The world was narrowing around him.
Everywhere Ethan went, he felt the eyes. Not always human, not always visible, but there—lurking behind windows, flickering in the crimson scar overhead. People whispered as he passed, though whether the words were real or just the Stone's echo, he couldn't tell anymore.
At school, students stared too long, their curiosity sharpened by fear. Travis, once a constant tormentor, wouldn't even look at him now. Teachers hesitated before speaking his name. It should have felt like power. Instead it was a weight. The boy who had once been invisible was now the center of the storm, and it terrified him.
The Stone pulsed at his chest, faint and steady. Waiting.
---
That night, the cloaked figure returned.
They did not knock, did not climb. They simply were, peeling themselves out of the corner of Ethan's room as though they had always been there, cloaked in shadow. The shard in their hand glowed faintly, mirroring the Stone.
"You burn too loudly," they said, the layered voice rattling the air.
Ethan glared from his bed. "Everyone's already seen me. It doesn't matter if I burn."
The figure tilted their faceless head. "It matters if you burn without control. Fire can defy. Fire can destroy. But without shape, fire is only hunger."
Ethan's fists clenched. He thought of the rooftop, the blaze that had torn through shadows. He thought of the way the fire had consumed his body, left him bleeding and shaking. "Then teach me to shape it."
The cloaked figure's shard flared, and the shadows in the room rippled like water. "Come."
---
The grove awaited them. Ethan did not remember walking there, only stepping into shadow and finding himself beneath the skeletal trees. The scar loomed above, its crimson veins casting the clearing in bloody light. The earth smelled of ash, though no fire burned.
"Show me," Ethan demanded, clutching the Stone.
The figure spread their hand. The shard in their palm pulsed. Around them, the air shimmered, and suddenly flames rippled outward—not wild, but curved, sculpted. They bent into the shape of a circle, then a blade, then a set of wings made from pure fire.
The sight stole Ethan's breath.
The figure's layered voice rolled like thunder. "The Stone is not fire. The Stone is will. Fire is the shape your will chooses. You must bend it. Command it. Or it will devour you as it devoured the others."
Ethan swallowed hard. "The others?"
The figure tilted their head again. "You already know. You feel their ashes in every whisper."
The Stone throbbed at his chest, and for a moment Ethan thought he heard faint screams buried beneath its hum. He shivered.
"Try," the figure commanded.
---
Ethan closed his eyes. The Stone's warmth spread through his veins, searing, restless. He pictured the fire that had burst from him before—wild, chaotic, nearly fatal. He tried to imagine it bending, curving, obeying.
Heat flared. His hands shook. Flames sputtered into the air, jagged and sharp, scattering like broken glass.
The figure's voice cut through. "No. Not rage. Not fear. Will. Shape it."
Ethan grit his teeth. His breath rasped. He forced the fire back, forced it to curl inward, to weave itself into something more. The blaze writhed, resisted, but slowly—slowly—it bent.
A line of flame stretched before him, trembling but solid, forming into the crude shape of a blade.
Ethan gasped, the fire flickering. "I—"
It shattered, exploding outward. The shockwave hurled him back, mud splattering as he slammed against the ground. Pain jolted through his ribs.
The figure loomed above him. "Again."
"I can't—"
"Again."
The Stone seared hot, demanding. Ethan grit his teeth, forced himself up, tried again. Fire erupted, collapsed. Tried again. Fire bent, broke. Tried again. Again. Again.
Hours passed. His body shook, blood dripping from his nose, his skin blistered by the heat. Still the figure demanded. Still the Stone pulsed.
Finally, when Ethan thought he would break, something shifted.
The fire did not roar outward. It curved inward, circling his arm. A whip of flame snapped to life, lashing the ground with a crack that split the earth.
Ethan's chest heaved, his vision blurred—but the flame held.
The cloaked figure's shard flared in answer. "Better."
The whip flickered, then died. Ethan collapsed to his knees, gasping.
The figure's voice dropped low. "You see now. The Stone is not your curse. It is your defiance. But it will take everything from you, boy. Do you have enough to give?"
Ethan raised his head, his eyes burning faintly red. His voice was hoarse but steady. "If it means stopping him… I'll give all I have."
The figure tilted their head. "We will see."
---
When Ethan stumbled home, dawn was breaking. His arms ached, his chest burned, and every breath scraped his lungs raw. He collapsed into bed, the Stone humming faintly against his ribs.
Sleep came fast, but with it came visions.
Not of the villain this time, nor the endless city of ruins.
He saw soldiers. Trucks rumbling down his street. Radios crackling. Voices sharp, decisive:
"Search every block."
"Find the boy."
"Bring him in alive."
And behind them, another sound—chanting. Not military, not scientific. Human voices crying out to the wound above: The fire returns. The vessel is here.
The two forces moved together—soldiers and cultists, authority and chaos, both hunting the same thing.
Hunting him.
Ethan woke with a start. His room was dark, but outside, engines rumbled. Helicopter lights swept across his window, too close.
The world was no longer guessing.
They were coming.