They moved like ghosts—six figures cloaked in gray, faces hidden behind masks carved from bone. Not a word, not a sound. Just deadly silence and the shimmer of blades.
Aaron stood firm, placing the child behind him as his heart pounded against his chest. Kain lunged forward like a shadow, his blade slicing through the air, meeting the first attacker with a shower of sparks.
But it was six against two.
And one of them had never been trained to fight.
"Keep the child behind you!" Kain shouted as he deflected a curved dagger aimed straight at Aaron's ribs.
Aaron's fists clenched, unsure of what to do. Beneath his skin, something stirred again—a familiar warmth, a flicker clawing its way to the surface.
But Frankfurt's voice echoed in his mind.
Do not use the flame. Not yet.
Then, suddenly, the child grabbed his sleeve, eyes wide and voice barely a whisper. "They… want the spark. They smell it—in me, in you."
Aaron looked down at them, confused. "What are you?"
The child blinked slowly, voice quiet but certain. "We're… the same."
Across the plaza, one of the attackers began chanting in a tongue Aaron had never heard. A circle of glowing red thorns shimmered into existence in the air. With a sudden pulse, it fired a barrage of crimson energy directly at them.
Without thinking, Aaron raised his arm. The space between him and the spell erupted into a dome of pale-blue fire, absorbing the impact completely. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
He stared at his trembling hand. "I didn't mean to do that."
The child's eyes widened in awe. "The spark… is waking."
Taking a step forward, the child whispered strange words that seemed to fall like dust into silence. The ash beneath their feet began to stir, swirling gently around them, and then it came alive.
From the ashes rose ghostly shapes—flickers of memory, images of the attackers' movements, not just from before, but of what was to come.
"Watch," the child said. "The ash remembers."
Aaron watched as the gray silhouettes acted out glimpses of moments ahead. One figure lunged at Kain's blind spot.
"Behind you!" Aaron called out.
Kain pivoted instantly, slicing clean through the attacker's leg with ruthless precision. "Useful," he muttered under his breath.
Then, one of the masked figures removed his mask, revealing a face lined with ritual scars. His eyes were pitch black—not from magic, but from devotion, deep and fanatical.
"You don't understand what you carry," he said to Aaron, voice laced with scorn. "That flame is a disease. We are its cure."
Aaron stepped forward, keeping the child behind him. "Who are you?"
"We are the Pale Thorn," the man declared. "The world bled the last time your kind ruled. We buried your ancestors once. We'll do it again."
Aaron lifted his palm. "Try it."
The man rushed forward—but didn't get far.
This time, Aaron didn't summon the flame. He released it.
A spiraling column of blue fire erupted from his hand, twisting like a serpent. It moved with intent—avoiding buildings, leaving the child untouched. It knew its target.
The fire struck the attacker square in the chest, hurling him backward into a stone wall. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious—but alive.
Aaron staggered, breath ragged. "That… shouldn't have worked."
The remaining enemies said nothing. One by one, they melted into the shadows and disappeared, leaving only their fallen behind.
Kain approached, wiping his blade clean. "That was reckless," he said calmly.
Aaron didn't respond right away. He turned to the child, who was now staring at the dying flames flickering between Aaron's fingers.
"You said we're the same," he said softly. "Do you have a name?"
The child shook their head. "I was never given one."
Aaron looked to Kain, who shrugged indifferently. "Then name them," he said.
Aaron knelt, placing a steady hand on the child's shoulder.
"From now on… your name is Ashen."