The flames still clung to me when the horse broke free of the burning woods. I could hear them roaring behind me, chasing me even as I rode, but the night was giving way to dawn, and the world before me glowed faint gold.
The wind tore against my face, stinging my eyes, carrying with it the stench of blood and fire. The man on my back was barely conscious, his groans faint but alive. His blood dripped down my shoulder, each drop burning into my already scorched skin.
The horse ran like it was possessed, hooves striking sparks against the stone path, mane blazing like a crown of fire. And I—I felt like a shadow wrapped in flames, dragging hell itself behind me.
When the trees finally broke and the river revealed itself, I pulled on the reins. The horse screamed, rearing, then skidded to a halt at the muddy bank. The sound of rushing water drowned out the fire behind us.
I slid down, my legs trembling as if they weren't mine. The man slipped from my shoulder; I caught him and laid him gently on the grass. His arm was torn open, his skin pale as milk.
My own throat burned with thirst. I crouched, cupping water in my shaking hands, and drank. The cold liquid washed away the blood in my mouth, the ash clinging to my lips. It was real. All of it.
I brought more water back to him, pressing it to his lips. He coughed, then drank weakly, his chest rising and falling with each effort.
The sunrise painted the sky crimson, reflecting against the river like molten gold. Behind me, the forest was still burning, a black wall of smoke rising higher and higher. The flames that had once been my weapon were now my crime—they devoured everything.
I couldn't let him bleed out. Not after all of this. I tore at my shirt, ripping strips of cloth, and bound his arm tightly. Blood seeped through, but it slowed. My fingers were sticky with it, and my hands shook, but I kept tightening until I could feel the pulse against the bandage.
He was alive. That was enough.
The horse pawed the ground impatiently, steam rising from its nostrils. I looked at it, at its eyes glowing faintly with embers. It wasn't a normal horse. No sane creature should've carried us through that fire. Yet here it stood, waiting, as if it belonged to me.
I lifted him again, gritting my teeth at the weight, and mounted the horse once more. My burns stung, my muscles screamed, but I forced the beast forward.
It leapt. From the muddy bank straight to the stone bridge across the river. Hooves clanged against the stone, echoes chasing us until we crossed. The river's spray cooled my face, washing the blood from my cheeks.
The city came into view as the sun climbed higher. Its stone walls rose tall, its towers catching the light. Smoke trailed from chimneys, and the bustle of merchants already filled the air. The normalcy of it all was almost unbearable after the nightmare I had left behind.
We entered through the gates, and I drew stares. A young noble boy, or so I must have looked, dressed in torn, bloodied clothes, skin burned, a half-dead man thrown over his shoulder, riding a horse that looked like it had crawled out of hell.
But no one stopped us. They only stared. Whispered. Made signs with their hands against evil.
I found the alchemist's shop by the smell alone—sharp herbs, iron, and medicine wafted from its windows. I dismounted, almost falling, and half-dragged, half-carried him inside.
The alchemist froze. His eyes widened at the sight of me—my scorched skin, my bloodstained clothes, the man bleeding in my arms. He didn't ask questions. He simply cleared a table and began to work.
I watched as he cut, stitched, and sealed the man's wound with powders and strange fluids that hissed on contact. I stood there, silent, blood dripping from my own burns onto his clean floor.
When it was done, the man was breathing evenly, sleeping at last.
Only then did the alchemist turn to me. His mouth opened—to ask, perhaps, who I was or what horror I had crawled out of—but he froze again.
Because my burns were gone.
I looked down. The scorched flesh of my arms was smoothing, new skin weaving itself beneath the old. The cracks, the pain—it was fading before my eyes, as though the fire itself had been absorbed into me.
The alchemist whispered something under his breath, crossing himself. He didn't dare speak to me again.
I stepped back. I had to leave.
But as I turned, a weak voice called out behind me.
The man.
His eyes cracked open, bloodshot but alive. His lips trembled as he forced the words out."Wait… your name… tell me your name…"
I stood there in the doorway, the sunlight framing me like a shadow carved from the flames I had left behind.
My real name couldn't leave my lips. Not here. Not yet.
So I gave him the only answer that felt true in that moment.
"Phantom."
And I walked away.