Aubrey's eyes snapped open to the sound of dripping. Not rain this time. Just the faucet in the corner of his cramped apartment, leaking onto a rusted pan he had shoved beneath it weeks ago. His head throbbed, every nerve raw, his chest tight like he'd been running for hours.
He sat up slowly, the thin mattress groaning beneath him. His hands trembled as he looked down at his knuckles — torn, scabbed, faintly glowing beneath the skin as though embers still lived there. He flexed his fingers. A faint red flicker pulsed and died.
"...Shit."
The night before played back in jagged fragments. Fire in his veins. A roar that wasn't his. The way the street had twisted when his power surged. And the people — he remembered their faces, the horror in their eyes. Some had screamed, some had run, but some had just…stared.
He dragged himself up, splashed water on his face, and stared at the mirror. The reflection staring back looked older than nineteen. Cheeks hollow. Eyes bloodshot, with faint red threads creeping outward. He tilted his head, and for just a second, he swore the glass flickered — as if another version of him was staring back.
He blinked, and it was gone.
...
The streets were different today. Aubrey felt it in the way people stepped aside too quickly, the way conversations dropped as he passed. Vendors he usually bought from gave him stiff nods but didn't meet his eyes.
He pulled his hood up and tried to ignore it. Just noise, he told himself. Just paranoia. But paranoia didn't explain the old man who spat at the ground as Aubrey walked by. Or the two kids who pointed, whispering, before their mother yanked them away.
Word was spreading.
He ducked into the mechanic shop on 7th, the one place he could usually count on to ground him. The smell of oil, burnt rubber, and hot steel hit him the moment he pushed open the door.
Varric was there, hunched over an engine block, cigarette dangling from his lip. He didn't look up right away.
"You're late," Varric said finally, voice flat.
"Yeah. Rough night." Aubrey peeled off his jacket, trying to sound normal.
"Rough night,huh?" Varric wiped his hands, then looked up. His eyes narrowed. "Funny. City's been buzzing about some punk tearing half a block apart with fire in his fists. Sound familiar?"
Aubrey froze.
Varric took a slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose. "You think I wouldn't hear? You think nobody saw you?"
"I didn't ask for this," Aubrey muttered.
"Doesn't matter if you asked. You've got it. Which means sooner or later, someone's gonna come looking. And they won't care if you're just a kid trying to survive."
The words hung in the air. Heavy. Final.
Aubrey clenched his jaw, turned, and walked out.
...
He didn't remember the walk to the market district, only the hollow buzz in his chest. The streets blurred — noise, voices, colors. Until a voice cut through it all.
"You're bleeding."
He stopped. Turned.
Elara stood by a stall, holding a bundle of fruit. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her gaze was steady, almost too steady for someone looking at him. She nodded toward his hands.
Aubrey glanced down. Blood seeped through the half-healed cracks on his knuckles. He hadn't even noticed.
Before he could speak, she reached into her bag, pulled out a strip of cloth, and held it out. No words. No judgment. Just quiet, deliberate kindness.
He hesitated, then took it. Their fingers brushed, and for a second something passed between them. A spark, not of fire but of recognition.
"Thanks," he muttered.
She gave the faintest of nods and walked away, vanishing into the crowd.
Aubrey stood there, cloth in his hand, throat tight. He didn't understand why that moment felt heavier than Varric's warning.
---
Night fell hard. Aubrey sat on the edge of his bed, wrapping the cloth around his knuckles, staring at the faint glow pulsing beneath his skin.
The city was quieter than usual, like it was holding its breath.
Then he felt it.
Not heat. Not pain. Something else. A presence, pressing against his mind like a whisper at the edge of hearing. He froze, every instinct screaming.
You burn bright, little ember.
The voice was inside him. Soft, feminine, threaded with something ancient.
Aubrey shot to his feet, heart hammering. "Who—"
Not yet, the voice whispered. But soon. The fracture has begun.
The glow in his hands flared, brighter, hotter. He gasped, clutching them, trying to smother the fire. But it wasn't his anymore. It was answering something — someone.
And in the silence that followed, Aubrey knew he wasn't alone in this city. Something had found him. Something was waiting.