The boy slept, curled near the fire like something small and breakable. Lera had wrapped him in her old cloak, and still he shivered. His breath came unevenly, and the faint glow on his wrist pulsed in irregular bursts — like a heart unsure if it should keep beating.
Irin watched him from across the chamber. His back rested against a slanted stone wall, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. He hadn't spoken in hours.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
The flame inside him, the thing that called itself power, that burned with old voices and older memories — it had never felt meant to be shared.
And yet here it was, trying to be born again through a stranger.
A boy. A child.
Someone who could barely stand, much less wield something that could reshape the world.
Lera stirred beside Irin, eyes half-open, then fully. Her gaze went straight to him, not the boy.
"You haven't slept," she said softly.
He shook his head, gaze still locked on the flickering mark.
"I don't think I can," he whispered.
When the fire burned to embers, Irin rose. The weight in his chest was unbearable — like pressure building behind bone. He needed air. Distance. Silence.
He stepped to the edge of the broken room, where a sliver of moonlight bled through a cracked archway. Ash drifted gently in the night, soft as snow. The Ashstone pressed against his chest beneath his shirt, warm and heavy, like it had grown denser with every breath.
The mark on his wrist flared once — not in warning, but in invitation.
Irin closed his eyes.
The world vanished.
He stood in the Hall of Flame again — only now it was whole.
No ruins. No ash. The pillars were intact, soaring high into a vaulted ceiling of fire and smoke. The air shimmered with power. And the hall was filled with people.
Hundreds — no, thousands — stood in silence, robed in grey, red, and black. They didn't speak. They barely breathed. They were waiting.
And at the far end, beneath the arch of flame, stood him.
Tall. Imposing. Hair bound in silver threads. A long black cloak billowed behind him like a shadow being pulled through windless air.
The mark of the Ashborn glowed bright on his chest.
Unbroken.
Perfect.
Sirat Nol.
Irin didn't know how he recognized the name — but the moment he looked into that face, it was carved into him like a brand.
Sirat raised a hand.
Silence deepened.
"I speak now," he said, voice neither cruel nor kind. "Not as one of the Circle… but as its betrayer."
No cries. No gasps. The hall remained still.
"I speak," he continued, "as the one who stood at the gate. Who saw what lay beyond. Who opened it anyway."
He stepped forward. His eyes burned like quiet stars. "They told us we could not burn forever. That even the flame would tire. That ash is not death, but rebirth."
He paused.
"They were right. And they were wrong."
Behind him, the arch of flame flickered violently.
"I made a choice. To end it, or let it consume the world."
His gaze met Irin's across the chamber.
"And I chose fire."
He raised both hands — and the world burned white.
Irin jerked back into his body with a strangled breath.
The fire in the room had gone out. His palms were slick with sweat. The stone beneath him felt like ice.
Lera knelt at his side in an instant, gripping his shoulders. "You're okay. You're here. Breathe."
He did.
Once. Twice.
Finally, he spoke.
"Sirat Nol."
Lera blinked. "The name from the scrolls?"
He nodded. "I saw him. I saw what he did."
She waited.
"He was one of us. Ashborn. But when the others began to lose control — when they burned too hot, too far — he tried to stop it. He made a choice."
Lera's voice was careful. "A good one?"
Irin's hands curled into fists. "I don't know."
They sat in silence, broken only by the distant creak of stone.
Finally, Lera said, "Is he the one hunting us?"
Irin hesitated. "He might be. Or… he made the ones who are."
She looked toward the boy, who had shifted in his sleep. "Then he'll come for him, too."
"I know."
The silence deepened.
"But he'll have to come through me," Irin added.
The boy stirred just before dawn.
Not slowly — violently. His body jerked upward with a gasp, eyes wide, pupils glowing faint red. Lera scrambled over, trying to calm him, but he backed away, shaking.
Irin crouched nearby, hands open. "Hey. It's okay. You're safe."
The boy blinked, struggling to focus. "I saw… I saw a city burning."
Irin's blood turned cold. "You dreamed?"
The boy nodded, then looked down at his hand.
The mark was clearer now. Still faint. Still incomplete. But no longer a coincidence.
"I don't know how I got here," he whispered.
Irin met Lera's eyes.
It was spreading.
They barely had time to process it when the air changed again.
The ash outside began to swirl.
Not naturally.
Purposefully.
Irin stood, scanning the dark horizon through the crumbled doorway.
And then he saw them.
Three shapes. Cloaked. Silent. Moving with impossible grace through the ruins.
Their faces were hidden behind smooth silver masks.
Their robes bore the sigil of the Inquisition — a burning eye with a chain around it.
The boy backed away, nearly falling.
Lera reached for her dagger.
Irin stepped forward.
They didn't speak — not until the three stopped in a wide half-circle before the chamber's broken entrance.
Then, one of them tilted their head slightly.
"He is marked," the central figure said. The voice was distorted, neither man nor woman. "You have allowed it to spread."
"He's a child," Irin said.
"He's a weapon," the voice corrected. "One you are unworthy to protect."
The flame inside Irin surged.
"I didn't ask for this power," he said, voice hard.
"And yet you burn," came the answer.
The two outer figures moved, slowly spreading out — flanking them.
Lera tensed.
The boy tried to hide behind her.
Irin stepped forward, wrist glowing.
"You won't take him."
The central figure raised a hand.
"Then burn."