The morning light bled through gray clouds, softer than usual, as if even the sun was weary. I dragged myself from bed, bones aching as though I had hauled stones all night instead of lying on straw. My wrists burned when I flexed them, the red marks no lighter than before.
Mother studied me across the table as I pushed bread around my plate. "You're eating less, Ren. Are you unwell?"
"I'm fine," I muttered, forcing a bite down. The crust crunched dry in my mouth, tasteless.
Sera tilted her head, watching me with sharp little eyes. "You look thinner."
I managed a smile, though it felt thin. "Maybe I'm just working harder."
Father gave a grunt of approval, but Mother's frown lingered.
By midday, the village square hummed with more noise than usual. A cart had rattled in from the southern road, its wheels creaking, horses steaming from the long climb. Children darted close, curious, while their mothers tugged them back with warnings.
The merchant had arrived.
I slipped into the crowd, sleeves tugged low, and there he was: a stout man with a trimmed beard and a wide grin, perched atop the driver's bench like a king on his throne. His cart brimmed with bolts of fabric, iron tools, baskets of dried fruit, and trinkets from places far beyond our hills.
"Alric!" a farmer greeted, clapping his shoulder. "You've got nerve, traveling these roads now."
"Ha!" the merchant boomed, his voice carrying like a bell. "Dangerous roads mean better prices for those brave enough to use them!" He winked, and the crowd laughed, tension easing for a heartbeat.
Alric spotted me lingering at the edge. "You there! Young man! You look sturdy—lend me your arms. These crates won't lift themselves."
I hesitated, then moved forward. The box he handed me was heavier than it looked, filled with iron nails and fittings. My arms trembled, but I carried it to the stall he indicated.
"Well done," Alric said, slapping my back. "You've the makings of a porter at least. Or perhaps more? A soldier? No, not with that wary look—hmm, perhaps a lad chasing adventure, eh?"
Heat flushed my face. "I'm just a farmer's son."
"Of course, of course," Alric chuckled, though his eyes gleamed with sharper interest than his smile showed. "Every farmer's son in stories ends up something else. Don't they?"
As the afternoon passed, the square filled with trade. Housewives bartered for spices, children begged for candied nuts, and elders leaned close to hear rumors carried on Alric's tongue. I lingered near his cart, pretending to help while my ears strained.
"They say the king's banners ride west, to deal with raiders," Alric told a cluster of men. "But raiders don't leave scorch marks on the earth. And livestock vanishing without blood? That's not the work of bandits."
The men exchanged uneasy glances. One spat into the dirt.
Alric lowered his voice, but I caught it anyway. "There are whispers of riders on scaled beasts—dragons, some claim. Old tales, perhaps. But I've seen smoke myself, too thick and black for a farm fire."
A chill gripped me. Dragons. Riders. The words echoed the dreams too closely.
Alric noticed my stare. He leaned closer, his grin never fading. "And you, boy? Believe in monsters?"
"I…" My throat tightened. "I believe some stories start as truth."
He chuckled, eyes sharp. "Wise answer. Keep that wisdom. These are dangerous days."
Later, when I carried a sack of apples back for Mother, three older boys blocked my path. Thugs-in-training, sons of men who drank more than they worked. Their ringleader, Bran, smirked at the blade strapped at my hip—the dull practice sword Garrick had given me.
"Well, look at this," Bran drawled. "Farmer boy thinks he's a knight."
"Maybe he's cursed," another jeered. "Hear he hides his wrists. Maybe chains of fire are eating him alive."
My stomach dropped. The rumor had spread farther than Eldon's loose tongue.
"Show us your arms, Ren," Bran said, stepping closer. "Let's see what you're hiding."
Heat flared in my chest, sparks prickling at my fingertips. My vision tunneled, narrowing on his smirk. I could strike him. One spark, one swing—it would wipe that grin away.
My hand twitched toward the hilt.
"Ren!" Mira's voice cut through the haze. She darted from the crowd, planting herself between us. Her eyes locked on mine, wide with warning. "Don't."
The sparks guttered out, leaving only shame.
Bran laughed, shoving past. "Pathetic. Hides behind a girl."
The boys jeered as they left. Mira turned back, furious. "What were you thinking? In the middle of the square?"
"I—I almost lost it," I admitted, voice low.
"You can't. Not here. Not ever. If people think the rumors are true…" She shook her head. "You'll be feared—or worse."
I clenched my fists until my nails bit skin. "I can't keep holding it back."
"Then learn to control it before it controls you," she said firmly.
That evening, I slipped back to the clearing. The practice blade weighed heavy, but Garrick had been right—it was better than a stick. My swings grew smoother, shoulders aching less with each arc. Sweat poured down my back, but I pressed on, counting every strike.
Then I tried the sparks again.
Focus. Breathe. The hum rose in my chest. Sparks crawled along the blade, faint blue, like fireflies clinging to steel. I gritted my teeth, pushing further. The glow brightened, steady now.
"Ember Spark," I whispered, naming it without knowing why.
The blade flared, light dancing across the clearing. For a heartbeat, triumph surged.
Then my knees buckled. The light died. My arms shook, drained, breath ragged. Three tries—that was all I had before exhaustion swallowed me whole.
Still, I smiled through the ache. It was progress.
That night, the dream returned.
The flames curled higher, black smoke swallowing the sky. The commander stood silent, armored form sharp against the fire.
But behind him… the eyes had multiplied. Dozens now. Hundreds. Burning red, unblinking, all fixed on me.
My chest tightened under the weight of their gaze. I couldn't breathe.
Finally, the commander's voice, low and cold, drifted across the inferno.
"You cannot hide forever."
The words seared into me. I woke gasping, wrists burning, the night air thick as smoke in my lungs.
And for the first time, I feared that even my dreams weren't safe.