5. Ashes in the Wind.

The forest devoured Arin in its endless sprawl, its towering pines and gnarled oaks standing like sentinels to a forgotten realm. Shadows tangled with one another, stretching long and deep, as if whispering secrets meant only for the trees. The moonlight struggled to break through the canopy, splintering into fractured shards that dappled the uneven ground. Every breath he took was shallow and quick, each exhale clouding the frosty air before him, as if the forest itself conspired to remind him how alive he still was—despite everything.

Each step felt heavier than the last. The shard of the Primordial Flame nestled in his arms glowed faintly, casting a flickering orange hue against his soot-streaked face. Its warmth seeped through his clothes, a soothing balm against the night's chill, though it might as well have been mocking him for the fire he had fled. Smoke from Ember Hollow clung stubbornly to his skin and clothes, a ghostly companion whispering of homes lost and futures burned to ash.

The forest floor, treacherous with roots and rocks, claimed him with a cruel inevitability. One misstep, and he was sprawled on the cold earth, the shard slipping from his grasp and tumbling into a bed of moss as if it had simply grown tired of his fumbling care. He stayed there for a moment, his cheek pressed against the damp ground, the weight of the past few hours pressing down harder than gravity itself.

Ena was gone. The forge, the village—everything was gone. It was all gone.

His mind betrayed him, replaying the vivid, searing memories. Ena's fierce defiance as she faced the soldiers, her final words etched into his soul like a brand. The chaotic blaze of the village square, the air thick with the mingled screams of the living and the dying. The moment the shard's fire had erupted from his hands, unbidden and unstoppable, leaving nothing in its wake but charred ruin and silence.

Anger and despair boiled over. Arin slammed his fists into the ground, dirt and moss digging into his palms. The scream building in his throat came out as a choked gasp instead, swallowed by the uncaring expanse of the forest. Hot tears spilled over his cheeks, carving streaks through the grime that clung to his face.

"You shouldn't have sent me away," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling with fury and grief. "You should've let me fight, Ena. I could've…" The words faltered, his bravado crumbling under the weight of the truth. He could have done nothing. Ena had known that, even if he hadn't.

The shard lay a few feet away, its light pulsating with maddening calm, as though oblivious to the destruction it had caused—or perhaps indifferent to it. Arin crawled toward it, his fingers brushing its warm, crystalline surface. The pulse quickened at his touch, as though greeting him, the heat spreading up his arms and settling somewhere deep in his chest. It wasn't comforting so much as… alive.

He cradled it in his hands, his voice barely a murmur. "What are you? Why did Ena hide you? What makes you worth all of this?" The shard, enigmatic as ever, answered him with silence and a steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of some ancient creature waiting to wake.

A sudden rustle in the underbrush cut through the stillness. Arin froze, the shard pressed tightly against his chest. The sound wasn't the careless scampering of wildlife; it was deliberate, measured—a predator moving toward its prey. His pulse quickened, matching the shard's beat, as his eyes scanned the darkness for the source.

The figure emerged slowly, almost leisurely, from the shadows. The crimson cloak draped over his shoulders was unmistakable, its edges singed and frayed, though his sword gleamed as if freshly polished. The Pyrelords' soldier regarded Arin with a smirk that oozed confidence, his voice dripping with cold amusement. "There you are. You've caused quite the mess, haven't you?"

Arin backed away instinctively, his heart hammering as his fingers tightened around the shard. The warmth intensified, seeping into his skin as though trying to merge with him, urging him to act. "Stay back," he managed to say, his voice as fragile as glass, more plea than threat.

The soldier chuckled, his sword catching a stray beam of moonlight as he took a step closer. "Oh, that's precious. Do you think you can scare me? What are you going to do, boy? Glare me to death?"

The shard's glow flared in response, the light burning brighter with each of the soldier's taunts. The heat in Arin's hands grew hotter, almost unbearable, yet the shard refused to let go. The soldier faltered, his smirk slipping as he noticed the growing light. "What the—"

Before the soldier could finish, the shard erupted. A blinding torrent of flame surged outward, roaring like a living beast set loose. The heat was unlike anything Arin had felt before—raw, primal, overwhelming. The soldier's scream was short-lived, drowned out by the deafening crackle of fire. When the flames receded, there was nothing left but charred earth and the acrid scent of scorched metal.

Arin staggered back, his chest heaving as the shard's glow dimmed, its pulse returning to its slow, steady rhythm. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves and the faint crackle of embers. He stared at his trembling hands, his thoughts a chaotic whirlpool of horror, awe, and something he didn't dare name.

"What are you doing to me?" he whispered, his voice trembling as though the shard might actually answer this time. It remained silent, the faint glow in its crystalline depths offering neither comfort nor condemnation.

The night stretched on, vast and indifferent, the stars above glittering like distant, untouchable gods. Arin felt impossibly small under their gaze, a tiny flicker of light carrying a power far beyond his understanding. He didn't know what to do, where to go, or how to fight what was coming. All he knew was that he had to keep moving. To stop was to give up, and giving up wasn't an option. Not yet.

With the shard's warmth steady in his grasp, Arin rose unsteadily to his feet. The forest loomed ahead, its labyrinthine paths both a curse and a promise. He took a hesitant step forward, the weight of the shard in his hands a reminder of both his burden and his purpose. The fire might destroy him in the end, but for now, it was the only thing keeping him alive.