Memories: Fuel to the fire

Silence.

Not the silence of an empty room or a quiet night, but an absolute absence of sound. A silence that swallowed everything—his breathing, his heartbeat, even the crackle of his dying flames.

The darkness was thick, suffocating. He couldn't see his own hands, couldn't tell if he was standing or falling. For a moment, panic clawed at his mind. He reached out, but his limbs felt sluggish, heavy.

Then—

A whisper.

"You don't understand yet."

It was the swordsman's voice, but it seemed to come from every place possible

"Power does not make you strong."

 The feeling of cold sharp metal brushed against the skin of his neck. He flinched, but there was nothing there.

"You are still holding on to yourself."

Then, pain. Blinding, unbearable pain. His body convulsed, fire bursting from his flesh in erratic, wild shapes. It burned him just as much as the unseen force pressing against him.

The dagger in his hand pulsed violently, as if screaming.

MOVE.

Blind, in agony, he struck out. The blade found nothing but air. Again, he swung, each movement desperate, primal—but nothing connected. He could feel the swordsman, could sense his presence like a phantom lurking just out of reach, mocking him with his words.

"You still think like a weakling"

The voice was closer now. Right behind him. He felt the presence of steel on his neck again and a slight pain as it cut though his skin slightly. He stabbed in the direction of the voice, but failed to strike his target again.

"What will you do?"

The man tried to focus. He collected himself and summoned the white fire. It enveloped him, consuming his body. At first, they didn't hurt, but slowly it started to feel hotter and hotter. Yet, at the same time he felt the flames grow and surge with more intensity

The darkness started to crack as the fire expanded through everything 

A single, jagged line of light tore through the void—searing, overwhelming. It expanded rapidly, shattering the blindness like broken glass.

The world came rushing back.

He was still in the tower. The swordsman stood before him, unharmed, his blade lowered. The five eyes on the steel were still shut.

But something had changed.

The man gasped, stumbling back, his flames guttering in his palm. His chest ached, his skin felt raw, and the dagger in his grip no longer trembled. He was still burning, envelopped by flames, but he didnt feel bothered.

It felt... calm.

The swordsman tilted his head, looking at him. At least thats where the man thought he was gazing.

"You finally understand."

The swordsman's voice had lost its edge. No mockery, no disdain—only something quieter, heavier. Expectant.

The man looked down at himself. His clothes were ruined, barely more than scorched fabric clinging to his body. His skin should have been charred, raw from the flames—but it wasn't. A slow heat pulsed beneath the surface, steady and unfamiliar.

He tightened his grip on the dagger. It no longer trembled, nor did it burn against his palm like a restless thing demanding freedom.

He had finally understood how the flames worked.