The Baron's Shadow
The Baron of Grey Town sat high above his city in the fortress chamber, a hall built of black stone and silence. Tapestries of crimson hung like drying blood, and torches sputtered in iron sconces, their flames strangled by the suffocating damp.
At his table lay scrolls and ledgers—tax records, grain quotas, and the lists of conscripts dragged from the slums each month. But he wasn't reading them. His gaze was fixed on the report before him, its ink still wet.
> "The boy survived. He scarred Captain Elric. Twice."
The Baron's gauntlet clenched, crumpling the parchment. His knuckles gleamed, plated with steel, though the armor was unnecessary; none dared touch him.
The Baron of Grey Town was not a man who ruled by gold or by faith. He ruled by fear.
He rose, the floor trembling beneath his boots. His cloak dragged behind him like the wing of some vast predator. In the shadows of the hall, his advisers shrank back.
"Two years," the Baron muttered, voice low but resonant, "since anyone in this town dared defy me. And now… a child."
Elric knelt nearby, chest bandaged, armor scarred black from fire. He bowed his head, shame smoldering in his eyes.
"I will kill him, my lord. His flame is nothing before—"
"His flame," the Baron cut in, voice sharp as a blade, "is Ignivar's flame."
The name hissed through the chamber like a curse. Even the torches flickered lower.
The Baron's gaze sharpened, burning through Elric as though to carve him hollow. "Do you remember what happened to the last bearer?"
Elric's jaw tightened, but he bowed deeper.
"Yes, my lord. He burned half the eastern marches before you broke him."
A smile ghosted across the Baron's lips—cold, thin, merciless. "And so will this boy, if left untamed."
The Baron turned toward the window, looking out over Grey Town. Below, the mist rolled through alleys where the poor scurried like rats. The plaza stones still bore the scars of the battle, blackened lines carved into the heart of the city.
"The fire is rising again," the Baron murmured. "But this time… I will claim it. I will not destroy him. I will own him."
His hand clenched, and the torches guttered.
---
Awakening in Shadow
Draven woke in darkness.
His body was a map of pain—splintered ribs, bruises blooming like ink beneath his skin, cuts burning with every movement. He lay on cold stone, the air damp and thick with the smell of old ashes.
Shadows moved around him, alive yet silent.
"You breathe," came the voice of the hooded man. "So you are not broken."
Draven groaned, forcing himself upright. His chest screamed, his vision swam, but he clenched his teeth.
"You saved me," Draven said.
The hooded man stepped into faint light. His cloak seemed to drink the torchfire, leaving only his face exposed—lined, scarred, and etched with the memory of fire. His eyes glowed faintly, like embers hidden in ash.
"I saved the fire," the man corrected. "Not you. If you die, so be it. But your flame… that cannot be wasted."
Draven's breath caught. "You… you know what this is."
The man's gaze burned through him.
"I carried it once."
---
The Legacy of Ignivar
They sat by a pit of smoldering coals, the only warmth in the cavernous chamber.
The man finally spoke.
"They called me Ignivar. The Black Flame of the East. Armies fell before me. Cities crumbled in ash. For years, I was power incarnate."
His voice was hollow, empty of pride.
Draven leaned forward, heart hammering. "Then… why are you here? Why hide?"
The man extended his hand. His palm bore a brand—blackened, scarred, the skin twisted like melted wax.
"Because fire consumes." His tone was sharp, bitter. "I lost myself in its hunger. I stopped being a man. I became only flame. And when the Baron struck me down, I realized… perhaps he had not defeated me. Perhaps the fire itself had."
Draven stared at the brand, throat dry.
"Then why give it to me?"
The old man's eyes narrowed. "Because fire must live. It chose you. And you can either master it—or burn as I did."
---
The Crucible of Training
The days that followed were agony.
Draven's training began before dawn, when the shadows were thick and the city slept. His mentor dragged him from his cot and threw him into the cold stone square of the hidden cavern.
"Control," the man barked. "Not rage. Not instinct. Control."
Every morning Draven was forced to hold the flame in his palms—longer, tighter, hotter—until his skin blistered and smoke curled from his flesh.
Every afternoon, he was ordered to fight. His opponent was not a man, but the shadows themselves—chains of black fire summoned by the mentor to strike, lash, and crush. Draven dodged until his legs buckled, parried until his arms went numb, screamed until his throat was raw.
At night, he collapsed, body trembling. But before sleep, he repeated the words burned into him:
A wildfire consumes itself. A controlled flame consumes others.
Slowly, something shifted.
The fire no longer lashed wildly when summoned. It obeyed. It bent. When Draven willed it into a blade, it formed. When he called for a shield, it rose. The fire was no longer chaos—it was his weapon.
Yet it came at a cost. His body weakened. Blood seeped from his nose after each session, his heartbeat stuttered with strain. The power grew, but so did the toll.
One evening, as he lay gasping on the stones, the old man crouched beside him.
"Every Ignivar pays," he murmured. "Power is bought with flesh. With years stolen from your life. You will not live long if you keep burning so recklessly."
Draven forced his eyes open, fire still flickering in their depths.
"Then I'll live short," he rasped. "But I'll burn bright enough to tear him down."
The old man stared at him for a long moment, then smiled faintly—bitter, pained.
"You sound like I once did."
---
Rumors in Grey Town
While Draven trained in shadow, Grey Town seethed with whispers.
Merchants spoke in hushed tones of the boy who had scarred the captain. The poor clung to hope, daring to imagine rebellion.
But the Baron's presence crushed hope as swiftly as it rose. His soldiers prowled the streets, doubling the patrols. Anyone who spoke the boy's name too loudly vanished by morning.
Still, the whispers would not die.
"He fights for us."
"He carries the fire."
"Perhaps Grey Town will burn free."
And in the fortress, the Baron listened.
"Let them whisper," he said to Elric, his voice like a storm behind stone walls. "Hope is a flame. And flames are easiest to smother once they've grown."
---
The Next Step
Weeks passed.
Draven's fire had grown sharper, stronger. He could summon whips of flame to lash stone walls, daggers of fire that pierced targets at will. He even learned to cloak himself in flickering shadow, a second skin that blurred his movements.
But it wasn't enough.
He knew Elric still stood. He knew the Baron watched.
One night, after collapsing from another brutal session, he looked to his mentor.
"When do I stop training?" he asked. His voice was ragged, but fierce. "When do I fight again?"
The old man's eyes gleamed in the dark.
"When you no longer ask that question."