The dawn did not come gently.
It tore itself across Halewood's horizon like a wound reopening, streaking the sky with the pale red of dying embers. The village smoldered, half-drowned in smoke and soot, and every breath Kael drew tasted of ash and blood. He leaned against the jagged wall of a collapsed hut, chest heaving, cloak torn and filthy, and tried to quiet the curse raging beneath his skin.
The night had not let him rest. Whispers gnawed at him even in fleeting moments of unconsciousness, the voice of the flame that had bound itself to his soul. It spoke in tones both velvet and venom, coaxing him to surrender, to unshackle the power he carried and burn everything — everyone — until no bonds remained. But Kael resisted, again and again, because to yield would be to become what they accused him of: a monster wearing human flesh.
The first light unveiled more than ruins. It brought eyes.
From the alley's shadow, Kael saw them — villagers clustered near the well, their faces hollow, their clothes torn, many clutching children too young to understand why their world had splintered overnight. When they noticed him, their gazes shifted like knives. Some recoiled; others tightened their fists around farm tools, pitchforks, whatever they could hold. Fear had fermented into anger, and anger begged for an outlet.
"There he is," a man hissed, his voice raw from smoke. "The cursed one."
Kael tried to move, but his legs trembled. The duel, the curse, the fire — all had drained him until each step felt like wading through molten lead. Still, he staggered forward, desperate to leave before the noose of suspicion pulled tighter. But suspicion didn't wait.
"Don't let him go!" another villager shouted. "He'll bring more ruin!"
Their cries rose, harsh and fractured, and in moments soldiers spilled into the square — steel helms glinting, swords flashing. They formed lines with practiced precision, and though their faces were hidden, Kael felt the weight of their fear. They had fought men before, but not curses. Not flames that whispered and moved like serpents through the cracks of the world.
At their head rode Lyra.
Golden hair, armor smeared with soot, eyes unyielding even in exhaustion. She held the reins of her black mare steady, gaze fixed on Kael as though the night's duel had carved a thread between them that no blade could sever. She raised her hand, halting her soldiers before the clash could begin. The villagers' cries dulled into a hush.
"Kael of no house," Lyra called, her voice ringing across the square. "By the will of Crown and Flame, you are to be taken into custody."
Her words struck him harder than any sword. Custody — the gentlest of cages for a beast. He wanted to spit back defiance, but the curse pulsed at his ribs, eager to answer in fire. He clenched his fists, fighting both enemy and parasite.
"I didn't choose this," he rasped, the smoke shredding his throat. "You think I asked for it?"
Lyra's jaw tightened. "Choice or not, power carries consequence."
The soldiers advanced a step, shields raised. Villagers retreated to the edges of the square, eager to watch judgment unfold. Kael's pulse hammered. If they closed the circle, there would be no escape. Not without unleashing what he swore to keep chained.
The curse whispered: Let me out. Let me show them what you are.
"No," Kael muttered under his breath, more to himself than to the voice. His heart thundered, each beat setting his veins ablaze. He turned sharply and sprinted into the narrow alleys of Halewood.
Shouts erupted behind him.
The chase began.
The alleys twisted like broken ribs, each corner coughing smoke from smoldering ruins. Kael darted through them, his boots pounding mud and ash, lungs burning. Behind him, steel clattered and hooves thundered — soldiers breaking formation, some on foot, others weaving horses through the wider lanes. Lyra's commands echoed, sharp and relentless, guiding her men with ruthless precision.
"Cut him off at the east path!"
"Don't let him reach the woods!"
Kael forced his body forward, weaving past collapsed beams, vaulting low walls, his vision swimming from exhaustion. His breath came ragged, every inhale slicing him from within. The curse surged with each falter, feeding on his weakness, begging to be unleashed.
You'll never outrun them, it hissed. But you could incinerate them. One breath, one flame — and they'll crumble like dry leaves.
He gritted his teeth, refusing. If he surrendered here, Halewood would become another graveyard, and the blood would be on his hands. He had seen enough of that.
A child's cry cut through the chaos.
Kael skidded around a corner, nearly tripping over the sight — a small boy, no older than six, trapped beneath a collapsed roof beam. Flames licked closer, the air trembling with heat. The child sobbed, tiny hands clawing at the debris that pinned him.
Kael hesitated only a heartbeat.
With a guttural growl, he heaved at the beam. His muscles screamed in protest, curse-fire sparking across his skin, but he did not relent. The wood shifted, then lifted just enough for the boy to scramble free. Kael shoved him toward an open lane.
"Run!" he barked. "Go!"
The boy fled, stumbling but alive. Relief flared in Kael's chest — brief, fleeting — before shouts closed in around him. Soldiers spilled into the alley from both ends, steel ringing, eyes hard beneath helms. He was cornered.
Lyra herself emerged from the smoke at the far end, her sword gleaming with the dawn's first light. She raised it, not in a killing stroke, but as a command.
"Yield, Kael," she called, her voice a mixture of iron and something softer, something she perhaps wished she could bury. "Don't make me drag you down."
The curse pulsed violently, feeding on his fear. Flames coiled in the cracks of his palms, searing through his gloves. Kael's eyes burned, not from smoke but from the power straining for release.
He shook his head. "I can't."
And with that, he darted toward the crumbled side of the alley, shoving through splintered boards and tumbling into a half-collapsed stable. Soldiers shouted and followed, but Kael was already scrambling across beams, clawing his way out the other side.
The chase spilled into the fields beyond Halewood.
The open land gave him little cover. Wheat fields lay trampled and blackened, their golden stalks reduced to brittle ash. Kael ran across them, his legs screaming, his breath tearing. Behind him, the pounding of hooves drew closer, Lyra's voice rallying her riders.
"Don't let him reach the tree line!"
Kael's vision blurred. His body was reaching its limit. Each step threatened collapse, and the curse, ever eager, surged to replace his strength with its own. He felt it whisper beneath his skin, promising boundless power if he only surrendered control.
Let me carry you. Let me burn for you.
"No," he growled aloud, teeth bared. "Not like this."
An arrow hissed past his ear, embedding itself in the dirt ahead. Another followed, grazing his arm. He hissed but didn't stop, forcing his body into a last desperate sprint.
The forest loomed ahead, dark and endless, its edge thick with shadow. Freedom. Or at least distance enough to vanish. If he could reach it, Halewood's riders would lose advantage.
But the curse, sensing his weakness, struck harder. His chest constricted, flames flaring along his ribs, threatening to erupt. Kael stumbled, nearly falling. For a moment he saw the world in fire — fields burning, soldiers writhing, Lyra consumed in golden flame.
He roared, forcing it back with sheer will. His knees buckled, but he pushed forward, every ounce of himself straining toward the trees.
And then, as if fate hesitated, he looked back.
Lyra rode closest, her golden hair streaked with ash, her eyes locked on him. There was no hatred there — only relentless determination, and something he could not name. For an instant, their gazes held, and the battlefield around them dimmed.
Then Kael turned, broke through the tree line, and vanished into the wilds.
Darkness swallowed him beneath the canopy. The forest loomed vast, its air damp and thick, muffling the noise of pursuit. Kael stumbled deeper, each step weaker than the last, until at last his legs gave way and he collapsed against the roots of a towering oak.
He heaved, gasping, every muscle trembling. The curse whispered like a lover in his ear.
You can't outrun me. You can't outrun her. In the end, you'll have to choose.
Kael pressed his palms into the earth, grounding himself against the tide of whispers. He closed his eyes, drawing in the damp scent of moss and soil. For now, he was alive. For now, he had escaped.
But beyond the treeline, distant yet certain, he knew Lyra still hunted. He could feel her vow carried on the wind, binding them tighter with every breath.
And though he cursed it, though he longed for solitude, a part of him — small, treacherous — almost wanted her to find him.