Ash twisted in the air like falling snow, curling through the broken gate and catching on Lera's hair as she drew her dagger. The boy stood frozen behind her, too pale, too still — trembling in the center of the courtyard where dawn struggled to rise.
Three inquisitors blocked their only path out.
Cloaked in grey and silver, their faces masked in cold, featureless metal. Their presence didn't feel like magic. It felt like pressure — like gravity thickened where they walked, pulling down hope with every step.
"You won't take him," Irin repeated, stepping forward, his voice calm, but sharp as a blade unsheathed.
The lead inquisitor turned its mask toward him, a slow, unnatural tilt. "You misunderstand," it said. "We are not here to take. We are here to end."
The two others raised their arms in unison.
The ash in the air stopped falling.
It froze mid-motion, like caught in ice — then began to spiral, drawn toward the inquisitors' hands.
Lera gasped as blades of solid ash formed in the air, jagged and black, humming with stolen power.
"They can shape it too," she whispered.
"No," Irin said, stepping in front of her. "They corrupt it."
The mark on his wrist pulsed, hot and bright. The Ashstone thudded against his chest like a second heartbeat.
The lead inquisitor lifted a hand.
"Burn."
The world exploded.
Ash erupted in every direction, forming whips, blades, lances of darkness. The force hurled Irin back, and Lera with him, as the ground cracked beneath their feet.
He landed hard, pain shooting through his shoulder. The boy screamed behind them, curling into himself as the ash lashed the air above.
Irin rolled and forced himself upright.
He didn't think.
He reached inward.
The fire came.
Not like before. Not gentle. Not uncertain.
It answered.
He raised his hand — and the world caught flame.
A golden arc of fire erupted in front of him, colliding with the ash wave mid-air. The blast shattered stone, sent smoke swirling high into the ruined sky.
The ground shook.
For a heartbeat, everything was silent.
Then, from the other side of the smoke, a low hiss.
The inquisitors were still standing.
Lera pulled the boy back toward the wall, sheltering him behind a fallen pillar.
"Irin—!" she cried out.
But he was already moving.
He stepped into the ash.
This time, it didn't bite him. It parted.
The ash obeyed.
The lead inquisitor spread its arms. Runes ignited along its sleeves, bright like lightning trapped in bone. Its voice echoed, mechanical, wrong:
"You walk with chaos. You will fall with it."
It thrust both hands forward.
The ground beneath Irin cracked open, black tendrils of energy clawing upward — not fire, but void, like something trying to erase him.
Irin raised both arms instinctively.
A pulse burst from his chest.
Flames wrapped around him, forming a barrier, not just of heat — but of memory. The fire shimmered, showing flickers of the city before it fell, of other Ashborn standing side by side.
The tendrils hit the shield and screamed.
Smoke curled upward.
One of the inquisitors broke formation, dashing through the fire with inhuman speed. A chain of shimmering ash shot toward Irin's neck.
He ducked — too slow.
The chain wrapped around his shoulder, burned through his tunic, and pulled tight.
The pain was instant and searing. He dropped to one knee.
Lera shouted something he didn't catch.
The boy was still screaming.
Irin gritted his teeth and reached for the mark again.
This time, the power didn't wait.
It detonated.
A burst of light erupted from his skin — not fire, not heat, but force. The chain snapped. The inquisitor staggered back, its mask cracked down the center.
Irin stood, chest heaving.
"You don't understand," he said.
"You think you're ending something."
He raised both hands.
"You're waking it up."
The courtyard blazed.
Ash rose like a cyclone, lifting him off the ground.
He wasn't flying. The fire carried him.
A circle of heat spiraled outward, driving the inquisitors back.
The boy, hidden behind the pillar, watched wide-eyed, tears burning tracks down his face. Lera stood guard over him, blade trembling in her grip — not from fear, but awe.
The lead inquisitor's mask glowed now, marked with a single, fiery rune.
"I see you now," it said. "The mark is not broken. It is reborn."
The voice turned low.
"He will come for you."
Irin didn't move.
"Then tell him I'm not hiding."
With a gesture, Irin sent a wave of fire across the courtyard.
Not to kill — to scatter.
The flames blinded.
When the smoke cleared, the inquisitors were gone.
Not dead.
But fled.
The silence afterward was absolute.
Only the crackle of fire remained — and the slow return of ash falling gently from the sky.
Irin dropped to his knees.
His skin steamed. His breath came ragged. The fire had obeyed, but it had taken something.
A toll.
Lera rushed to him, sliding into the ash beside him.
"You're bleeding—"
"I'm fine," he said, though he wasn't sure if it was true.
She put a hand on his cheek.
He didn't flinch.
"That wasn't just defense," she said. "You pushed them back."
"I didn't want to kill them," he murmured. "But I would've."
Lera looked down at the boy, who had finally stopped crying.
"He would've died," she said. "You saved him. Again."
Irin looked at his hands.
They were shaking.
"I don't know how long I can do this," he said.
Lera took his hand.
"Then don't do it alone."
That night, they stayed in the ruins of the gate.
They couldn't run anymore. Not yet.
The boy finally told them his name.
Kael.
He didn't know why the mark chose him.
He didn't remember his parents.
Only the day the ash "sang" to him.
It had burned his village to the ground. Not fire. Not soldiers.
The mark.
The same power that now lived inside him.
And just like that — Irin understood:
He wasn't the only one who could awaken the Ashborn.
But he might be the only one who could guide them.
Or stop them.
At dawn, Kael sat silently at the edge of the ruins, staring into the horizon.
Irin sat beside him.
"You're afraid," he said.
Kael nodded.
"Me too," Irin added. "Every day."
Kael looked up. "You're not afraid when you fight."
"I'm most afraid when I fight."
Kael didn't reply.
Then, quietly: "Can you teach me?"
Irin looked out at the broken city. The fallen towers. The empty streets.
He thought of Sirat Nol.
Of what he became.
And of what might come next.
"Yes," he said at last. "But only if you teach me too."