8. The Flame Unleashed.

The forest held its breath, a silence so oppressive that Arin felt as though his heartbeat was a drum pounding against the stillness. Each breath escaped him too loudly, as if daring the world to notice him. He crouched low behind a tangle of thorny undergrowth, his body taut with the kind of tension that turned seconds into hours. His gaze flicked back to the narrow deer trail he had used to escape, its faint imprint barely visible among the forest's ancient clutter.

In his palm, the shard of the Primordial Flame sat like a secret refusing to stay quiet. Its dim glow pulsed gently, subdued beneath the suffocating weight of his fear, though it still managed to seem alive, like an ember waiting to reignite.

A sharp crack of a snapping twig echoed somewhere in the distance, shattering the fragile calm. Arin froze, his lungs seizing as though he might hold his breath forever. Then came the voices, deep and guttural, their tone that peculiar mixture of impatience and cruel amusement that only hunters could master.

"Spread out," barked one voice, harsh as gravel. "He won't have gone far."

Arin gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening around the shard. The Pyrelord soldiers weren't just relentless—they were thorough, leaving no fern unturned and no trail unscanned. They moved through the forest like wolves with a purpose, tearing apart the serenity of the woods with their clinking armor and growled commands.

A flicker of red pierced through the shadows, the vivid crimson of a soldier's cloak flashing between the trees. Arin ducked lower, pressing himself closer to the damp earth, his pulse hammering so loudly in his ears that he feared it might give him away.

"This is really bad," he whispered to himself, though his voice barely escaped his throat.

The shard, as if answering his muttered despair, pulsed faintly. Its warmth slid up his arm, unbidden and unwelcome, like an overeager pet begging for attention at the worst possible time.

"No," he hissed under his breath, his tone sharp enough to cut. "Not now."

It wasn't just fear that clawed at him—it was the shard itself, restless and alive, sensing his desperation and offering a power he neither trusted nor wanted. Its glow flared slightly, as though urging him to take the path he feared most.

The voices grew closer, accompanied by the crunch of boots on brittle leaves.

"Tracks lead this way," someone called.

"Perfect," another replied, their voice laced with an unsettling excitement. "He's close. Lord Ignis wants that shard, so keep your blades sharp. Burn everything else if you have to."

Arin's breath hitched, a wave of nausea washing over him. He wasn't a fugitive; he was prey, and they were hunting him with a zeal that bordered on obsession. His fingers tightened around the shard, its faint heat pressing against his skin like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.

Through the thicket, he caught the sharp gleam of a drawn blade. One of the soldiers had split from the group, his heavy boots cracking twigs and crushing underbrush as he crept closer. In his other hand, the man carried a torch, its flame a flickering predator casting wild, jagged shadows onto the surrounding trees.

Arin flattened himself against the earth, the damp chill of the ground doing little to calm the panic rising within him. He felt like a rabbit cornered by a fox, the inevitability of capture tightening around him with every step the soldier took.

The shard stirred again, its light growing brighter, its warmth climbing higher, as if the object itself was eager to act while Arin remained paralyzed by indecision.

"Stay back," he whispered, though he wasn't sure whether he was talking to the shard or the encroaching soldier.

A twig snapped directly in front of him, and the soldier froze, his head turning toward the thicket. His eyes narrowed, a cruel smirk curling across his face as he spotted Arin in the shadows.

"There you are," the soldier said, his voice dripping with smug triumph.

Arin scrambled backward, his heart leaping into his throat. The soldier stepped closer, raising his sword with all the calm certainty of a man who knew the fight was already over.

"What are you going to do, boy?" the man jeered, his torchlight flickering across his grinning face. "Cry me to death?"

Something inside Arin snapped. His fear collapsed under the weight of raw, unfiltered anger, a heat that rose from the depths of his chest and consumed the icy panic. The shard responded instantly, its light flaring to life in his hand. Heat poured through him, a molten wave that burned with both promise and threat.

The soldier's grin faltered as the shard's glow intensified, its amber light casting long, ominous shadows.

"What the—" the soldier began, but his words were stolen by a sudden roar.

The air around Arin exploded into flame, a blazing inferno that erupted with violent, unrestrained fury. The fire surged outward, devouring the ground, the trees, and the soldier in one searing instant. His scream was brief, cut off as the fire swallowed him whole, his figure reduced to ash before the echo of his voice could fade.

Arin staggered back, his hand shaking as the shard burned with power beyond his comprehension. The fire spread in uncontrollable waves, consuming the forest with a hunger that defied reason.

"Stop!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Stop, damn it!"

The shard pulsed wildly, a chaotic rhythm that coursed through his veins. Arin dropped to his knees, his breath ragged as he fought against the tide of energy threatening to overwhelm him.

Finally, the flames began to recede, leaving behind a smoldering wasteland of charred trees and blackened earth. The forest was eerily quiet once more, the silence broken only by the faint crackling of dying embers.

Arin stared at the destruction, his stomach twisting in knots. The soldier was gone, the earth beneath his feet scorched beyond recognition. The shard's light had dimmed again, its warmth soft and almost apologetic against his palm.

"What have I done?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own pounding heart.

The shard offered no answer, though its faint pulse seemed to mock his despair. He wanted to throw it into the ashes, to rid himself of the cursed thing forever, yet his fingers refused to release it.

A distant shout echoed through the trees, snapping him from his daze. The other soldiers were coming, drawn by the inferno.

Arin shoved the shard into his shirt, its warmth pressing against his chest like a silent reminder of its power—and his failure. He rose on unsteady legs, his body trembling as he turned and ran.

The forest blurred around him, the acrid scent of smoke clinging to his clothes as he fled deeper into the unknown. The memory of the flames burned brightly in his mind, a searing reminder of the power that now lived inside him, wild and untamed.