, searing steel and forcing him a step back. Not a wound—but enough to halt the storm for a breath.
Draven's heart pounded. It obeyed me. For the first time, the fire had obeyed.
Elric's grin faded to a snarl. "So the cub has teeth."
Then he came again.
His greatsword blurred, each strike a storm that split the air, that cracked the earth beneath his boots. Draven weaved between blows, ducking, twisting, rolling, fire sparking as steel scraped too close. Every dodge rattled his bones, every parry numbed his arms, but he endured.
And he struck back.
Every opening was met with lances of shadowfire, precise bursts that hissed against metal. He wasn't lashing out blindly anymore—he was carving, burning, learning.
The plaza blazed with their clash, a storm of fire and steel that lit the mist like dawn.
---
Grey Town Watches
Shutters cracked open. Faces pressed against glass, breath fogging the panes. Mothers clutched children tight. Old men gripped prayer beads.
They saw the fire streaking through the plaza. They saw the captain stagger, even if only a step. And whispers spread through the alleys:
"The boy fights him again…"
"He's standing against the captain…"
"Could he… win?"
Hope was dangerous in Grey Town. But tonight, it flickered.
---
Breaking Point
Elric's fury mounted. Each strike heavier, faster, his roars echoing off the stone walls. His blade carved gashes into the plaza, scattering rubble.
Draven's breath came ragged. His muscles screamed. But he kept moving, kept forcing the flame into shape. Every strike he blocked sent shockwaves down his arms, rattling his bones until blood dripped from his palms.
A sudden kick smashed into his chest. Pain burst through his ribs as he flew back, crashing into the fountain at the plaza's center. The stone cracked, water spilling.
Elric advanced, slow and merciless. "Still weak," he growled. "You think a spark can topple a storm?"
Draven staggered upright, coughing blood. His knees shook. His vision swam. But deep within, the ember pulsed—hotter than fear, hotter than pain.
Not a spark, he thought. A flame.
He clenched his fists. Shadowfire surged. Not wild. Not loose. Bound. He forced it tighter, compressed it until his arms shook from the strain.
---
The Ignivar Strike
Elric roared and charged, blade raised for the killing blow.
Draven screamed back.
The fire erupted from him, not in chaos but in a single, condensed blast. A beam of shadowfire lanced forth, black and red, tearing through mist and air alike.
It struck Elric square in the chest.
The impact hurled him across the plaza. Stone shattered as his armored body smashed into the barracks steps, the wall cracking under the force. Smoke and dust rose in a choking cloud.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then Elric rose. His armor was scorched black, breastplate nearly burned through. His breath rasped, smoke curling from his chest.
But his grin remained.
"You've grown," he said, his voice hoarse, dark with both respect and hunger. "Good. Don't die too quickly, boy."
He charged again.
---
Fire and Steel
The clash that followed shook Grey Town awake. Sparks showered the plaza as fire and steel collided. Every strike sent shockwaves through the ground. Every dodge left streaks of flame across stone.
Draven landed blows—real blows. His fire scorched deeper now, searing flesh beneath armor. Elric bled.
But Draven bled more. His ribs cracked under a strike, blood filled his mouth. His arms screamed with every movement, yet he fought, step for step, blow for blow.
And the people watched.
For the first time in years, they saw someone stand against the captain. For the first time, they saw the possibility of change.
---
Collapse
At last, Draven's body betrayed him. His legs buckled. His guard faltered. Elric's final swing smashed through his defense, hurling him across the square.
He crashed into rubble, vision fading. He tried to rise—his arms trembled, but his body refused.
Elric stalked forward, sword raised high.
"This ends here."
---
The Shadow's Hand
Before the blade could fall, the air rippled.
Black fire swirled across the plaza, mist coiling like chains. The torches guttered out.
A figure stepped from the darkness—the hooded old man, his eyes gleaming like coals beneath the shadow of his cowl.
"That's enough," the stranger said, his voice cutting the silence like a blade. "The boy's fire is not for you tonight."
Elric snarled, lowering his weapon an inch. His eyes narrowed with rage, but the shadows thickened, pressing him back.
And when the mist cleared, both master and pupil were gone.
---
Aftermath
Draven awoke on cold stone, body broken but alive. Every breath was fire, but the ember inside him burned steady.
He had faced Elric again. He had scarred him. He had endured.
The ember of Ignivar blazed brighter than ever.
But he knew: Elric would not stop. The Baron's eyes would turn upon him soon.
He clenched his fists, whispering into the dark.
"I need more. Stronger. Tighter. I will master this fire. And when I face them again…"
His eyes burned with shadow and flame.
"…they will fall."