The sky that morning was the color of dull steel, clouds low and heavy as if pressing the village flat beneath their weight. I stood by the well with the rope rough against my palms, staring at the water bucket as if it might offer answers. My wrists still stung faintly from the burns that dream-fire had left on my skin. Real, not imagined.
How could a dream scar me?
"Ren!" Mira's voice cut across the square. She jogged toward me, braid swinging, eyes sharp. "You've been gone since dawn again. Where?"
I lifted the bucket, water sloshing. "Training."
Her brow furrowed. "Every night?"
I didn't answer. The truth was obvious enough.
"Ren," she hissed, stepping closer. "You're burning yourself out. People notice. You stumble at chores, you eat like a sparrow, and you look like you've been wrestling bears."
"Better I wear myself thin now," I muttered, "than be helpless when it matters."
Her jaw tightened. "You mean those dreams again."
I met her gaze. "They're not just dreams. Mira—my hands. The fire left blisters. I can show you."
She looked at me for a long moment, then shook her head. "Keep it hidden. If others see, they'll think it's a curse. And if word reaches the wrong ears…"
Her meaning was clear: fear could kill faster than fire.
The square bustled faintly, though less than it once had. Merchants had thinned since Alric's visit; fewer travelers braved the roads. The air carried unease like a smell that wouldn't wash away. Even the children played quieter games, voices subdued.
Father's voice called across the square, pulling me back to duty. "Ren! Lend a hand with this grain!"
I jogged over, shouldering sacks until sweat plastered my shirt to my back. Father worked beside me in silence, his strength steady as always. But when we paused to rest, I caught him scanning the hills to the north, jaw tight.
"You've felt it too," I said before I could stop myself.
He gave me a sharp look. "Felt what?"
"The… weight in the air. The quiet. Like before a storm."
For a long moment he said nothing. Then he grunted. "A farmer knows better than to speak of storms before they break. Do your work."
But his hand tightened on the sack until his knuckles whitened.
Later, I sought Mira again. She was by the old oak at the edge of the fields, her knife flashing as she trimmed branches into kindling.
"Help me carry these," she said without looking up.
I gathered the wood into bundles, the scent of fresh sap clinging to my hands. For a while we worked in silence, the kind that stretched heavy but not unfriendly.
Finally I asked, "Do you ever think we're… meant for more than this?"
She glanced at me, eyes narrowing. "That sounds like Eldon's gossip. He says everyone's destined for something."
"Not gossip. Just—" I struggled for words. "When I train, when I feel the sparks, it's like there's a part of me that's been asleep, finally waking up. Like I've been blind my whole life, and now I can almost see."
Mira set down her knife, gaze steady. "Be careful, Ren. That kind of thinking… it can eat you alive. Make you chase things you can't catch."
"Or prepare me for things coming whether I want them or not."
She didn't answer, but her silence spoke enough.
That evening, I trained again in the clearing. My body screamed in protest, but I swung anyway. Strike, step, breathe. Sparks danced at the edge of my vision. Each arc of the blade hummed, faint blue light trailing in the dusk.
On the third attempt, the glow held steady. Not a flicker, but a thin ribbon of light along the blade. I slashed forward, and the spark leapt, scattering into the grass with a hiss. Tiny embers smoldered before dying out.
I collapsed to my knees, chest heaving. Three tries. Always three. My body's limit, like an unseen wall I couldn't yet climb.
Still, the image of that glowing blade burned bright in my mind. If I could shape it—sharpen it—it might one day cut more than straw dummies.
Sleep dragged me under like a current that night.
The flames rose higher than ever before, the smoke choking. The commander was closer still, only a dozen paces away now, his presence suffocating. His black armor gleamed red with reflected fire.
"You struggle," he said, voice low, distorted, as if two voices overlapped. "You bleed. You learn."
I tried to speak, but my voice failed. My throat felt scorched.
"But you are weak."
Behind him, the eyes shifted. They didn't just watch now—they moved. Closer. Red orbs weaving like a tide of hunger.
The commander raised his hand, and fire burst upward in a column that split the sky. The heat seared my face.
I screamed.
And woke with my throat raw, sweat plastering my body. My hands trembled as I pushed off the blankets.
The smell of smoke lingered. Not dream-smoke—real.
I staggered to the window. In the far hills, faint against the night, a thin line of black rose into the sky.
Not a dream. Not anymore.