Chapter 9: The Basin of Thorn and Breath

[Thornbridge Basin, Edge of Wyrmspine Lowlands]

Jumong stirred under the bridge's shade, cold seeping into his back from the stone. His leg throbbed under the makeshift salve wrap. Ashwing was awake first, one wing outstretched, its breathing shallow and rhythmically sharp.

He'd never heard it pant before.

"You okay, beast?"

Ashwing only gave a low trill—reehh… ehnnrr…—before snapping its head toward the eastward brush, feathers puffed.

Jumong froze, then grabbed his blade.

There was a sound now.

Distant, but unnatural.

Like dry leaves rasping across bone.

Thornbridge Basin lay quiet and still, but the morning mist clung too thick. Crows didn't circle. No insects buzzed.

That silence again.

But beneath it—something breathed.

Hraa—thukk… sshlaaaa…

Jumong crouched behind the collapsed bridge wall, peering out.

He saw it only in flickers.

A hulking quadruped shape—its skin like cracked leather and lichen, spindly back legs that bent the wrong way. Its face… not a face. Just a long snout with vertical slits and three twitching bone-pronged feelers. It moved with painful grace, sniffing the air, as if blind.

He gripped his dagger tighter.

"What the hell are you…"

"Khrr—jjulthh—ahnaaa… srrriissk… tuhn—valhh."

The creature spoke. Not to him—just into the air.

Like a chant. Like remembering.

Jumong didn't understand the words. But they weren't sounds meant for prey—they were for something else.

And then, the thing stopped moving.

Its head turned directly toward his hiding spot.

It sniffed.

"Kheeee—RRRAKK—kulthaaaa."

Then it began walking forward.

His leg still burned. He couldn't run far. He couldn't climb. The nearest cover was bramble-thick and sloped.

He thought quickly—checked his belt. Three smokeleaf pellets. One javelin. Emberrock still pulsing warm.

No full confrontation yet.

So he lured.

He broke the emberrock in half and tossed one piece westward.

Clink—tk-chhhh—sshhh.

The red pulse glowed between trees.

The creature paused.

"Grhraa—hnkk?"

Then moved away.

Jumong exhaled, slow and tight.

But he knew now—he couldn't just leave this place. Not with that still lurking.

He had to learn what it was.

He waited until midday, until the mist thinned and wind returned. He bandaged his leg tighter and used a carved branch as a crutch. Ashwing remained close, unusually silent.

They found the beast's trail—a series of shallow depressions in the soil, each leaking a dark green residue.

He marked the trail with sigils—triangles etched in bark—standard Lodge tracking code in case another hunter passed through.

Hours passed.

The forest changed.

Old wooden posts jutted from the ground—remnants of what was once a wooden palisade, long overtaken by roots.

A faded symbol was carved into one, nearly devoured by moss:

Three flames. One devoured. One chained. One watching.

Jumong stared at it, silent.

He remembered hearing of old temples—Flame-Vaults—used by wandering Ember Orders before the Flamebearers fell. Most were looted or buried in war.

If one lay ahead, the creature might be a guardian. Or worse—a survivor.

His hand tightened.

He had to prepare.

He gathered:

Two hollowed gourds from forest flora.

Swamp-leech oil (bitter stench, repels most animals).

Wild ember-moss that shimmered faintly in dusk.

He smeared the moss and leech oil around a stone ring formation, stuffing the gourds with crushed emberleaf and wrapping them with kindling-soaked cloth. Ashwing flew up, scouting above, reporting with small clik-clik noises when nothing stirred.

Then Jumong waited.

Dusk approached.

The scent trap was strong now. Jumong lay still, high on a bramble ledge, one gourd in hand, javelin on his back.

He heard it before he saw it.

That breath again.

HRAA—SSSSHHHHHKKKK…

Closer this time.

"Khlaaa-tuun… marrrkkhh."

The creature entered the clearing.

But this time, its back was not alone. Six spine-like barbs jutted from its back, each tipped with veins that pulsed with inner heat.

And its steps… were slower. As if it, too, felt watched.

Jumong's heart beat harder.

He didn't attack.

He just watched.

And the creature stopped in the center of the ring—just as planned.

He whispered.

"Now we learn what you are."

Suddenly—Ashwing shrieked from above.

The beast's head snapped upward—and it smiled.

"Naahh… Ember-thrall."

It spoke back.

And Jumong realized—this wasn't just a creature.

It was a test.

___

Darkness choked the trees, thick with wet mist and moonless shadow. The forest was ancient here. Roots curled like claws. Bark peeled like old skin.

Jumong trudged silently, Ashwing flitting from branch to branch above him. The Embercrafted dagger at his side pulsed faintly, absorbing what little warmth the air still held. His ribs were sore from a prior tumble, and the edge of exhaustion tickled his thoughts.

He was alone again—truly alone. No allies. No forges. No mentors. Just the path, the hunt, and his ambition.

And tonight, something hunted him.

[Two Days Earlier]

"Fail again," said Aedar, the Forgehand, "and that blade will become useless slag."

Jumong's hands trembled as he inched the Embercore toward the open vein in the blade.

The metal hissed. The forge lights dimmed.

Whispers filled his ears:

"Unworthy."

"Too early."

"Flame will consume."

He bit back a snarl, focused harder.

The Ember didn't scream this time. It sang.

For a moment.

Then: CRACK!

A shard of Emberstone shattered, searing a line across his forearm.

He collapsed.

Aedar snuffed the forge.

"Not ready. But close."

___

The beast's scent was near. Musty. Earthy. Feral.

He slowed his breath. Lowered his stance.

A sharp crack echoed behind him.

Snap.

Growwwllllllrhhhh.

Jumong froze.

The sound wasn't goblin. Nor wolf. It wasn't even beastial in the normal sense.

It sounded… sentient.

"I see you," Jumong whispered, rotating the Emberdagger slowly in his grip.

Something growled back.

"So does the forest."

From the canopy, cloaked in shade and magic, a figure watched.

"They've sent a child," she murmured.

She traced a glyph on her wrist, marking a circle with the word "Ashblood."

The Ember stirred inside her veins.

"Let's see if he bleeds properly."

The ground shifted. Roots moved, curling unnaturally.

A hulking form emerged—a moss-covered simian beast with bark-like skin, crowned with antlers like burnt branches. Its eyes glowed dull crimson.

Jumong didn't speak. He ducked beneath a low branch, waited.

The beast stepped forward.

"Hrnnnnnkk…" it rumbled.

"Hunter. Ember-touched. You bleed fire."

Jumong replied with steel.

He launched forward, striking the beast's leg. The blade sparked. The monster roared.

"SKRRRRRAAAAGH!!"

It swiped—he rolled, barely avoiding the bramble-covered claws.

Ashwing dove, slashing at its shoulder, distracting it.

Jumong planted two flint charges and dove back.

"Ignite!"

BOOM!

Smoke. Firelight. The smell of scorched bark.

When it cleared, the beast stood still… injured, but alive.

"Pain… remembered."

Then it turned—and vanished into the forest.

Jumong fell to his knees, panting. Blood trickled down his left arm.

"Couldn't kill it."

Ashwing landed beside him, nuzzling his shoulder.

"But I survived."

He looked down at his blade. The Ember line pulsed dimly—less than before.

"Still not enough."

He stood slowly, body aching, but resolve clear.

"Next time, I will be."

In a hidden cavern, the observer lit a rune-crystal and etched a sigil on stone:

"Jumong: Emberlink Initiate. Not chosen. Self-forged."

She smirked.

"He may not be Flameborn… but even the forest knows his name now."

Deep below the Wyrmspine Forest, a second beast opened its eyes. Not bark-skinned.

Not sentient.

Just hungry.

And it had smelled the boy who dared strike a Wyrmkin.

"Grrrhh... Faaaasthhh..."