Shit.
Samir Deshane never thought he'd die in a robbery, of all stupid, pointless ways to go. One second he was struggling, knife in hand, fists punching in a desperate rhythm against another desperate fool with more anger than sense, and the next he was falling into nothingness.
He wakes to a world that doesn't make a lick of sense. Fog thicker than the worst city smog wraps around him, cold and damp, clinging to his skin like a thousand invisible hands. The ground beneath him isn't solid—it shifts slightly, like it's breathing. Jagged islands float overhead in impossible configurations, casting eerie shadows across the churning void below. The air hums with energy, metallic and sharp, tangling in his lungs and making him choke.
He moves. He tries to call out. Nothing.
Panic claws at his chest. Every instinct screams that he's dead. And worse? He doesn't feel the magic everyone else seems to wield. There's no fire flickering to his thoughts, no water bending to the will of his mind, no air or earth responding to his touch. He has nothing. Not a single damn thing.
Hours—days? Time doesn't matter—he stumbles through ruins etched with glowing glyphs. His fingers brush over stone circles that pulse with energy, but no matter how hard he wills it, the symbols stay inert. The energy seems to ignore him entirely, like the world knows he doesn't belong.
But giving up isn't in Samir's blood. Not now. Not ever. He clenches his fists until his knuckles are white, teeth grinding. "Fuck it," he mutters to himself. "If this world wants to spit me out, I'll bite back harder."
He's tired. Starving. Covered in cuts and bruises, hands raw from clinging to jagged stones and trying to pull himself through the shifting terrain. Every instinct tells him to curl up and die quietly in the mist—but he can't. Can't let this be it.
In desperation, he recalls a memory, faint but sharp: the thrill of striking a match as a kid, watching a tiny flame dance, fragile and alive. That memory becomes a lifeline. He kneels, presses his palms together, and focuses every scrap of willpower on imagining fire.
Nothing happens.
He screams curses into the fog. "Fuck! Come on! WORK, DAMMIT!" His voice cracks, echoing across the ruins, bouncing off floating islands like a mocking laugh from the universe. Pain shoots through his arms. Energy spikes in sharp, blinding jolts, and he doubles over, gasping. He tastes iron in his mouth, feels sweat stinging his eyes, but he refuses to stop.
Then—a flicker.
A tiny, trembling wisp of fire hovers above his palm. Small. Weak. Almost laughable. A breeze could blow it out in an instant. But it exists. He stares, mouth agape, chest pounding, and laughs through trembling teeth. "Well… shit. Fucking finally."
The fire dances erratically, barely illuminating the ruins around him. He waves his hand, trying to control it. Sparks spit, sizzling across stone, and a small plume of smoke curls into the mist. It's unstable, dangerous even, but it's proof.
He whispers to himself: "I can do this. I have to."
The wisp isn't enough. He knows it. He wants more.
He focuses harder, willing the flame to grow, to obey him. Pain shoots up his arms as energy thrums against his bones. Fingers tremble uncontrollably. Each failed attempt sends the fire sputtering and dying, forcing him to reignite it again, painfully, over and over. He screams, curses flying—every possible word, from "fuck" to "shit" to longer, uglier combinations that leave his throat raw.
And still, he persists.
Hours—or maybe days—pass. The flame steadies, but it's weak, flickering with every breath of wind. It's small, almost invisible, but it's enough. Enough to give him hope. Enough to remind him that he's still alive, still capable of fighting this cruel, alien world.
Samir feels rage and exhilaration twisting together in a knot in his chest. "Fuck everything that's trying to kill me," he mutters, his voice hoarse. "I'll bend this shit to me if it kills me—or if I have to bleed fire to do it."
Movement at the corner of his vision. Something shifting in the fog, tall and cloaked, faceless. Watching. Silent. Calculating.
Samir freezes. Heart hammering, sweat and ash covering him. He clenches his fists around the wisp of fire, letting its warmth anchor him.
"Who the fuck are you?!" he shouts, voice raw. No response. The figure doesn't move closer, doesn't leave. Just watches, silent and patient, like a predator waiting for him to screw up.
Samir swallows hard, fighting the instinct to run. He's alive. He has fire. Tiny, shitty fire, but it's fire. And that's all he needs for now.
"I'm not your prey," he growls. "I'm not dying here. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever."
The shadow lingers, unmoving. Samir can feel its eyes—or whatever passes for eyes—on him. And he knows it's powerful. Far stronger than him. But he doesn't care. He has fire now, and that changes everything.
He examines the ruins carefully, noticing the faint glow of symbols etched into stone circles. The glyphs pulse like veins carrying energy, but they don't respond to him. Not yet.
Something stirs in his gut. These circles… they are magic incarnate. And if he can figure them out, he can survive. He can become stronger. He can fight.
The journey will be brutal. He has no affinity, no natural talent. But stubbornness burns hotter than most elemental flames, and Samir has it in spades.
He kneels, hands hovering over the first circle etched into stone. Breath shaky, heart racing, he mutters under his breath, swearing like a sailor.
"Fuck it. Let's see what you little bastards can do."
For the first time, Samir Deshane steps toward a destiny he doesn't yet understand—but he will fight, he will bleed, and he will forge magic with his own hands, even if the world tries to chew him alive.