The Ember Beneath the Skin
Thane — Flamebound Warrior
The valley smelled of frost and ruin.
Thane stood at the center of the scorched clearing, boots sinking into blackened earth that crackled under his weight. Smoke drifted in thin lines from the charred soil, rising into the cold air like ghosts reluctant to leave. He had seen burn marks before—he'd made them himself during training, when his magic had slipped its leash—but nothing like this.
This wasn't fire.
Not just fire.
It was something else. Something colder. Something carved.
He crouched and touched the back of his hand—not his palm—to the soil. The earth was brittle beneath his skin, cracking and splintering from the slightest pressure. He drew back quickly when a faint tremor pulsed upward through the ground.
Magic residue.
Strong magic residue.
"Commander!" a voice called from behind. "The perimeter's secure."
Thane didn't turn. His gaze swept the valley again, cataloging the details: the outer ring of frost, the inner circle of ash, the impossibly precise lines carved into the ground. Too precise for natural causes. Too intricate for wild magic.
A duel, perhaps. Or a ritual. Or—
His jaw tightened.
—something the Council would claim never happened.
The Flamebound soldier approached cautiously, the frost cracking loudly under each step. He stopped a respectful distance away, hands clasped behind his back.
"It isn't a wildfire, sir."
"No," Thane said quietly. "It isn't."
"Could it be…?"
Thane didn't need to hear the rest. He knew what the soldier feared to say.
A Void creature.
The last time one had come this close to the Eastern Marches, half the border outposts had fallen in a fortnight. The Council had assured them it wouldn't happen again. That the wards were stronger now. That the Umbramancers had learned from the past.
Thane had never believed them fully.
Still, this didn't feel like a Void breach. He had witnessed those firsthand—seen the way they devoured light, twisted space, left the world hollow and echoing behind them. This scorch pattern was different.
Cleaner. Sharper. Intentional.
He stood, brushing ash from his gloves. "Tell the others to check the treeline again. Whatever made this didn't vanish."
The soldier nodded and jogged off, leaving Thane alone in the valley once more.
He closed his eyes.
There.
That faint flicker.
The ember beneath his ribs pulsed—once, twice—like a heartbeat out of rhythm. The sensation crawled through his veins, warm and warning, until his fingers tingled.
Something was near.
Something that didn't belong.
He exhaled slowly, trying to calm the fire inside him. The flame-shard bound to each Flamebound warrior was both a gift and a curse—a constant presence tied to their life, forged through blood and ceremony. It granted strength, speed, perception… but it also reacted instinctively to threats, to magic, to imbalance.
Today, it was restless.
Agitated.
Pulling him north.
The same direction the smoke drifted.
The same direction the frost refused to thaw.
He opened his eyes.
By mid-morning, the scouting unit had split. Three soldiers remained in the valley to document the scorch markings and protect the area.
The rest followed Thane north, moving through the forest in tight formation.
The cold intensified as they went.
Not natural cold.
Magic cold—like the breath of something that shouldn't exist.
Branches creaked under the weight of frost that hadn't been there an hour before. The ground glittered with a thin sheen of ice that melted at the slightest touch of warmth. The air tasted metallic, laced with the unmistakable tang of arcane residue.
Thane slowed as they approached a fallen cedar. Its branches were split down the center, as though cleaved by a blade of pure heat.
But the ground around it was frozen solid.
"Sir," one of the soldiers whispered, "this isn't normal."
"I know."
Normal didn't leave frost and fire in the same breath.
Normal didn't make his magic coil beneath his ribs like a warning serpent.
Normal didn't whisper along the edges of his senses, urging him deeper into the woods.
He walked forward, brushing his hand along the cedar's bark. Cold. Hard. Brittle.
Yet beneath it—
A spark.
Faint.
Distant.
But unmistakably flame.
Not Flamebound flame.
Something older.
Something unfocused.
Thane's breath caught.
"What is it?" the soldier asked.
"Something was here," Thane said. "Something strong."
He didn't add and something shadow-touched.
Not yet.
The others wouldn't understand the distinction—not the way he did. Not the way anyone attuned to fire did. Shadow was a whisper-fear in their culture, spoken of only in the stories used to frighten trainees into obedience. But Thane knew the truth: shadow was not simply darkness. It was magic. Unpredictable, dangerous magic. A force that the Council controlled through fear and silence.
He had never met a Shadow Mage.
Most Flamebound hadn't.
Their orders operated under strict separation, for reasons Thane didn't fully understand.
He had once asked a superior why the two orders rarely interacted.
The man had only replied:
"Some flames burn too bright for darkness to touch.
And some shadows cling too tightly to the light."
Thane had not understood then.
He thought maybe he understood a little more now.
"Commander," another soldier said, pointing toward the slope ahead, "there's more scorch up there."
Thane nodded once. "Move."
They found the second scorch site half an hour later—a smaller circle than the valley, but no less disturbing. The frost around it was sharper, the ash finer, the ground cracked in thin, spiraling lines.
Someone—or something—had stopped here.
Someone with flame.
Someone with shadow.
Thane knelt again, trying to make sense of the pattern. But every time his hand neared the ground, the fire inside him pulsed, pushing outward as though reaching for something.
Reaching for someone.
His throat tightened.
He stood abruptly.
"Commander?" a soldier asked.
"Something's ahead of us," Thane said quietly. "Something that doesn't want to be found."
"But the scent—if it's Shadow—"
"I know."
Shadow magic wasn't supposed to be this far north. And it wasn't supposed to mingle with fire—ever. The orders had been separated for generations. Enforced by law, by vow, by fear.
A Flamebound warrior encountering shadow was warned to retreat. To report. To avoid contact at all costs.
Yet Thane's magic—the part of him shaped by ritual and flame—pulled toward it like a magnet snapping to metal.
Not fear.
Recognition.
He hated that.
The soldier hesitated. "Commander… if this is a Shadow Mage, the Council will—"
"I know what the Council will do," Thane cut in, sharper than he intended.
The man fell silent.
Thane pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not suggesting it is one. Only that this isn't natural. And whatever caused it, we need to find it before the Council does."
Because the Council didn't investigate mysteries.
They erased them.
"We move north," Thane ordered. "Spread out. Stay close enough to hear a signal, far enough to widen our sweep."
The soldiers nodded, adjusting their gear before heading deeper into the forest.
Thane stayed behind a moment longer.
He placed his palm against the closest tree.
The bark warmed beneath his touch.
Not from his magic.
From another's.
His breath hitched.
Someone had touched this tree recently.
Someone with heat.
With power.
He closed his eyes.
Fire flickered behind his eyelids, swirling patterns of red and gold dancing in the dark.
A moment later—
A whisper of cold brushed the back of his neck.
He spun.
Nothing.
Just trees. Frost. Silence.
And yet—
The same shadow-flicker he had felt in the valley brushed the edge of his senses like a breath on glass.
Thane exhaled shakily.
"Commander!" a voice shouted in the distance. "Tracks on the northern slope!"
He turned toward the call.
Duty pressed him forward.
But something else—something deeper—pulled him on.
The ember beneath his ribs flared.
Thane tightened his grip on his sword and headed north, toward the slope.
And the world—quiet, breathless—shifted.