The wind changed.
At first it was nothing — a subtle shift in the air, the kind of thing you wouldn't notice unless you were listening.
Irin was listening.
He stood at the broken archway of the ancient library, watching the ash stir across the black stones of the city. It moved differently now. Not blown by nature.
Drawn.
Pulled.
As if something — or someone — was pressing down upon the city from far away.
"They're here," he said softly.
Lera looked up from where she was repacking their supplies. "The hunters?"
He nodded.
She stood, brushing soot from her hands. "Then we don't have time."
"We never did," he said, then turned toward the heart of the city.
They moved quickly, weaving through shattered alleyways and fallen pillars. Irin tried not to look at the crumbled statues with missing faces, or the towers bent at unnatural angles. The city wasn't dead — it was damaged, like a memory someone tried to tear out of the world.
And now that he was here, it was remembering itself.
Remembering him.
They stopped only when the mark on Irin's wrist began to burn again — not in warning, but in recognition. A wall had collapsed nearby, revealing an inner chamber buried beneath a ruined temple.
Inside, a spiral of black stone formed a floor mosaic, leading to what once might have been an altar.
He stepped into the room.
The air changed.
Not colder.
Still.
Lera hesitated at the doorway, watching him.
"You don't have to come," he said.
She rolled her eyes. "You think I came this far just to wait outside every time magic appears?"
He couldn't help but smile.
The moment they stepped onto the spiral, the stones lit up. Not with flame — with memory. Words unfurled in the air above them, not spoken, but felt.
The Ashborn must walk the Spiral to see what they are.
And what they will become.
Irin reached the center.
Nothing happened.
Then—
Pain.
His knees buckled. A sharp pulse stabbed through his chest, his head, his soul. He collapsed onto the altar stone, eyes wide, breath ragged.
Lera cried out and rushed forward — but the magic around him flared, pushing her back.
"Irin!"
He didn't answer.
Because he wasn't there anymore.
He stood in a chamber of mirrors. Endless. Infinite.
In each reflection — himself. But not the same.
Some versions were older. Wiser. Wounded.
Some burned like stars.
Others… wore black masks and carried fire in both hands.
He walked past one mirror and it cracked as he passed. Another shattered before he even looked.
Then he stopped.
One reflection didn't move.
It stared back. Still. Cold.
And in its hand… a blade of flame.
Not golden, like his magic.
But black.
Twisting. Hungry.
The reflection smiled.
"You think you'll stay yourself?" it whispered. "You think you won't burn, too?"
He gasped as he returned.
Lera caught him before he hit the floor.
"I'm fine," he lied, even though his whole body trembled. "It showed me… possible futures."
Her voice was steady, but low. "All of them bad?"
He shook his head slowly. "Some worse."
She nodded, helping him stand. "Then we choose something better."
He looked at her, grateful.
And then — a human scream, from outside.
And not just any voice.
A voice yelling his name.
They ran toward it, breath catching, legs aching.
The streets grew darker as ash clouds rolled in overhead, casting the sky into twilight.
In the center of the square, near the broken fountain where they had camped the first night, they found him.
A boy — maybe fourteen — collapsed in the dirt, clothes torn, blood running down one arm.
He was surrounded by the bodies of two men in armor, black robes marked with the same crest Irin had seen on Mage House banners.
Dead.
Burned.
The boy was shaking, eyes wide in shock.
Lera knelt beside him.
"What happened?"
The boy looked up at Irin.
His mouth trembled.
"It's you," he whispered. "You called me. In the ash. I heard it."
Irin's heart dropped.
"No," he said. "I didn't."
The boy shook his head. "You don't understand. I felt it. When you woke it. Whatever this is. I didn't have it before. But now… I do."
He raised a bloodied hand.
A mark burned on his skin — faint, unfinished. Like a mirror of Irin's, still forming.
Irin stepped back.
Lera stood slowly. "He's another one."
"Ashborn?" Irin said under his breath.
But the boy didn't hear.
He was already slipping into unconsciousness.
They carried him back into the ruins. Into what shelter they could find.
Irin sat near the wall, staring at the flickering fire.
He wasn't the only one anymore.
The world was waking.
And it was answering in kind.