Rowen's boots sank lightly into the moss-covered forest floor as he made his way down the familiar path leading away from the village. Calder's training had been intense that morning—more on stance and control than flashy firework bursts—but it had left his body aching and his mind craving clarity.
The warmth of his fire affinity simmered beneath his skin, restless.
"You're close," came Zoreth's voice, velvety and low, a quiet murmur in the back of Rowen's mind. "You feel it too, don't you? That tension beneath your ribs. Like fire pressing against the walls of your spirit, begging to be let loose… but not wildly. Not recklessly."
Rowen inhaled slowly. "It's like trying to hold your breath while running."
"Good," Zoreth said approvingly. "That pressure—learn its edges. Your fire isn't a weapon. It's a language. You must become fluent."
The path curved, and soon Rowen spotted Kieran in the clearing—kneeling near a scorched tree stump, arms braced against his knees, sweat dotting his brow. A flicker of flame hovered above his palm, faint and wavering, before it blinked out entirely.
Kieran exhaled sharply and muttered something under his breath.
"Rough day?" Rowen called as he stepped into the clearing.
Kieran looked up and grinned. "Only if you count nearly setting my eyebrows on fire… again."
Rowen chuckled, lowering himself onto a nearby rock. "You said you've only had the ability for a few months?"
"Yeah. Right after my twelfth birthday," Kieran said, flexing his fingers. "Started with heat in my chest. Then one night I sneezed and burned a hole in my blanket."
Rowen smiled. "That's one way to discover it."
Kieran let out a laugh, then looked at his hand. "It's weird though. The fire comes easier when I'm angry or scared. But when I try to control it—like, really guide it—it fights me."
Rowen leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "That's something I've been thinking about too. Calder keeps saying fire is instinctive, but there's more to it. I think it's reactive. It reflects how you feel, moment by moment."
Kieran nodded eagerly. "Exactly! If I get too excited, it flares out. But if I stay calm, I can keep it steady. Sometimes I think of it like… music. Like a drumbeat inside me."
Rowen's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You're saying rhythm matters."
"Yeah," Kieran said, raising both palms. "I tried syncing my breathing to the beat in my head. Slow in, slow out. It helps shape the flame better."
Zoreth stirred in Rowen's mind. "Now that is interesting. Rhythm—not just focus. The boy is more perceptive than I expected."
Rowen lifted his hand and summoned a small flame. He inhaled, slowly, steadily, matching the rise and fall of his breath to Kieran's rhythm. The flame brightened, then narrowed into a needle-thin line across his palm.
Kieran stared. "Whoa… how'd you do that?"
"I think you're onto something," Rowen said. "Fire wants to match us—it echoes us. It's not about commanding it. It's about aligning with it."
Kieran's brow furrowed as he focused. He summoned a flame again, smaller this time. He tapped his foot softly, a subtle beat, and the flame pulsed with the rhythm. "That's… weird."
"It's resonance," Rowen said quietly. "Like the fire is a second heartbeat. When we fight it, it flares. But when we move with it…"
Kieran's flame danced in a gentle spiral.
Rowen held his own flame aloft and shifted his fingers slightly. Instead of projecting it outward, he tried inviting the fire forward—imagining it as liquid heat responding to intention, not force.
The flame curved delicately around his hand, forming a flickering ring that floated above his fingers before fading into smoke.
Zoreth gave a low hum. "He's learning. Not just to wield—but to listen."
"I've been thinking about how fire changes with purpose," Rowen said, keeping his voice casual. "Like… when you start a campfire, you want warmth, not destruction. When you light a torch, you want to see. It's not just fire—it's intent. That shapes the result."
Kieran's eyes lit up. "So you're saying… the fire reads what we want from it?"
Rowen nodded. "Maybe. Or maybe it's more accurate to say: it responds to what we offer. Our state of mind, our emotions, our goals—they all guide how it behaves."
Kieran let that settle in, then looked down at his hands. "So what happens if you're not sure what you want?"
Rowen hesitated. "Then maybe it reflects that uncertainty. Maybe it lashes out. Or fizzles. It mirrors you."
They sat in silence for a long moment, the quiet between them filled only by the rustle of leaves and the occasional birdcall.
Then Kieran spoke, his voice more serious. "You think… that means we have to get stronger inside too? Like, not just train the power—but ourselves?"
Rowen looked at him, surprised. "I think that's exactly what it means."
Zoreth said nothing, but Rowen could feel his approval—a subtle ripple of warmth across his spine.
The two boys returned to practice, not with the reckless bursts of before, but with deliberate effort. They timed their breathing. They experimented with shaping the flames—blades, rings, spheres—and even tried guiding them together. Fire responded best when both were calm, in sync. When frustration returned, the flames grew erratic.
As dusk began to settle, Kieran flopped down on the grass, panting. "I can't feel my arms."
Rowen dropped beside him, equally spent. "But look how far we got."
Kieran grinned through the exhaustion. "We'll figure this out."
Rowen stared up at the sky as it turned orange. "Yeah. One step at a time."
.......................
That night, the village was quiet. Not unusually so—but a stillness hung over the homes and paths like the hush before a scream. The wind had died hours ago, and not even the dogs barked. Overhead, a moonless sky stretched black and vast, dotted with stars that seemed to stare down coldly, unblinking.
Marta Eynes, the village's most dependable weaver and least patient gossip, stepped out of her cottage with a sigh. The night air was warm, heavy with the scent of dry hay. A low hum of crickets vibrated in the fields beyond the houses, and distant owls called now and then from the trees. But Marta's small yard was silent.
She muttered to herself as she crossed the creaking wooden boards of her porch, clutching a coil of dyed yarn she'd forgotten to bring in. Her joints ached, and her mood was foul after a long day. Her bare feet brushed the packed dirt path as she passed her empty chicken coop, heading toward the small shed beside her garden.
"I swear, if the raccoons got in again, I'll trap every last one of them," she grumbled.
Halfway to the shed, she paused.
Something was off.
Her chickens never went this quiet at night, not all of them.
She turned slightly, glancing toward the coop. The latch was undone. Swinging gently. The wood hadn't broken, and there was no mess. Just open. Precise.
That's when she noticed the silence.
No crickets.
No owls.
No breeze.
The night had stopped.
Marta swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud her own breathing was.
She turned around slowly, heart picking up, eyes scanning the line of trees past her yard.
Movement.
Something shifted just behind the bushes. Not running. Not creeping. Standing.
Watching.
A tall silhouette, too slender, too still.
She squinted, instinctively taking a step back. "Who's there?" she snapped. "You've got three seconds before I start screaming."
No reply.
No movement.
Then, something clicked. Not a sound from nature—but a human sound. A tongue tapping teeth. Deliberate.
Click. Click. Click.
Marta's legs moved before her brain caught up, turning her toward the door of her home. Her feet slapped against the ground, heartbeat hammering as her hand stretched for the handle.
She didn't make it.
The shape moved.
It didn't charge. It arrived soundlessly, like stepping between blinks. It was behind her before she could scream.
She gasped just once before a cold hand clamped over her mouth. Thin, dry fingers. Too long.
Her lantern hit the ground and shattered.
Then nothing.
No struggle. No shout.
By morning, her yard looked untouched. No sign of violence. Just a broken lantern, and the faint imprint of two sets of footprints in the hard earth, one hers.
The other barefoot.
They led straight into the woods.
And disappeared.