The Boiling Isles never lets you forget you don't belong.
I'm moving through a dense stretch of forest when it happens—no warning, no omen, just a sudden sound. A low, angry buzzing that vibrates through the air and straight into my bones.
Fire bees.
I freeze for half a heartbeat.
Then they see me.
The swarm erupts from the canopy like living embers, bodies glowing hot enough to warp the air around them. Heat washes over my face instantly, my instincts screaming at me to run.
So I do.
Branches whip past as I bolt through the undergrowth, boots slipping on ash-dark soil. The bees are fast—faster than they look—and every time one darts too close, I feel a searing pulse of heat against my cloak.
I spot a hollowed stump ahead and dive behind it just as the swarm descends.
The air fills with fire.
The bees slam into the stump again and again, furious, relentless. Flames lick across the bark, scorching patterns into the wood. I press myself low, heart hammering, every muscle locked tight as I fight the urge to panic.
Think, I tell myself. Survive first.
Minutes stretch like hours.
Eventually, the swarm disperses—drawn away by something louder, hotter, deadlier than me. I don't move until the forest goes quiet again, until the only sound left is my own breathing.
I'm alive.
Barely.
When I finally rise, legs shaking, I turn back to the stump.
And stop.
The wood is scorched black—but not randomly. The burn marks twist and converge, lines too clean, curves too intentional to be chance. Heat has revealed something hidden beneath the bark.
My pulse slows.
"Oh," I whisper.
I trace the shape with my eyes, committing it to memory before I even reach for my journal. The pattern is unmistakable now—aggressive, angular, alive with motion.
The Fire Glyph.
I sketch it quickly, hands still trembling—not from fear now, but from adrenaline and awe. Ink meets paper, lines locking into place as if they were always meant to be there.
Fire.
Not destruction.
Transformation. Energy. Release.
I write notes beneath the sketch.
Appears through combustion patterns
Reacts violently to emotional intent
Likely volatile when combined without stabilizers
I lean back against a tree and exhale slowly.
That was too close.
The Boiling Isles doesn't give knowledge—it demands payment. Tonight, I paid in terror and survived to learn from it.
Three glyphs.
Plant.Light.Fire.
Only one remains.
Once I find the last glyph, the system will be complete. Not finished—but whole. Then I can begin what I've been preparing for since the moment I crossed worlds.
Combination.
Syntax.
Creation.
I close my journal and pull my cloak tighter around myself, eyes scanning the forest.
"One more," I murmur.
And then the real work begins.