Chapter 8 – Ashes on the Wind
Night in the Border Wastes was colder than bone. The kind of cold that crawled through cloth and skin, nestling into marrow until even fire felt like a rumor.
Kael huddled close to the small flame he'd coaxed from brittle scrub, nursing a strip of half-burnt jerky between his teeth. The taste was foul, but it kept his hands busy, his jaw working. Anything to stop him from thinking too much about the day's carnage.
Nyra sat opposite him, hood low, cloak drawn tight. Her face was pale in the firelight, eyes shadowed, but her hands twitched faintly, like lightning still wanted to crawl under her skin.
Neither had spoken since Veyr and his pack slithered away.
Finally, Kael broke the silence. "You burn men alive and then look like you're the one about to fall over. How's that work?"
Nyra's eyes flicked up, sharp and tired. "Power isn't free."
"Figured." Kael poked the fire with a stick. "But what's the cost? Don't give me some holy riddle. I've had enough priests shouting at me today."
For a moment, she didn't answer. Then she sighed, low and weary. "Every spark I pull… it takes something. Strength. Blood. Pieces of myself. Once, when I was in the Temple, I thought it was sacrifice. A gift to the Stormfather."
Her lip curled. "But it's just hunger. The magic eats you alive, little by little. Until all that's left is lightning and ash."
Kael leaned back, chewing that over. "Sounds miserable."
"It was." She pulled her cloak tighter. "Until I left."
Kael smirked. "And the Temple calls me faithless."
That earned him a faint, dry laugh. It was gone almost as soon as it came, but for a heartbeat, it softened the lines of her face.
He let the silence linger before speaking again. "So why keep using it? If it's killing you?"
Nyra's gaze hardened on the flames. "Because it's mine. And because men like Serik and the zealots would rather see me chained or dead. I'd rather burn out on my terms."
Kael nodded slowly. He respected that. More than he'd admit aloud.
He tossed the last of the jerky into the fire, watching it spit and hiss. "Well. I can't shoot lightning, and my sword arm isn't much good against storms. But I'm not leaving you to ash. Not while I'm still breathing."
Nyra studied him across the fire, as if weighing the words, testing their weight. At last, she said quietly: "You'll regret it."
Kael grinned. "Already do."
The fire popped. Wind hissed through the rocks. For a while, there was nothing but the crackle of flames and the far-off roll of thunder over the cursed mountains.
Then Kael's ears pricked. A sound beneath the wind. Faint, deliberate.
He stiffened.
Nyra noticed at once. "What?"
Kael lifted a hand for silence. He tilted his head, listening. The firelight didn't reach far, but shadows shifted at the edge of the dark, too smooth, too steady to be wind alone.
"Not zealots," Kael whispered. "Not Serik's men either. They'd have come loud."
Nyra's hand drifted toward her blade, her other sparking faintly as stormlight stirred. "Then what?"
Kael rose slowly, sword sliding free without a sound. His gut twisted. He'd felt eyes on them since sunset. This wasn't paranoia. Something was out there.
The shadows held still. Watching. Waiting.
Then came the smell — faint, acrid, like burning meat carried on the wind.
Nyra's eyes widened. "Ash-wraiths."
Kael frowned. "That supposed to mean something?"
Her voice was tight. "Dead things. Born from places where gods bled into the earth. They don't stop. They don't bargain. And fire doesn't scare them."
Kael's grin was grim. "Wonderful."
The first wraith lunged from the dark — a blur of bone-white and smoke. Kael swung instinctively, blade cutting through its half-formed body. It shrieked, a sound like a dying gale, before dissolving into ash.
Another came, then three more, shapes of cinder and teeth swirling in the dark.
Nyra rose, stormlight flaring bright, casting their forms in harsh relief — twisted parodies of men, faces melted, hands clawed, smoke streaming from hollow eyes.
"They're drawn to the dead," she said quickly, lightning sparking in her hands. "The zealots' corpses called them."
Kael spat. "Lovely. Guess we should've cleaned up."
The wraiths surged.
Kael met them with steel, his sword cutting arcs of silver in the dark. Each strike sent one shrieking apart, but more closed in, relentless, their ash burning cold against his skin.
Nyra unleashed stormfire, bolts tearing through the night, blasting wraiths into nothing. The air shook with thunder, but she staggered after each strike, her reserves burning thin.
One wraith slipped past Kael's guard, slashing across his arm with a claw of burning smoke. Pain seared like frostbite and fire together. He roared, hacking the thing apart, its ashes scattering on the wind.
"Kael!" Nyra's voice, sharp with warning.
He spun. A massive wraith loomed over her — twice the size of the others, a hulking beast of ash and black flame. Its maw opened, a void sucking the light from the fire itself.
Kael didn't think. He ran.
The beast struck, claws arcing down — but Kael rammed his sword straight into its gaping mouth. The wraith shrieked, the sound ripping at his bones. Ash and fire exploded outward, throwing him to the ground.
When the smoke cleared, the creature was gone.
Kael lay panting, arm burning, ribs screaming. Nyra stood over him, stormlight flickering weakly around her hands, her face pale but alive.
He managed a grin through the pain. "So… campfire stories, you said?"
Nyra almost smiled. Almost. Then she sank to one knee beside him, her trembling hand pressing to the wound on his arm. "Hold still."
Lightning sparked faintly under her palm. The pain flared — then dulled, leaving only a raw ache. Not healed, but held together.
Kael exhaled, staring up at the stars. "I liked it better when it was just zealots and mercenaries trying to kill us."
Nyra's gaze flicked to the horizon, where the cursed mountains loomed darker than the night itself. Her voice was quiet, grim.
"This is only the beginning."