The marks on my wrists throbbed with every heartbeat. I sat at the table, sleeves tugged down, trying not to wince whenever I flexed my hands.
Mother kneaded dough beside me, her brow furrowed. "You're pale, Ren. Did you sleep at all?"
"I'm fine," I muttered, tearing a piece of crust from yesterday's loaf. The bread was stale, but it gave me something to chew, something to focus on besides the sting under my skin.
Father grunted from his chair, sipping weak ale. "You've looked better. Don't push yourself on chores today."
"I said I'm fine," I repeated, a little sharper than I meant. Sera blinked at me from across the table, her tiny braid falling loose. She opened her mouth, probably to tease, but Mother gave her a look, and she stayed silent.
I was grateful. I didn't think I could survive Sera's questions this morning.
By mid-morning, I was walking through the village, basket in hand, carrying herbs to the apothecary. My sleeves itched against the burns, but I didn't dare adjust them. Every step made me feel watched, though the street was full of ordinary people—women hanging wash, children chasing each other between houses, a dog barking at nothing.
Yet the village was… different. Fewer merchants cluttered the square. The chatter of market stalls had thinned. People moved with their heads lowered, as though afraid their voices might summon something unwanted.
That's when I noticed the man near the gate.
He stood apart from the bustle, arms crossed over a broad chest. His armor wasn't polished or ceremonial like festival militia—it was battered, practical, scarred with years of use. His left cheek bore a long-healed cut that had twisted into a pale ridge of flesh. His eyes, sharp and gray, scanned the crowd not with curiosity but with calculation, as if weighing threats.
Captain Doran. Leader of the watch.
I'd seen him before, during harvest festivals, drilling the village guards into stiff formations. But up close, he was more imposing than I remembered. He carried himself like a man who had faced real danger and lived to tell of it.
Our eyes met. I froze.
He pushed away from the gatepost and strode toward me, boots heavy on the packed dirt. "Ren Arkwell, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," I said quickly, adjusting my grip on the basket.
His gaze flicked over me, lingering too long at my sleeves. I felt the burns under them flare in protest. "You spend a lot of time wandering near the ridge."
I swallowed. "Just gathering firewood."
"Mm." He didn't look convinced. "Listen, boy. I don't care for gossip, but I do care for trouble. And trouble's been circling our village lately—burned fields, missing stock, strangers on the roads. I don't need young men stumbling into something they can't handle."
"I understand," I said, though my voice came out thinner than I intended.
Doran leaned closer, his scar catching the morning light. "If you see anything—anything at all—you come to me. Not to gossips, not to children playing adventurer. Me. Understood?"
"Yes, Captain."
He studied me a moment longer, then stepped back. "Good lad." Without another word, he turned and resumed his post at the gate, scanning the horizon as if expecting it to bite.
I exhaled only when I was sure his attention had moved on. My palms were damp against the basket handle.
At the apothecary, Mira caught me just as I set down the herbs. She glanced over her shoulder, then leaned in.
"You've been quiet," she whispered. "Too quiet. Something's wrong."
I shook my head quickly. "Nothing's wrong."
Her eyes narrowed. "Ren."
I almost told her. I almost rolled up my sleeves and showed her the angry red bands burning across my wrists, told her how they came from dreams that felt too real. But Captain Doran's warning echoed in my skull. Trouble. And Mira already carried too much worry.
So I lied. "Just tired."
Her frown deepened, but she didn't press further. Instead, she pressed a bundle of dried leaves into my hand. "Chamomile. It helps with restless sleep. Take it."
I nodded, tucking the herbs into the basket. Guilt gnawed at me worse than the burns.
That evening, I returned to my training spot, the broken stick replaced with another. My body still ached, but the memory of the flicker—the brief spark of something more—drove me onward.
I swung until my shoulders screamed, then tried again. Focus. Breathe. Feel the hum of the world.
Heat flared, this time brighter. Sparks danced along the stick, crackling like tiny stars. I gasped, sweat dripping into my eyes, but forced myself to hold it. The sparks grew into a faint glow—unstable, wavering.
Then it exploded with a sharp pop, sending me sprawling backward. My arms stung, smoke curling from the stick's charred tip.
I lay on the grass, chest heaving, the sky spinning above me. Power had surged through me—real, tangible—but it had torn me apart as much as it had obeyed.
My vision blurred. The world tilted. Darkness rushed in.
The dream came instantly.
Flames again, but closer, licking at my feet. The commander loomed, not distant this time but standing before me, his shadow towering. His gauntlet reached out, chains writhing from it like living serpents.
"Do you feel it now?" His voice rolled like thunder. "The fire in your veins?"
"I—" My throat locked. My wrists burned as the dream-chains lashed them, squeezing until I thought the bones would snap.
"You cannot deny it," the commander said, pulling me closer. His helm dipped, eyes burning like coals. "When the sky opens, you will serve—or you will burn."
I screamed, thrashing. The fire surged higher, swallowing sky and earth alike.
I woke with a strangled cry, grass damp against my cheek. My wrists seared, rawer than before. I dragged myself upright, clutching them to my chest.
The moon hung high, pale and cold, but the night felt heavy, as if the commander's presence still lingered, watching.
For the first time, I wished the dreams would stop. Not because they frightened me—though they did—but because I feared what they were making me into.